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As the wire services sped the news around the world we heard a brief obit on the radio all-news station on our way to the airport.
The only time so far that I had cried was when an old fan had called to tell me about the TV news station coming to film his collection of her clothes and photographs in his living room and to ask it he could have her dog...if no-one else had asked for it. Would I bring the dog back with me? She's barely cold and someone wants the dog! It was the same story all over again - the old clothes and the anklestrap shoes and the 8x10 autographed glossies and the goddamned dog. The rage made me shake and tears spilled down my fact...yet somehow my voice sounded ever polite. I hung up the phone.
Superstar is dead. Now the closet door will open and every weirdo in America will be on parade waving their faithful notes signed "God bless...Joan." I cried. But it wasn't sorrow, it was anger...a flash of the old rage like one of those violent thunder and lightening storms that sweep across the eastern sky and are gone.
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