Sing me to sleep.

I knew that when Johnny Carson passed away it would have a special importance to me, but not because of what he and the Tonight Show meant to the world; or maybe precisely because of it. Either way, I've been dreading this for twenty years; ever since Johnny Carson made me fully realize mortality.

I remember the night. I was about seventeen, laying in my apartment watching TV, Carson's head framed by the vee made by my outstretched feet. It was the 25th anniversary special, and they were showing clips of the most memorable moments and guests to date. When they cut to present-day, you could see how he and Ed had aged; more wrinkles, a lot more snow on the roof. One of the guests (I don't remember who) said something like, "Here's to the next 25 years!" It made me wonder how long they would continue to do the show before they retired. Ten more years? Twenty? Then I thought, what would the Tonight Show be like in twenty years? What would I be like in twenty years? I did the math; in twenty years I would be in my late-thirties, and Johnny Carson would be...Johnny would be...oh my God. He could be...

Dead.

No. Way. Of course I knew we are all going to die, intellectually. I'd lost beloved pets, I'd lost loved ones. But there was something about the chance that Johnny Carson would not be around in twenty years (was mortal) which made death, all death, a reality. In that second my previous notion of our ultimate end, that impossible futuristic abstraction of we're all going to die, someday became "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! SOME ACTUAL DAY!" I went into panic, a sharp pain came across my chest. I got up, ran to the bathroom, and cried to the mirror; for myself, for my friends and family--for the inescapable end of everything I had ever known, or will ever know. Why Johnny Carson? Because he was a living legend, an icon, seemingly immortal; and if larger-than-life figures can't elude the inevitable, nobody I knew had a fucking chance. I kid you not, it was the single most profound moment in my life.

I revisited the humanity of legends a few years ago when I ran into Mary Tyler Moore at the passport office. I couldn't believe she was standing there, not just because it was her, but that it was her, there--at the passport office. Not her assistant, not her minions, her. I wouldn't have batted an eye had it been the independent film flavor of the month, but it was Mary Tyler Moore. The legend. But legends it seems, in addition to death and taxes, are not pardoned from tedious ID procurement, and have to drag their behinds down to a municipal building and stand in line just like everyone else (but unlike everyone else, get ushered to a private waiting area until their passport is ready). I started to wonder why she'd need a passport at all. Where in the world could she travel, and not be recognized? Somewhere, I had to admit finally. Remote lands on far away distant continents, isolated little places where Mr. Grant and Ted and Phyllis and Georgette and Murray mean nothing, where "Oh Rob!" would register a cock-headed shrug. So I occupied the remainder of my six hours in the public waiting room trying to think of any person alive who is so famous, so known worldwide, so much a part of the collective consciousness and the fabric of humanity--they truly wouldn't need a passport. Former presidents, maybe. A few rock stars perhaps. In the end my list was short. And I was only certain about Johnny Carson and the Pope.

Posted by Antigeist at January 24, 2005 06:03 PM