Donna Summer, the Beatsie Boys guy, that Bee Gee. I just don’t want to know.
People will post it on Facebook: RIP "Goober" Lindsey, something like that, you’ll be missed. That’s more of a “see, I keep up with current events” kind of post. Be the first on your news feed to put something up about a cultural thing. I skip those, too.
The other half of the business section of the old school, paper Tribune is the obituaries. I bump into those if I’m not careful.
I don’t need to be reminded of our mortality, of my mortality. I was reminded of that when my father-in-law died ten feet from me in my spare bedroom. I’m reminded of that every time I get a pain in my chest: is it? Was that a---? No, it hurts on the outside… Right? Sure. Every morning I wake up and I think, okay, there, I didn’t die. That’s my reminder.
They’ll mention something about the deceased celebrity’s age. He made it to the “ripe, old age” of whatever. 87. 92. 95. Whatever the number, it’s still finite. He’s still dead. And it’s not just famous people. Murder victims, kids gunned down on their way home from school make me think like that.
I do a lot of tuning out these days.