“Hi, Mr. Swayze? Yeah, Hi. This Is Karma Calling.”
It begins…
I’m dreading his death.
Dreading it.
The printed press will be full of pictures of him hauling that shrill wasp bodied Jennifer Grey through the air and the screen media will be doing all of that, but with sound and full motion.
The streets will be lined with the bodies of crying women, some with a belly of aspirin, some just crying. Borderline Hollywood personas will be lining up to deliver heartrending soliloquies about the small town boy made good in the city. I’ll try and buy a paper but as I’m reaching out to hand over the money the shopkeeper will grasp me by the wrist and say, ‘Terrible news about Patrick Swayze’s Pancreas – WHAT DO YOU THINK?’.
They’ll probably cash in on the grief and re-release Ghost, forcing tired comparisons to Swayze’s own real-life death, and forcing my hand with more letters to Whoopi Goldberg.
Man, I don’t even know where she fucking lives anymore, it’s gonna be total hassle.
Hollywood has a way of romanticizing death.
When Ted Danson died, it emerged that he’d spent much of his post-Cheers life in Sudan, helping to build roads and oil refineries for China and China Jnr, Google.
It was a quirky sentiment, but really?
When Ben Affleck blew his face off in his apartment last year everyone gathered in Hollywood boulevard to talk fondly about the legacy of a man whose films included Pearl Harbour, Daredevil, GIGLI (!) and Armageddon. Let me run that by you again:
Pearl Harbour
Daredevil
GIGLI (!)
Armageddon
It doesn’t matter that Armageddon starred Steve Buscemi, Steve should’ve known better.
Hollywood gives birth to you, raises you, rapes you, poisons you, and at the moment of your death; stuffs you, still breathing, into a big glass capsule in the sky.
So remember - when he dies, and he will die, it’s not the passing of a God. Think of it as more air for newborn babies to grasp at – you don’t want them to struggle, do you?
(The only slightly bitter about life) Philip Larkin said,
“Man hands on misery to man“.
And how!
