The first time I noticed media attention to the death of public figures was the summer of 1999. I was profoundly affronted by media impropriety in the aftermath of the deaths of John Kennedy Jr. and his wife Carolyn. They were the subjects of an egregiously tasteless article in Vanity Fair, “revealing” the private disagreements in a young marriage. They were dead. They couldn’t defend themselves from the salacious details of a story meant to peddle more magazines.
Prior to THE OFFENSE I had been a loyal subscriber to Vanity Fair, for years, carting around piles of saved magazines every time I moved. Such a waste of time and space. Occasionally, I still read the rag but only at the library and I do not patronize it’s shameless advertisers. You will not find any Louis Vuitton in my wardrobe.
Of course, I’m interested in the lives of famous people.
Famous or infamous, each of them has loved ones deserving of a period of uninterrupted, untarnished mourning. A time when all that is said or written is positive and kind.
Whitney Houston was beautiful, her voice was powerful. The End.