(this is annie)


Death or glory

I remember the day, seven years ago, when we found out that Joe Strummer had died. For once, I didn't mind Chicago's cold and gray skies. They seemed appropriately somber. That afternoon, while riding a crowded Madison bus westward toward Western, I wound up squished next to a fortyish guy with various punk buttons on his jacket.

"Sad news about Joe Strummer," I said.

"What sad news?"

When I told him, he looked like a four-year-old who's just had the true identity of Santa Claus revealed. Which makes sense, because there was something about Joe Strummer that was comforting, and his premature death felt unfair. I liked the Clash, but I liked what he represented, too. He embodied so much of what, in my opinion, a man should be. By all accounts, he was well-traveled, artistic, political, funny, open-minded, reflective, and intelligent. (Also, he looked good in a t-shirt.)

He seemed like a mensch — an imperfect one, but a mensch all the same. Fighting the good fight and all that. There's nothing I love like a person with convictions (I have been told that I cling to mine too tightly) and his had the benefit of being woven into some pretty great songs. It's funny how you can miss somebody you never met, but I do.

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