Irony infarction ahead
To borrow a phrase from my esteemed colleague Eugene Finerman, here comes your Recommended Daily Allowance of irony:
Author and stress consultant Richard Carlson, famed for his popular series of Don't Sweat the Small Stuff motivational books, died earlier this week of cardiac arrest at the youthful age of 45.
Death doesn't get more ironic than that. Unless you're Jim Fixx.
With my 45th birthday scheduled for next Tuesday, you can imagine that this news makes me sweat the small stuff just a skosh.
Carlson was on a plane headed from San Francisco to New York at the time of his untimely demise. (I'm guessing that the airline won't be seeking a testimonial from Carlson's estate.) He was in the midst of a promotional tour hawking his latest feel-good tome, Don't Get Scrooged: How to Thrive in a World Full of Obnoxious, Incompetent, Arrogant and Downright Mean-Spirited People. Or how not to, as it turns out.
Given the title of his final work, Carlson's passing away less than two weeks before Christmas may, in fact, exceed the recommended consumption of irony.
Aside from our ages, Carlson and I shared a couple of other factors in common. We both attended Pepperdine University as undergraduates in the early 1980s. (So far as I know, we never met. I transferred to San Francisco State following my sophomore year, and I believe Carlson came to Malibu as a transfer from San Jose State the year after I left.) I also have a friend and former coworker who was close friends with Carlson and his wife, and spoke of them often.
My empathies go out to Carlson's family and loved ones.
Now where's that aspirin bottle?
Author and stress consultant Richard Carlson, famed for his popular series of Don't Sweat the Small Stuff motivational books, died earlier this week of cardiac arrest at the youthful age of 45.
Death doesn't get more ironic than that. Unless you're Jim Fixx.
With my 45th birthday scheduled for next Tuesday, you can imagine that this news makes me sweat the small stuff just a skosh.
Carlson was on a plane headed from San Francisco to New York at the time of his untimely demise. (I'm guessing that the airline won't be seeking a testimonial from Carlson's estate.) He was in the midst of a promotional tour hawking his latest feel-good tome, Don't Get Scrooged: How to Thrive in a World Full of Obnoxious, Incompetent, Arrogant and Downright Mean-Spirited People. Or how not to, as it turns out.
Given the title of his final work, Carlson's passing away less than two weeks before Christmas may, in fact, exceed the recommended consumption of irony.
Aside from our ages, Carlson and I shared a couple of other factors in common. We both attended Pepperdine University as undergraduates in the early 1980s. (So far as I know, we never met. I transferred to San Francisco State following my sophomore year, and I believe Carlson came to Malibu as a transfer from San Jose State the year after I left.) I also have a friend and former coworker who was close friends with Carlson and his wife, and spoke of them often.
My empathies go out to Carlson's family and loved ones.
Now where's that aspirin bottle?
Labels: Celebritiana, Dead People Got No Reason to Live, Reminiscing
SwanShadow was randomly pounding the keyboard at 7:42 PM
1 insisted on sticking two cents in:
Sobering. I'm hitting 43 and could stand to lose 5 or 50 pounds. Time to recommit to the gym.
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