America
is just gearing up for another day. Which day? Friday, right? We're
just putting Friday to bed over here. Greetings from the future! When
I fire up the burner in the morning I'm really checking to see if
there were any significant deaths overnight. Maybe somebody shot the
pope or something, it's happened before. Maybe someone had a fatal
heart attack. Today you're waking up and saying via con Dios to
Anthony Bourdain. Surprise! Didn't see that one coming. RIP, Anthony.
You had some style, you.
The
New York Times, with great topical awareness and faux sensitivity,
put a couple of notices under the death article. One about if you are
suicidal, please call this hot-line number, and another about if you
know anyone who you believe is at risk for Selbstmord, please urge
them to seek help. Thanks for the thought, newspaper of record, but
it's more often a surprise. A surprise to family and friends, and
often a surprise for the celebrant as well. We never know, really.
Maybe tomorrow it occurs to us at about two p.m. that this is the
last day that we can stand, we just can't do this anymore, not one
more day. And of course, for the benefit of those looking on, those at risk of
suicide are doing their level best to keep those feelings a secret,
for too many reasons to count.
Get
down off of that soap-box, Mr. Fred. I'm sorry about Mr. Bourdain. My
condolences to the family and friends.
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