I read in my NYTimes news blurb I get in my e-mail every morning that the hot ticket in LA today is to MJ's funeral. Good news. The golden coffin arrived in time. My, my. I have always known that there is something about humans that make them want to climb to the top of the heap, even if it is a heap of trash. My five year old daughter once commented "You know Mom, you are what you drive." I wanted to believe at the time that that comment was inspired by her other parent, but I have to admit, I was subscribing to that philosophy, too. We owned thirteen cars, three houses, and two swimming pools in the measley eleven years we were married (consecutively, of course, not concurrently). And yet, in the end, we are all dust, n'est-ce pas? And this scramble for hierarchy is not unique to our species. I read African Genesis years ago. The birds do it, too. Something about guaranteeing the strongest propitiate the species, you know, survival of the fitest. Or in our species' case, survival of the most outrageous, or most beautiful, or most pugnacious. Strong is in the mind of the beholder, I suppose. Where is the humility? Where is the gratitude? Those are better medicines than the ones that killed the King of Pop, for sure.
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