Bop 'Til You Drop: In Loving Memory of Dee Dee Ramone

Dear Gen Xer,

Dee Dee taught me everything I know. Everything I need to know, anyway.

He encapsulated in four simple words – four simple words that rhyme, no less – the only words of wisdom that have always served me well.

The first time Dee Dee appeared to me was when I was hit by a drunk driver. He materialized out of the ether (much like the driver) and sat by my side in the ambulance.

“Bob ‘Til You Drop,” Dee Dee said. “That’s all you have to do.”

Dee Dee was with me when my grandpa died, when my uncle died, when my cousin OD’d on cut-rate smack, and when my other cousin threw himself off a ten-story building after his girlfriend dumped him.

Whenever I was depressed, whenever my heart was broken, whenever I felt like I had failed, Dee Dee would show up and let me know that as long as I kept moving, as long as I didn’t give up, everything would be OK.

The reason I’m talking about Dee Dee Ramone is because he died on this day in 2002. That was 23 years ago. He hasn’t appeared to me since.

I spent a whole week crafting a piece that covered the usual ground: his time as a hustler, his life as an addict, the spirit of punk that Dee Dee embodied until his wife Barbara found him in their home in Los Angeles, lying as still on their couch as the syringe on the kitchen counter.

The piece was nearly 3,000 words. I deleted it half an hour ago.

It was too polished. Drier than a Brit. It read a lot more like Emerson, Lake & Palmer than it did the mighty Ramones.

That’s why I’m publishing this instead.

Something short. Something raw. Something that’s over in three minutes or less.

If you take away anything, take away this: whenever you’re down, whenever life sucks, whenever the bastards are about to chew you up, remember the wisdom of Douglas Glenn Colvin:

No matter what
You just can't stop
Bop 'til you drop
Bop 'til you drop