In which I am dismayed by the sadly inappropriate significance of some highlighted deaths.

It is amusing to me how news items progress, how the attention of the internet at large turns so sporadically, with such fiercely thin attention span, to the next shiny object. Last I knew, Michael Jackson was considered by and large a child molester and a freak, a once great artist now scary and despicable—the butt of every joke. But his death makes him sacred, much like Heath Ledger, the silly teen heart throb turned gay cowboy turned murdering psychopath turned pop culture martyr.

Our sympathy is absorbed now by the albino king of pop, whereas, only moments ago, it had been devoted primarily to Iranians protesting the same sort of bullshit elections that have been going on in nations all over the globe as long as nations have existed, and that we have been indifferent to for years because at those times we were busier focusing on dead pop stars.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I do not believe myself to be. But I do feel it is my duty as a poet, philosopher, and loving snuggly teddy bear to call bullshit where I see it. Most people don't care any more about Michael Jackson than they do about oppressed Iranians.