In Brief

I'm at Comic-Con right now, hanging around a McDonalds that has free internet access, so I have very little time to blog . . . but I just heard of Amy Winehouse's death, and could I just say one short thing?

Winehouse was twenty-seven, dead of a drug overdose in her London home. Now, I'm no fan of Ms. Winehouse, not caring for her music, and certainly not for her public persona, but could we please not view her death as something glamorous, poetic, tragic, or romantic? Just this one time, let's not look to this incident as an example, or as something to wax all wistful and morose about?

Talented or not, this woman had so many chances to redeem herself, to slam on the brakes, or at least slightly change direction, but she proudly waved her stubborn unwillingness to compromise like a banner. The dinosaurs had their chance, Hammond.

Sometimes, dead is better. For example, over in Gotham City, there's that ultra-rich spoiled womanizing titular head of Wayne Enterprises, basically the male equivalent of Paris Hilton (though better-looking). This guy constantly engages in crazy unsafe behavior, such as skiing, skydiving, hang gliding, reckless driving, and being seen with European supermodels. He has broken bones, been in comas, head wounds, even had a spinal injury, yet he keeps on doing all these idiotic, thrill-seeking things. It's only a matter of time before Mr. Wayne ends up on a slab somewhere, and I hope nobody gasps and says, "The world has tragically lost a true hero today. Let's all strive to be just like him."

That's just my couple pennies; you may go on with your weekend.