By now, the fact has (probably) finally sunk in that Heath Ledger is dead and gone, having succumbed to a supposedly accidental overdose of prescription medication. What really struck me about the whole incident is the degree to which it completely eclipsed the similar passing of Brad Renfro some weeks earlier. Here was a kid who was being touted as the Next Big Thing and playing opposite Academy Award winners long before Ledger first strapped on his leather codpiece for Roar, and yet his death merited hardly a drop in the ocean compared to the torrent of popular coverage that of the latter received. I don't have any great insight to offer regarding this phenomenon. It just demonstrates what a peculiarly different trajectory the careers of each ultimately took.

In a similar vein, I was also saddened to discover only very recently that John Spencer passed away a couple of years back. I grew up watching him on L.A. Law, dearly loved his turn as Sean Connery's antagonist in The Rock, and was becoming convinced he was the perfect casting choice should they ever choose to bring Agent Graves to the silver screen. Of course, this shocking revelation was a result of my recent infatuation with The West Wing, a rather excellent television drama, which I'm only glad I missed the first time around because I can now enjoy it without interruption. The prevailing opinion is, of course, that President Bartlett is based to a great degree on Bill Clinton, and certain aspects of his character certainly complement the picture I formed of him while reading Richard Clarke's Against All Enemies. Both portrayals make me want to cry tears of frustration that America's last president was an object of fun because he liked to read so much. Moreover, while I'm not so fatuous as to buy into the patriotic rhetoric of the show without reservation, it fills me with a deep sadness that the current administration has tarnished, perhaps irreparably, many of the virtues for which this country could once at least claim to stand. I guess I must just seek some small comfort in the tender arms of Bradley Whitford. Would that he could embrace the world! (Perhaps he could! Who's up for going HGH hunting south of the border? It just might work...)

While we're discussing serious issues, who is responsible for the sudden infiltration of whatever 'aioli' may be onto every menu I read, and how are they controlling our leaders' brains?