Yeah. Sue me. I have something to say.
Ted Kennedy died and I cried. I cried because my mother taught me to love all things Camelot.
Paul Newman died and I wept. I wept because I loved him. He was my... celebrity. He was my father, my husband, my best friend, my hero, my socialist. I can't....
I cried last night watching a documentary about the Beatles because George and John were my favorites. Both dead.
Yesterday Patrick Swayze died. I didn't cry. I remembered.
We who were born in the hangover days of the 1960's. We who were too little to celebrate or protest war, to young to understand the violence. We who were given limitless options that limited us. Those of us Gen X'ers, the children of the baby boomers. We know a little something about dirty dancing.
Most of us were bad. There was nothing else to be. We come from broken homes (both literally and figuratively) and we seem to share the problem of being an aftertaste to our parents who believed they would never get old.
We were the coolest people ever. And when that movie came out, it was decidedly uncool. We made fun of it. We boycotted it. All the while, we secretly adored it. AND THEN the music began to tell its own story. We played it and danced. We rented the movie countless times and quoted it.
What was the allure? It was the reminder of simplicity. It reminded us, the lost generation, that there was a time when families went away together on summer vacations. That sister's fought and loved. That parents could be involved. That love... true love... really existed.
It reminded us that hard work meant something. That if we practiced we could be really good at whatever we put our minds to. It told us the story of triumph. We all figured out we could jump off the stage.
And in the end, I had the time of my life, nobody puts baby in the corner, and never, ever forget "This is my dance space, this is your dance space."
Sleep well Patrick. Many of us thought you were, well, swell. Peace.