The death of DJ AM, also known as Adam Goldstein, becomes increasingly sad as the details publicly unfold. The New York Post reported that AM, who passed away from an apparent drug overdose, was confronted by his worried sponsor and manager on Thursday night. After smoking crack and swallowing pills in front of his sponsor, he eventually promised to check into rehab after a scheduled gig at the Palms in Vegas.
He just never made it.
The drugs found in his apartment, largely painkillers and anti-anxiety meds like Vicodin, oxycodone, Xanax and lorazepam, tell a tacit story that doesn't seem to be one of wild, thrill-seeking self-destruction, but instead: a deep and dark struggle with a great deal of inner pain. It seems difficult to imagine how one might cope with events so traumatic as the plane crash he survived last year -- which woefully injured him and friend Travis Barker, while stealing the lives of four others. I didn't know him, but I feel truly sad for his suffering, and the fact that it led to a very lonely and tragic end.
In the web universe, many of AM's Hollywood pals were predictably quick to show how not alone he was, elegantly honoring his memory via Twitter.
Listen, I would never condemn anyone's expression of grief. I just wonder: if you lose someone you really care about, aren't they at least worth capital letters? Might their tragic passing perhaps warrant spelling out "you" for? Couldn't the event amount to something more meaningful than a quick blip -- the kind of thought mandated by Twitter, a platform with ephemera and meaninglessness built into its very structure, making it possible to bury a statement about the loss of one's friend, five tweets later, with:
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