A rare kick at the 70-80s
I think that I’m going to fire my answering service. Earlier this month, there was the call from the hospital with an appointment time. I got the time; only the date was missing. Minor detail, if you want to present yourself and wait in line, day after day. This week, a call came in from the bicycle shop concerning parts for my roof rack. The message, as I received it, was that the parts were in. What the shop said was that the parts had been ordered. Minor detail, again. Except that when I arrived at the shop, people spent time trying to find out if someone had misfiled the alleged shipment. The answering service now has two strikes and the pitcher is a mean one.
A really hard day for those of us who were around in whatever you call the decade that doesn’t begin on a tenspot. In this case, anyone from the 70-80’s. This morning, word on the web was that the Angel was gone. This evening, the King of Pop. Oh, and yesterday it was the man who promised me millions. What next?
When my time comes, the odds are strongly against my receiving any media coverage (unless my life plan has a real surprise in store). We live vicariously, and the death of a celebrity provides the rest of us with a moment to reflect on our guaranteed demise. No sense in trying to imagine a world where our idols have actually contributed something to the betterment of mankind. We are the running dogs of media, and a pop star is fair game when we look away from our navels.
