Don't take this the wrong way, but news of Mindy McCready's suicide barely made a dent in my day, and I wasn't alone. Most of America didn't give much of a flip about Ms. McCready, her music, or her incredibly troubled life of addiction and illness. I come to this conclusion because it's pretty clear the only people who even reached out to her were still trying to milk her for some money. (Yes, Dr. Drew, you suck.)
Comparing McCready’s death to that of any famous musician whose untimely and unfortunate death might or might not have rocked the music world is virtually guaranteed to render her a mere blip on the radar screen. Being an 18-year-old cute gal with a single platinum-selling country music album is practically semi-annual event, and being a platinum-selling starlet whose follow-up albums sink quickly into crappy insignificance isn’t unique.
Her death, like all human deaths, and especially those from unnatural causes, was still tragic.
She left behind two children. Some could argue she left them behind long ago, maybe even before they were born, preferring her substances to her offspring. Her boyfriend killed himself, too. Her life, it seems, pretty much just sucked.
The most tragic part of the story, however, comes in seeing how others react to it. My indifference to her death, it seems, is one of the more humane options. Once again, the ability to see people’s comments in the Social Media 2.0 world leaves me thinking less of us as a species than I would otherwise.
Did you know what, in this celebri-tragedy, seems to upset the most people? That Mindy shot her dog first. A woman is dead. Her children motherless. And people get their panties and undies in a wad because she shot the damn dog.
Wanna know who the real problem is? Banana Joe’s “trainer,” that’s who. Ernesto Lara and anyone who wishes they were him:
from the New York Times article linked above:
“Like any comedian, when he’s in a situation, he doesn’t think it’s funny,” Lara said. “He doesn’t know his size or that he has a pushed-in face. Once you live with one, you know that’s the standard. They need a comic seriousness.”News flash. Banana Joe isn’t a comedian. Banana Joe doesn’t have comic f*#king seriousness. Banana Joe isn’t aware that he’s a superstar. And no, dammit, Banana Joe isn't going to write a tell-all novel via telepathic dictation to his “trainer-who-doesn’t-train.” Ernesto Lara has no more clue what Banana Joe "feels" than I do, not on any level that would make Banana Joe any more humanoid than the possum you ran over on the way home tonight (Hint: It felt pain. Probably. Beyond that, we won't know).
Like most handlers asked to describe their champion dogs, Lara said that Joey was aware of what he was doing and enjoyed pleasing the crowd.
“He’s smarter than you think,” Lara said. “He knows when it’s showtime.”
It’s one thing to love animals. I respect a healthy love of all God's creatures. But glory hallelujah, it’s a whole nother thing to be batshit nuts. Please, please, keep your love of animals on the sane side of Crazy River. If you’re gonna mourn for McCready’s dog by going to Ruth’s Criss and eating a filet, please at least be aware of your laughable hypocrisy.
And if you would shed more tears for Banana Joe running in front of a bus (because it failed to perfect its “comedic timing”) than you do for a washed-up country singer, may God have mercy on your misanthropic soul.*
* -- It’s only natural and understandable to grant lenience for one’s own pet. Although I would still sacrifice my own dog if it could save a washed-up country singer, it at least registers on the radar of sanity to be irrationally emotionally attached to one’s own pet. It’s when this insanity extends to the pet of a washed-up suicidal country music singer where we, as a culture, deserve electroshock.