An Introductory Note on Death

Some stretches of time go by practically unnoticed. We simply breeze through days, weeks, and months without looking back to examine what they were all about. One day's news quickly blends into the next day's, the weather eventually breaks or darkens, and we move on.

This has not been the case over the last week or so. Recent days have been decidedly dominated by death, as if somebody gave the Grim Reaper a turn at open mic night and he's just having too much fun to get off stage. And yes, he's playing a variety of tunes, each with its own flavor. Here's the setlist:

-Ed McMahon: Johnny Carson's sidekick died last Tuesday in his sleep. Family sources say he suffered from a "multitude of health problems" in his final months, including a broken neck from a fall and reports of bone cancer. He was 86.

-Farrah Fawcett: The star of TV's Charlie's Angels and some much more high quality films (see The Beate Klarsfeld Story) lost her arduous battle with cancer, dying at 9:30 a.m. on Thursday. She was 62.

-Michael Jackson: Some guy who did some music or something. He was found unconscious and not breathing less than three hours after Fawcett passed on. The King of Pop was 50.

-Billy Mays: The bearded guy in the blue shirt who always yells at you to buy stuff died in his sleep and was pronounced dead on Sunday morning. Initial reports speculated a link to his recent rough landing at a Tampa airport, but coroners think it was heart-related.

This lineup is rounding out like the '86 Celtics. Quirky role players (Mays is definitely Bill Walton), cagey veterans (Fawcett and McMahon are Parrish and McHale respectively), and of course, one transcendent super-star (Jackson/Bird). Even without Jackson's death, the rapid-fire nature of the trend is enough to steal news time away from the Iranian election fiasco. Throw in the most popular musician since Elvis, and people start to take notice.

The result is an odd sort of public grief. While the news about Fawcett and McMahon did not come as a shocker, Jackson's death was nearly unthinkable. Mays' death, a shocker for a man at the peak of his career thanks to Pitchmen, seemed like salt in the wound. All the memories, condolences, tributes, and news stories seem to blend into one mixed-up mass of mourning. We want to celebrate Jackson's music, message, and greatness, but we also can't help but think of the bizzarre, possibly dispicable life he led. Even the President had his press secretary tell the world essentially that "his music was good, but man, that cat was fucked up." Jackson has been able to wiggle out of so many weird conundrums that the world is almost skeptical as to whether or not he's really dead. The timing allowed zero time for the media to give McMahon and Fawcett their dues, and we're all so sick of death that Mays is almost ridiculous to consider.

Of course, this type of public mourning can only dominate so much of our lives. Mostly, the part where we sit in front of the TV or computer, watching old Michael videos just for the memories or inexplicably volunteering to sit through an Awesome-Auger commercial. Here in my hometown of Bourne, however, we have made the full transition from grieving for those whom have given us their art, talent, and charity to one who gave her friendship and personal touch.

A car accident early Monday morning took the life of Cassy Flynn, a 21-year-old Bourne native whom I was only acquainted with in passing. What I do know of Cassy, through friends, is that she was a caring person, the type that would go out of her way to help a friend. What I know from my own experience is that she had the kind of smile that was so genuine you couldn't help but smile back.

In hearing many reactions to her sudden death, the only likeness that could encapsulate them all is something like hypnosis. It's part shock, to be sure, but there is also a palpable undertone of fatalism, of a relinquishing of power. It's as if death has a stranglehold on us, and we all know it well. Perhaps it's the effect of the constant media barrage of celebrity death coverage. Perhaps it's something completely different, like the string of young people in this town dying in car accidents in recent years.

Whatever it is, it's brought a certain perspective on death and grief. The sort of emotion we feel at losing a public figure is so unexpectedly paltry in comparison to the impact of losing a person in our own community, one who effected so many people around us if not ourselves. At the very least, Cassy's death serves as a reminder that our electronic lives--the ones filled with our idols, villains, and trusted pundits--are always secondary to our corporeal lives, where we build real relationships, maintain them, occasionally destroy them, and always need them.

Should we celebrate Michael Jackson? No, we shouldn't. Nor should we villainize him. Why? We didn't know him. We should celebrate his music, his influence, his unlimited inventiveness; these are things which we knew, things we were truly affected by. The personal tributes and thoughts of love will come from the Jackson family and the many people whom Michael touched as a person. In due time, Cassy Flynn will be celebrated by those who loved her as well, because she was a genuine human being who affected a multitude of lives around her. Even in our age of 24-hour news cycles, we still know who is important to us, no matter what Wolf Blitzer says.

For now, in the words of Conor Oberst, we keep death on our heads like a heavy crown. And hope that the Reaper's voice is getting tired.