When it comes to celebrities and the people who love them, it seems the deader the better.
Elvis, James Dean, Anna Nicole Smith, and Marilyn Monroe were all bigger than life. But they became even bigger when their farms were bought and their buckets kicked.
Unfortunately, this ongoing trend is in no danger of dying. It's borderline pathology to spend years worshiping a collection of dead people known for wearing dark glasses indoors and doing their best to avoid photographers.
But why such reverence? Why the burgeoning fan clubs? What the hell is going on? THESE PEOPLE ARE DEAD!
Is it a backlash to our own lack of permanence? Is it the scarcity of star status that is driving the nuts among us to extend their glorification of celebs long after the obituaries have been written?
Those who claim to know about such things say it's not a mental disorder – as I claim it is-- but rather an exuberant and lasting fascination with the rich and famous who just happen to be six feet under.
Perhaps these fans should get a life. Or at least a hobby that doesn't involve things no longer breathing.
The Elvis “sightings” are still more proof that some fans don't accept the finality of a death certificate. There is even some wacko with a website preaching that Elvis was sent by God to elevate our spiritual values and fight organized crime in Las Vegas.
If people need a fan club for the dearly departed, what about Socrates, Einstein, Edison, DaVinci, Mozart, Lincoln, Ben Franklin, Helen Keller, or my fave, Mark Twain?
I fear that the future wave of stars we bereave and exalt might be the likes of Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Britney Spears.
I can't speak for others. But I see no reason why we should limit our adoration of the deceased to the twits and the ditsy.
@#$%&@
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