Since this column is all over the place, commenters will find an excuse to discuss the “JOOOOOOZ!!!” at length…
Now: I’ve put off this next bit—actually paused, with my fingers hovering over the home keys—but having a deadline (pun unavoidable) means I can no longer avoid typing the following words:
So far this year, not a single famous person I really care about has died.
Blame my hesitation on my Deadly Keyboard of Doom, which, yes, I know, so far seems to harm only famous elderly novelists, the way sickle-cell anemia afflicts only blacks. But can any of us be certain that its lethal powers won’t mutate? Hell, the other, even more annoying Berrigan brother finally snuffed it while I was writing this.
Which brings me to my actual point:
No one I really wished would die has croaked, either. (I’m looking at you, Bono, and I’m not alone.)
So hey, here goes…