Why I Love Losers
And why I don’t mind them dying.
“Part of me suspects that I’m a loser, and the other part of me thinks I’m God Almighty.” John Lennon
I have a thing for losers. I remember a quote by Jack Kerouac, saying, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved…”
It goes on, of course, but I knew he was talking about losers. Neil Cassidy, the hapless hero from “On The Road,” was a loser. So were all of the beatniks. I didn’t know them personally (too young), but everything they did seemed temporary, like grass stains on a football jersey.
I saw the same thing in the late sixties, the hippies trying to do Jack and Neil one better. They were hitchhiking across America, replacing morphine tubes with hash joints, trying to convince everyone they were all about love and freedom. They were still losers.
The whole thing was too abstract to last. And it didn’t.
When I found a group of hippies in a park, cross-legged, dirty, I knew I’d found my community. I also knew we were doomed. The whole thing was too abstract to last. And it didn’t.
By the time the seventies rolled around, one friend was hit by a transport truck while hitchhiking to Kamloops, another jumped off the balcony at Rochdale college, and still, another died in a railyard. I doubt he was copying Neil Cassidy who died the same way.
I’m sure it was a coincidence.
Their deaths occurred four months apart.
The other day, I read that Michael Lang, one of the Woodstock creators, died. He was 77 and his obituary read like a loser’s chronicle. His last project was Woodstock 50. It was canceled. He died of a rare form of Hodgkin’s disease.
They went up in flames. Everyone wondered why. We, the losers, didn’t. We knew exactly why they went out.
Still, he was what Kerouac called “mad to live.” His madness was ours, and we’ll never forget Woodstock. There were even a few discoveries like Santana, Crosby, Stills and Nash, and the great Jimi Hendrix. He played the national anthem and died the following year.
Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Cobain — they were brilliant, but losers in the end. They went up in flames. Everyone wondered why. We, the losers, didn’t.
Kerouac described it being like “fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the sky.” Not all candles burn out so quickly, though. We just remember the ones that do. We say “He died too soon,” but what were we expecting? Can you imagine an 80-year-old Morrison?
They’re remembered as winners because they died. We’re losers because we lived. We stuck it out. They left in a hurry.
Woodstock may have been our ceremonial, but our reality was much more like the series “Breaking Bad.” We’re all variations of Walter White. He made millions but ended up spraying his stacks of money for silverfish.
More importantly, our descent wasn’t caused by greed. It was just us being losers, with our divorces, job terminations and cancelled lines of credit.
We, on the other hand, weren’t brilliant chemists. More importantly, our descent wasn’t caused by greed. It was just us being losers, with our divorces, job terminations, and canceled lines of credit.
They say movies back in the 30s dwelled on success and glamour because nobody had either. Better to watch William Powell and Myrna Loy than face real-life dramas. We aren’t any different today.
What we can’t be, we watch.
When the Second World War ended, it was like Woodstock. If you wore the clothes, you could be mistaken for a winner. You could even come back thinking you were a winner.
Again, so many were doomed.
The great divide between winners and losers was never more real. The winners sold affectations of success, the losers bought them.
Stephen King was a loser and alcoholic until he wrote “Carrie,” and soon found himself worth millions.
As the years progressed, we entered the age of extremes. It was a time of great highs and lows. John DeLorean was a winner until a drug deal turned him into a colossal loser. Stephen King was a loser and alcoholic until he wrote “Carrie,” and soon found himself worth millions.
The tables turned for both of them, but it was probably an illusion from the start. DeLorean had the genetic predisposition of a loser.
King, on the other hand, was destined to win.
But it’s DeLorean I identify with more. Not because he lost everything, but because he was destined all along.
You have to be a loser to understand this. DeLorean was Walter White outside of a few wardrobe details. He was a star at General Motors, back when engineers were barely recognized. He started his own motor company, became insolvent, tried selling drugs.
That’s what I mean by genetically predisposed. If he’d stayed with General Motors, he would’ve retired, written his autobiography, and joined the realm of General Motors Brainy Bunch.
His tombstone depicts his DeLorean sports car with the gull-wing doors open.
Instead, he died with an obituary filled with failures and embarrassments. His tombstone depicts his DeLorean sports car with the gull-wing doors open.
Like Michael Lang, the fiascos overshadowed the adventurous intent. They went down as losers, “burning like fabulous Roman candles,” but burning out just the same.
It’s a cruel departure, but so many departures are. To me, going out with an embarrassing record of flops reads better than “He died with fabulous wealth, surrounded by family and friends.”
The winners may see this as ideal, but the losers don’t. We’re more intrigued by flames than fortunes. We like disastrous endings with silver linings.
Kerouac died of alcoholism but inspired the likes of Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Patti Smith, and The Doors. The highest price paid for a DeLorean was $544,200 (used in Back to the Future III).
That to me is more important than winning.
That’s why I love losers.
They may go up in flames.
But you remember the flames.
Robert Cormack is a journalist, novelist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online or at most major bookstores (now in paperback). Check out Robert’s other articles and stories at robertcormack.net or by joining https://robertcormack.medium.com/membership
