Sunday, June 28, 2009


I am not a writer by trade. I can't call myself a blogger either, without the word catching in my throat somewhere between my vocal cords and my lips. I am a vinyl records dealer. Most of what I do online is comprised of seven parts marketing, two parts vain narcissism, and one parts opportunistic voyeurism. I'm interested in the Face Book & Twitter happenings of people I know in 3D, barely know, or knew a quarter of a century ago. I'm not a celebrity. I hate that word. Neither are most of my FB and Twitter friends. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of famous, and or infamous persons that I have met, and still have fingers left over. I would like to be able to say that I don't give a shit about having met these celebrities either, and that they are just like you and me. But they are not like you and me, and these encounters left their mark. Maybe, when God gave out Fairy Dust, they got in line twice. I don't know. My point here is that, I am a cynical human being. I can be brutally judgmental, and I dislike more people that I like. Bukowski got it right when he said. "I don't hate people, I just feel better when they're not around". For whatever reason, deserving or not, celebrities are special in our eyes. They, and their goings on, orbit the periphery of all our lives. And whether we like it or not, their deaths stir our emotions and trigger memories, that usually have little to do with the celebrity personally. The deaths of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Sky Saxon have done just that for me. Triggered an ocean of memories and emotions. They've been sloshing around my head all week, and they're overflowing all over the place.

For those freaks that can't get enough of celebrities, even in death, here's a goulish site. Not that I spent time there or anything.
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