a bunch of frigging phonies (and we wouldn't have it any other way)

It is a sad day for angsty kids everywhere, riding along the revelation of the One True Teen Idol J.D. Salinger kicking the big bucket in his New Hampshire home at the age of 91.

Am I sad? Sure. But the thing is...this isn't like Michael Jackson, who died young and ambigously, with so much more kick left in 'im. This guy...this Salinger...he was ninety one fucking years old for Gods sake. I mean, it was bound to happen. Not to mention the fact that he was so reclusive we could, as John Hodgman tweeted, just "pretend he's extra-reclussive".



And, once more, I can't say I'm the hugest fan of the Catcher in the Rye. I know, I know, hold your heavy objects. I didn't say I hated it, I just mean it doesn't have as lasting an impression on me as it does others, which is okay. I much prefer Franny and Zooey, and Nine Stories. I always thought they were his seminal works, that really stretched his writing abilities. But Catcher in the Rye is what we know, and you really can't diss a book as affective and dog-earred as this one. So props to him.

Okay, this is turning out to be a shitty-ass eulogy, so I'll just leave off with one of my fav quotes from Catcher, and hope it leaves enough impression so that I come off as profound and Salinger comes off as what he is; dead and remembered.

Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.