twenty-seven, dung bEetles, & epitaphs

What do Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Kurt Kobain, and now Amy Winehouse have in common?

The number twenty-seven... the age at which each of them died-- Welcome Miss Winehouse, you have been unceremoniously ushered into an auspicious, albeit rare, company.

Have you ever seen video of a dung beetle pushing a ball of poop around? That little ball of shit is this particular beetle's lifeline. It defines who and what this particular insect is.

Now look at the above names; members of the 27 Club. Each of them was pushing their own ball of crap around, and in the end that ball of crap is what defines them. Some will naturally protest that and say it was their music which defined them, but I would have to argue against that point. And here's why...

Music is what they did; they were good at it, and are famous for it. They each made a name for themselves because of it, and made-- or were in the process of making --enough money to change their individual paradigms. But none of the above mentioned 'artists' were able to stop pushing the shit that defined what they thought of themselves. The reason I put it this way is I've been there. Drugs defined who I was for a time-- an addict. I was, of course, much more than that I was an artist too... still am, but back then drugs colored every other thing I did-- just as it colored everything the 27 Club did in their own lives.

'Drugs' was the ball of shit I pushed around. It was the ball of shit they pushed around. But unlike Sisyphus, they weren't 'chained' to the futility of rolling that ball of shite up the hill. Had they only opened their eyes to their own sense of self-worth, they could have abandoned that ball of crap and moved on, and, in all likelihood lived to a ripe old age with many accolades to their name. Now, in spite of their talent, 'overdose' is the one accolade that will color every other accolade they managed in their short lives.

For myself, I managed to see that ball for what it was... when I was twenty-seven. I've been rid of it for more than two decades now.

Amy Winehouse, like every other member of the 27 Club, is now rid of that ball of shit too. But what separates me and Amy Winehouse, aside from fame, fortune, and good looks, is I managed to walk away, and the name I carry today is untainted by the ball I shit I pushed around. Unfortunately, like all the other members in that sad club, her name will carry with it the unfortunate addendum *drug addict; died of an overdose.

That's a very sad legacy to leave behind, and a poor epitaph to the talent she had on loan from God.

May HE have mercy on her soul.