And Phyllis Isn’t Even On The List
I am puzzled about this year’s dead pool. Five months in and our nine stalwart members have none of their picks on the list whom have gone down for the count.
This is troubling.
Is the advance of science and a culture of good, clean living getting in our way? Have we no skill at picking the next to expire? Will Bob Hope ever pass on? These people may be living.
But.At.What.Cost.
We all spent a few hours, searching web sites, getting advice, catching up on current events to come up with our ten names, but to no success at this point.
Some people know that my sister is an experienced cereal serial killer and as such has the tools to not only get her to the top of the list, but to help all of us do. But in what a few years back seemed like a good idea, we enacted the now famous “Julie” clause that prohibits her from taking any lives on the list in an attempt to garner points. Sometimes I look back on that rule and just shake my head. “My God, man! What were you thinking?” I cry to the heavens. We need some action in this game. We need some points. We need to see some famous people go under the dirt to keep us entertained.
Now, for some people not in the mix of things, a celebrity dead pool is a gruesome thing.
“Roy,” they emplore, “This ain’t no way to get your fun.” They walk away puzzled and mumbling under their breath, unwilling to play life by a different set of rules.
Why does life have to be played by the rules of the famous at all costs. If a person has lead a famous life and has lead a life that seeks attention of others, why can we not enjoy that fame at their passing. Why does it only have to be at the hands of their press agents to determine when, why and where they are famous. A post-partum paparazzi is just as pro-celebrity as obsessing on the latest fashions walking down the red carpet. Except at death, no one gets to really determine how they are remembered except a few obit writers and a life’s legacy of accomplishments.
Looking at some of this year’s dead pool candidates we can expect some nice things to be said. Bob Hope will have an oozing obit and television retrospectives. Ronald Reagan will have a national day of mourning. His body will lie in state. World leaders and maybe even Al Gore will show up at his funeral.
On the other side of the list we have Augusto Pinochet, a ruthless dictator and warlord who’s passing will be celebrated with gun shots of happiness shot in the air down in Santiago.
Same thing with Reagan.
Warren Zevon is on a few lists. When a rock star passes we get a chance to put our life in perspective through song and realize our own mortality.
Zsa Zsa and Elli May Clampett are on the list. A chance to contemplate our childhood and growing up in the 60s and 70s.
Hold on, I need some coffee.
The meandering point I am making here is that a dead pool serves a much more important point in life than other vehicles of celebrity – a wedding, a motion picture debut, a cure for cancer – because when they die we reflect and get to think once again about “What if.”
In the great words of Gilda Radner – “What if Eleanor Roosevelt had wings?”
Indeed Gilda. What if.