Fame. Death. Reality.

I have to admit to being a bit pissed at Michael Jackson. His death is certainly a tragedy, as is any death. Death is not to be admired. However, there is something distinctly perverse in the cult of celebrity death, a phenomenon I trace at least as far back as Lady Di, in '97. A more recent example of what I consider the near-fetishistic response to death would be the two weeks of solid coverage of the passing of one Anna Nicole Smith. Again, I am not disparaging that woman, or her family, or the sadness of her life, nor am I making fun of her in death. I just think the outpouring of interest was strangely disproportionate to her accomplishments, and to the degree that she should be considered someone whose passing is somehow supposed to touch every man, woman, and child in a deep, profound way.

There is also the issue of 'fairness' when it comes to death. Death is never fair, but it is true that some of us take risks that others would not. It's probably deeply unfair to compare how lives end, and yet I can't shake the feeling that Anna Nicole was not the most responsible person in the world when it came to her own health. Likewise (good thing this blog is never read by anyone or I'd be in for a veritable s**tstorm), Diana was letting herself be driven around by a drunk wanna-be racecar driver, parapazzi in hot pursuit. Lennon, on the other hand, was gunned down by a crazy fan for the audacity to say that the world might be better off without religion. Sorry, but I have to admit that I see one case as having more moral gravitas than the other.

Which brings me to Michael Jackson. What he did, by dying today, is step on the news of the death of Farrah Fawcett, another (albeit apparently much lesser) pop icon of my and many other's youth. We don't know exactly how or why a relatively young 50 year old would die of cardiac arrest, but even his family has hinted that prescription medications may be involved. Certainly his hypochondria and other idiosyncrasies are well-known, and it's hard to imagine that there won't be some more information coming soon, and the 4th estate is guaranteed to be right on top of that story.

In contrast, Farrah Fawcett died after a long, grueling bout with cancer. In what can only be described as a pretty amazing act of selfless, almost artistic bravery, she decided to document her fight with the disease in video. I haven't seen the resulting work, but I am awed by the willpower and gumption it would take for someone who to a large degree made her public mark as a beauty icon, to choose to chronicle something so private, so full of fear and dread, so -- ugly -- for the world to see. That had to take some courage.

And yet, as luck would have it, she had the terrible market timing to meet her end on the same day as that of a lonely, dissipated, mentally ill, probable pederast -- who nonetheless did bring quite a bit of joy to people in his prime. And the press decided which event really mattered.

Sad, all around.

VHF, we hardly knew ye

I was surfing TV today and I accidentally hit the "Channel Up" button, which normally goes to analog TV (you know, channels 2, 4, 5 etc). Instead of a fuzzy, snowy image with no sound, which I usually get, there was just -- blackness.

Strange, to think that for the first time in my life, waves of frequency-modulated analog NTSC are not coursing through my veins at frequencies of 50 to 150 megaherz, filled to the brim with the one-way media firehose we used to call the 'boob tube'.

At least I still have youtube.

Beyond Prayer

Lately, things haven't been going so well.

So I was biking down North California, and I passed the big Methodist church on the corner. There was a sign, something to the effect of "come on in, it's nice in here". For just a moment, a fleeting one, I thought how easy it would be to go in, sit down, and ask for my sins to be forgiven, and my problems fixed. If it happens, wow! If not, I am absolved -- it must be God's will. But there is no God, so there is no one to ask. Sad but true.

It might still feel nice to take my place and sit quietly, in a solemn pew, in a big room, with a bit of gravitas, and a feeling of community.