the 27 club.

I wrote this last night, on October 29. That sounds weird, because as far as I'm concerned, I'm writing it right now. But you're reading it today, which is tomorrow to the me that is typing right now. But don't you worry about that me, because she's still stuck in yesterday.

Time's a funny thing.

Anyway, it's important to note that I wrote this on October 29, 2010. That is my last day to join the 27 Club. I'm going to assume that many of you do not know what the 27 Club is, so I'll tell you (assuming again that you're too lazy to click on the wikipedia link I provided). The 27 Club is a group made up of musicians that died at the ripe old age of 27. Now, I'm not a musician, and I'm not famous, so even if I died on October 29, 2010, no one would update the Wikipedia article to add my name, picture, and exact age (27 years and 364 days) under Kurt Cobain. So really, it's not even worth trying to join at this point.

I wasn't really worried. For one thing, I wasn't engaging in the kind of activities that are likely to bring about a young rock star death. I didn't do any heroin at all this year. I worry more about Josh, who will be eligible to join the 27 Club for another seven months. He hasn't done any heroin this year either, but he is a musician. He's not famous yet, but he's trying.

It's not worth dying so young if you're not famous. If you're famous, then generations of youth will mourn your untimely death. They will drink too much and do drugs in your memory, because kids suck at irony. They will add your name to the Wikipedia article and think about how cool it must be to go out in a blaze of glory, choked on your own vomit, just like Jimi, man. When you're 15, you can't imagine living much past 27 anyway. Anything older than that is just too old.

If you're not famous, then only your friends and your family are sad. Even if they are particularly devastated, it's just not enough sadness. Unless a whole lot of people are really really sad, like enough people for several impromptu candlelight vigils in the major cities, then you're not a rock 'n' roll martyr. You're just dead. The gap between tragic and legendary is measured in sadness.

If all went well between the time I wrote this and today, I am now too old. But not really. In a few years, maybe on October 29, 2015, I will remember being 28. I'll say to myself, "I remember 28. I was so young." That's what I say about 24 now, as I think about all the things that I did not know then. I remember 24. I was so young. It's like what I say when I look at the pictures of the 27 Club. Look at Janis. She was 27. She was so young.

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