Mitch Hedberg died on Wednesday.
I don't know how. It doesn't matter.
Andy Andrist does a bit about how people will always try to blame you for your death. Andy says he wants to be mauled to death by a bear so no one will say it's his own fault.
Mitch wasn't mauled by a bear. But it doesn't matter.
Nobody has asked me how Mitch lived. And Mitch lived like a motherfucker. More than most any of us will live. That isn't sad or tragic.
March 15, 2005 - Mitch & Doug performed together at the UofM
Mitch was the kind of comic that was funny even when nobody was looking. It wasn't just for the stage, the ego or the random congratulations. He was funny when he was alone.
And now the deluge of people who will try to fault him for his demise, as though if he'd spent his days on a treadmill, logging his mileage for tax purposes and avoiding red meat he would have been the same comic that you all loved. Everything Mitch did made Mitch who he was. I loved Mitch for all of it.
I don't know how Mitch died. I know how Mitch lived and he lived brilliantly and by his own rules. The number of years next to his name is trivia. The contents of those years is inspiration.
Go out today and make someone very, very happy.