We were all in love with you at one time or another and it did not make any impression on you, I think, but who could know, what went on in that beautiful head of yours?
I never knew you, but we standup comics are like cops. When one of us goes down, we all go down. Sure, we will make fun of it, tell bad jokes about it, set up a Standup Comedy Suicide Pool, but inside, we know we might be next. Then we will secretly, quietly, weep at the loss of another one of us, because in a way, we are all one tribe, a kind of insane secret nation, our very own special brand of idiot savants.
We, the fucked up aliens, with that weird gift, frighteningly sometimes a curse, of being able to make other people laugh, so that they always assume you are a happy person, that you got it all going on, that you got it all, you got your shit together and it’s all good, it’s all good. But you know, people like us, we don’t have it together – not in the least, and nobody knows. Nobody wants to know. Nobody wants to know how bad it is in here, in this head, in this body, and they just want the funny guy back, that is what the audience pays for, and that is what they will get, night after night, year after year. And that’s dangerous. That stupid mythology of the tears of the clown is really no myth. It is a pair of hard, cement block shoes of truth that will drown us if we don’t watch ourselves, keep our noses clean, watch our backs, protect ourselves from ourselves.
What happened? You had everything, as far as I could see, and then you had nothing, but then who can know what happens inside someone’s mind, and especially one that worked as well as yours did. You were so funny. My friend was very young, and loved you for a time, maybe twenty or so years ago, and she still loves you, and we said a prayer today for you, burned a candle, thought about the blue shirt you wore, the jaded look on your face, the hair so dark that it blacked out all reason for the young girls who crowded around you, to be near you. Your strange way of speaking, slow, methodical, sarcastic, and then just really perfect, because you looked so perfect. Everything you did seemed so perfect. But you killed yourself anyway.
I am sorry Drake. I love you, but I didn’t know you. You were so fucking funny. I am sad to see you go. Whatever that was, that made you take yourself out, I can only hope it is better now, and that heaven is nice, and that you are in the company of comics that you liked, and that everything is good. That it really is all good, it’s all good now. Good night. Thank you and good night.