Puffin’s Place

Once again I lament the lack of proportion among many of us. When asked to make a choice, it appears to me that we always choose the bling over the blood. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett are dead–no great reason for joy there. But also no great reason for wall to wall media coverage and the language exhibitionism around us as tv molls inquire of Fawcett’s stepson whether the family is hurt that Jackson’s death has pushed her demise off the front pages.

Both, I suppose, gave some of us varied moments of pleasure, but by what measure is either one a hero, a giant among humans, a source of significance? Aside from his largess to children, Jackson was a self-indulgent self-absorbed character who indulged in drugs and teenage music. Fawcett was an attractive woman who did some decent acting and had the good sense not to marry her bloated, spoiled lover. No heroes there, say I.

Meanwhile the blood of Neda and other nameless boys and girls and men and women lies about the world, small players in significant moments.

How come we seem unable to tell the difference?