David Rakoff died yesterday. Plenty of people are writing about him. He was a funny, David Sedaris protegé writer. My friend Lisa in California called me a couple of years ago and told me about him and said I just had to listen to him and read him. She suggested that we were so alike. Hmmm? What does that mean? That was more thrilling to me than we looked alike. I am always nervous to see what people think I look like on the faces of others: Alan Rickman? Really?
But David Rakoff was a funny, published, NPR Canadian Jew who lived in New York. Read him? I wanted to date him. Funny. NPR. Canadian. Jew. New York. are all tags I would love to use on my own bio. Maybe I didn’t want to date him but wanted instead to be him. But Lisa told me I already was him. Too much for one man to handle. Would need to take this to the couch and discuss with a pro.
David was (is?) two years younger than I. He had his arm removed to try to stop cancer. My father was (is? nah.) a podiatrist and his foot was deformed from diabetes. Ironic, I thought. And David Rakoff’s arm contained a hand and fingers: writer’s tools. Ironic. Isn’t it?
So we never got to meet, we never got to date. I am still sad he is gone. I admire him for his life and it was not a waste but it was still short.