Strange World

A young actor has died tragically in a rented Soho apartment. Despite the heated political competitions, all of the news organizations have been covering the story, news cameras and their correspondents stationed outside his building. Our fascination with celebrity has reached such a fevered pitch that an actor's, who was talented, untimely death can supplant news coverage of a much bigger issue facing our nation: the next Presidential election. This blog is not to smear this actor's name, or to cast his death as irrelevant. I can't imagine the grief consuming his parents as they make that long flight from their native Australia to New York City. No, I'm trying to make the point that our culture has to gain a new perspective beyond what is covered between the pages of US Weekly.

Our country is facing real problems, some too complicated to be solved by a few platitudes or rhetorical flourishes. Yet, each time a news correspondent reports live from his apartment, the spontaneous shrine seems to be growing each day as strangers come by to drop flowers, notes, candles, and pictures of him cut from magazines. This need for the public to connect with someone they never knew is a strange response, something I have a hard time comprehending. I, like everyone else, was shocked when I heard he had died at such a young age. I was overcome with grief for his parents as they made their heartfelt statement outside their home. Losing their son so suddenly must seem surreal, the pain settling into their lives long after their son is buried, the news media long moved on to another titillating story.

But my shock, sympathy, and passing interest in the unfolding story has not propelled me to go the short distance to his Soho apartment to leave flowers or a note expressing my grief for someone I never knew. His short-lived career, unfortunately, made him a public figure. Yet, the assiduous coverage of every moment of his death feels intrusive, as if we've now crossed a line somehow. I can't help but wonder whether he'd appreciate this growing shrine outside his apartment door. He struck me as someone who tried to live his private life behind closed doors, even if a zoom lens still splashed pictures of his unguarded moments on to the pages of countless magazines.

His life and death should be in sharp contrast from Anna Nicole Smith, who courted any, and all, coverage, good or bad. The tabloids were how she stayed relevant, and how she made money. This actor, obviously a sensitive person, didn't court the media, but understood his rise in stature meant his privacy being compromised. So, shouldn't we draw a distinction in his death from that of someone like Anna Nicole Smith?

Learning the details about his death has made me reflect on my own health. See, I have all the same prescriptions found in his apartment. Like him, I suffer from insomnia, which has been bad of late. I also suffer from panic attacks, which can hit me unexpectedly, making me feel as if I were having a heart attack. I am what Freud would have labeled as a neurotic, a term for those whose sensitivities make them victim to such physical manifestations. I don't think this actor died of an overdose. But yet, I can't help wondering whether the combination of prescription medications was somehow the cause. And would I fall victim to just such an outcome after a bad period of not sleeping and panic attacks coming fast and furious? The one reassurance, if I were to die, is that there would be no spontaneous shrine outside our building. Hopefully, the only shrine or messages will come from those who have known me. My death, unlike this actor's, will, hopefully, be dignified as I am finally laid to rest. I hope the media moves on soon, leaving him and his family privacy as they bury their only son and mourn his death. Where is Brittany Spears when you need her?