Jimmy Gunn was a man, a husband, a comedian, an actor, a teacher, a friend, and a mentor to so many. We first met nearly 30 years ago when I worked in a local comedy club. We weren’t friends or even familiar with each other at all, but decades later through the giant network that is social media, we connected. I was now a writer with two books and countless blogs/essays to my name. One day I asked him for some advice – something I rarely do – as I was wanting to explore some old notions of comedy and theatre. He invited me to lunch and what ensued was a deep conversation embroiled with shared memories of the circuit, exchanging where-are-they-nows, exchanges of worlds, and finally, Jimmy looked me dead in the eye with a seriousness that was vastly set aside from his more lively and large persona and asked “What is it that holds you back from the spotlight, where you are clearly meant to be?”

“Fear.”

“What is it you’re afraid of, exactly?”

“Being seen.”

“You’re seen now. I see you. Others see you because they show up to hear you read and teach and lecture. You have a way of touching others, reaching them. You’re honest, and about as authentic as anyone I’ve ever known. When you are on a stage or at the head of a room, and you do your thing, and people applaud, aren’t you like… wow, what did I just do?!”

“No.”

“What is it you feel?”

“Oh my god, what did I just do??”

He shook his head, laughed and threw his hands across the table in exasperation before taking hold of my own. “Don’t be afraid of the light. It will always find you no matter what, my dear.”

Jimmy took me in as he had countless others to encourage, advise and inspire over the next few years. He was a brusque sort, and didn’t suffer insecurity. Jimmy had a “snap out of it” way of mentoring. The last conversation we had, he promised to take me out for my birthday the following month. He’d been struggling with health challenges and left me with a weak smile and a deep, burrowing hug. Within weeks, he was gone. When we arrived at the service, it was quite literally a room so full of love and people, it spilled out the doors. I remarked to a mutual friend Jimmy’s promise to celebrate with me. It so happened that my birthday was that day. “Look around,” Jeff said with a shrug and a tear that twinkled in his eye, “he threw you a party.”

Comics all over the Bay Area and beyond bonded in their grief. Jimmy had ushered me backstage despite that I didn’t belong to the club of those who bravely stood naked for laughs. There is still a shared sadness at the void that he has left. One of the comedians began a hashtag early on that we all embraced and have spread in our own ways – #BeMoreJimmy. We all can be assholes, Jimmy had his moments, but we can also be kind. We can teach. And we can love. He was unabashedly all of this.

Last year I was facing more health challenges myself I had a lot of down time, and kept wondering what I could do while sitting around and I had a desire to help others. I’m creative but not a crafty sort. I don’t remember what lead me to think of making a hat, but the idea came and as my husband says there is a YouTube video for everything. Sure enough, I found a ten minute tutorial by Jonna Martinez and in the latter half of 2019 made and distributed about 200 hats to the homeless, cancer survivors and sold some for donations toward my annual Toys For Tots drive. We’re aiming to have a few more this year and to contribute to the same causes.

The idea is to spread warmth to those in need. When I give them out, my request is simple; wear it with love, or pass it on to someone in need.

I wanted to honor Jimmy in some way, hence the Jimmy Hats. Yes, we all know what it’s also code for, but it was decided that he would have laughed his ass off, which is exactly how he left this world – laughing with him, and at ourselves too.

Don't be afraid to laugh at life.

~ K