Memorium Infinitum

Interestingly, I had been thinking about celebrity deaths even before the 453rd straight hour of the media eulogizing Michael Jackson as the greatest ______ who ever did die. Specifically, I was thinking that we as a population were headed toward a beauty of a logjam, with all sorts of Whatsernames and Whatsisfaces jockeying for more and more space in the world's greatest mourning derby.

It hit me when Paul Newman died. Here was a great guy. And, appropriately I think, he was lamented with admirable fervor on the front page of the New York Times website. But what I also noticed at the time were two separate obit articles taking up space on the same hallowed front swale. One was a heretofore minor sports star, the other a woman who had appeared on Big Brother UK edition. That's when I knew for sure: too damn many celebrities.

Now I'm refraining from placing the word celebrity in ironic quote marks, but don't let my good manners fool you. These are Little Dippers in the Ursa Major constellation of stars. This is not a criticism. When I pass I do not expect that a monument to my charms will be erected on the lawn of our nation's capitol. Simply because I didn't star in The Hustler, direct Sometimes a Great Notion, or produce a salad dressing that continues to stockpile money for the less fortunate. Or, at least, I haven't done those things yet. I'm keeping a few monument makers on speed-dial just in case.

Thing is, we keep minting new Housewives of a Certain City and Amazing Racers or Runwayers, not to mention inaugurating whole new categories for the semi-famed. This last issue of Entertainment Weekly was devoted almost entirely to lost talents. Alongside Michael, Farrah, and Ed was Billy Mays. In fact, Ed shared a cramped page with Mr. Mays--and the description afforded the latter: Pitchman. Sure, he wasn't featured on The Tonight Show for thirty years, but he sold a bunch of stuff. A true hero for our recessionary malaise.

So I think we need some boundaries, some criteria for who takes up our time both while here and hereafter. Or else pretty soon we're going to need whole new outlets (magazines, churches, TV networks) devoted solely to memorializing the famously departed.

Here's one notion: You should have done something worthy of our attention. Don't find (not design, just procure) someone an outfit for an awards show or scrawl offensive words over a picture of Britney Spears and assume your legend status is in the bag. Don't be someone's Plus One. There is an entire article in the latest Details mag documenting the new "star" (I did it, sue me) Justin Gaston. What has Mr. Gaston done, you ask. Apparently, he's done squired Miley Cyrus around town. That's it. The article mentions that he's working on an album (no release date) and might try his hand at acting. But, otherwise, what proof of identity can Details offer to its readers? He has tattoos.

I just pray no harm befalls the inimitably talented Mr. Gaston. Because, if he were to pass on to the great skyworld without even an album's worth of lyrics to dissect, a lot of reporters are going to have to waste a lot of ink describing his Ink.