Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Wet rag

I am a cold-hearted bitch. Yesterday afternoon my office buzzed with the news that a certain young actor was dead (I'm omitting his name to avoid the visitors who searched looking for places to post), and I had nothing to say. "Omigod, isn't it tragic? Aren't you just sick about it?" Well, yes, and no. We're not talking about a family member here, or even a co-worker. I am very sad at the thought of a young person dying, but sad in the way I would be to learn of a non-famous, regular-guy, young man dying inexplicably. Is it more tragic because he's famous? Because he has "so much potential?" Doesn't any young man, say, a young father of a two year old, who lives in the Bronx, and drives a taxi and speaks with an accent that isn't quite as sexy - doesn't he have great potential also? To be a loving father, a proud grandfather, a devoted husband? A good neighbor, good citizen, good friend?

I didn't say any of this. I didn't say much. I thought instead of how devastated I was when I learned that John Lennon was dead or JFK Jr, and how much more meaningful that seemed - but was it? Am I just too old to get it? Is this how my parents and their peers felt when anyone else famous died, after James Dean and Marilyn Monroe?

(Oh, now I've stacked the search deck.)


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