| 29 June 2009
Within the last week the G-d has forsaken us with four terrible tragedies. First, He snatched from us Ed McMahon in the prime of his life. But before we could find solace in the Book of Job to understand His mysteries, the sneaky Almighty one went and took Farah Fawcett, causing humankind to quake from life's uncertainty. But just as soon as Fawcett's publicist twittered that the golden haired starlet had passed on after receiving the last rites, He Who Is clobbered all of existence by taking back to his bounty the King of Pop, Michael Jackson.
For two days straight, cable news networks, radio stations and social networking sites were abuzz with all sorts of questions of how it happened and perhaps who may have had a hand in Jackson's demise. But by Sunday we were starting to get a grip on it. As painful as it was to have stolen from us a talk show sidekick, pin-up girl and slightly eccentric, possibly pedophillic pop-star, by Sunday it seemed that humanity could at least begin at some point to put it's plow to the ground and move on in a post McMahon/Fawcett/Jackson world. And then it happened. News broke on Sunday afternoon that Allah had thrown a bucket in front of a very famous cleaning product informercial huckster who unexpectadly kicked it. Billy Mays was also brought into the great unknown and it was just too much for us to handle. After all, old age could possibly explain for Ed McMahon, colon cancer for Fawcett and pills for Jackson. But what about Billy Mays? How could such an enthusiastic and jovial pitchman just die like that? LIfe's mysteries suddenly became too hard to handle and now it seems everyone is wondering how it is that four celebrities could die in one week. It's just too much of a coincidence. Perhaps there's something mankind missed in the great books of religion. Surely, somewhere between Genesis and Revelation something should explain for how this could happen. What about Nostradamus?
It's interesting how we process death. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that with the exception of the ocassional interesting near death experience, nobody ever survives to describe. It's the one thing in life we can be certain of; that at some point we'll all pass away (most of us clearing our bowels along the way). And yet at the same time, the uncertainty about what comes next both here and in the possible hereafter drives us nuts. It's particularly shocking and painful to us when someone we know or revere makes the inevitable transition into bodily non-existence. If it happens to be a celebrity or worse, two or three celebrities at the same time, it's just too much to handle. People start asking questions. Stupid questions really.
Let's face it, as hard as it is 
to imagine, we'll all be dead someday. As I'm writing this, I'm looking out the window of a cafe at a couple
enjoying a post-movie snack. They look happy. They cheer me up, even though I'm reminded in writing this that they, like me, will someday be dead. It's a part of life just as much as birth, but it's just too much to comprehend and invites all sorts of self-absorbed questions. Sometimes, particularly when a nice soul passes, we try to comfort ourselves by saying that God had called him or her back to his hands. It's easier than to imagine that their heart gave out or that a wrong turn coming off of an exit ramp lead to their death. Suddenly, it was God who did it, not the mystery of life that he either allows or has nothing whatsoever to do with. We look for meaning in death, celebrity death in particular and when we can't find it, we invent it.
I remember walking through Brooklyn several years ago behind a homeboy with a T-Shirt featuring Bigeee (sp) Smalls and his nemesis Tupac Shakur on the back, with angels wings, surrounded by heavenly clouds. It was really very sweet, actually! I'm glad they resolved their despute.
Death is a forum for us to 
make meaning out of a seemingly random and chaotic world. It's too hard to grasp and like anything that challenges our minds, there must be some type of theory employed. Whenever celebrities die within a short time of each other, someone at the office puts forward the theory that famous people always die in threes. If that's true of course, either Ed McMahon or Billy Mays is the exception to the rule (or maybe fate didn't qualify one of them as legitimately famous). It's gotta be the stupidest theory and yet we hear it anytime three folks of noteriety die within a three or four day period. It's ludicrous, of course. Celebrities aren't the only people who die. One can only estimate how hundreds of thousands if not millions of people die each day in all types of ways; natural causes, terminal illness, war or being crushed by a snack machine. The majority of deaths are pretty run of the mill and boring. They involve people who are only known to friends and family, have never cut an album, rushed for 300 yards in a bowl game or amazed the world with an acting performance. They're just like you and me, those of us who right now occupy no bit of notoriety. Like them, we will die someday. And most likely, it wont be considered a tragedy.
I close by reminding the reader (if he's made it this far without keeling over) that symmetry in coincidence is just a way of explaining away the randomness of death. Take for example the passing of two of our founding fathers, influential statesmen and political rivals who met their maker or oblivion on the same day; John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. Both passed away within hours of each other on the same day in 1826, on July 4 nevertheless. I wonder back then if the scandal sheets and their devoted readers chalked it up to coincidence or some divine plan. After all, than as is the case now and throughout the entire history of the natural world, man is born and then he dies, no matter what he did during his time on Earth.
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