Don't get me wrong. I'm not some sort of heartless meanie, but I don't care all that much that Heath Ledger died yesterday. Let me rephrase that. I don't care more about Ledger's death than about the demise of any other twenty-eight-year-old with a lot of talent to offer the world. If this were my nephew in his mid-twenties, I'd care a great deal, although he doesn't have Ledger's talents.
I mention this because both of my twenty-something daughters found out about the news from my mouth. Daughter number two complained of having a bad day. I indicated that she didn't have as bad a day as Heath Ledger.
"What's up with him?" daughter number one asked.
"He died."
You'd have thought I died. Frankly, I'm not sure they would have reacted more strongly had they learned that a family member--say that twenty-something cousin--had died.
Why is it that a guy they've never met and probably never will meet drew that sort of a reaction from the girls? I'm not sure, but it's an interesting topic to mull over.
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