Rob gets Robbed of his Life

A week ago, the guy was nattering on Farcebook like any other D-lister.

Now he's dead.

Some asshole killed him in a hit-and-run. Yeah, just one of those things. You go out for coffee, or a newspaper, and you end up in a hospital. BANG.

He was brain dead almost instantly, and the "good news" is that when they took him off life support, his harvested organs were in good shape and ready to help a half-dozen people.

"I wasn't such a Johnny Ace fan, but I felt bad all the same."

I think that sums it up. Just change the name, which I won't mention 'cause I wouldn't want any of his friends of relatives Googling his name, seeing this and getting all misty. Or pissy.

Fact is, he was probably best known (if at all) for writing lyrics for that fat and sappy CrissCross guy, the one who sang that schmaltzy song about New York City in the movie "Arthur."

There's a streak of soft-rock cabaret shit that is so limp you're surprised the vinyl isn't warped when you take it out of the sleeve. For most of us, Cross would be bad enough; you don't need somebody with a shittier voice.

Rob was a songwriter who couldn't really sing. That didn't stop him from turning up at songwriter workshops and "showcases." He put out his own material via vanity site CD Baby and is on YouTube singing at the piano in obscure locations, but that's what you do. The idea is "listen to my songs, and imagine how much better they'd be if Neil Diaper or Harry Chronic sang 'em. Come on guysssss, COVER ME."

Every once in a while a sappy ballad from a guy like Rob is good enough to get covered and even be a guilty pleasure. In the same clogged and fatty vein, at least ONE song on a James Taylor or Cat Stevens album isn't too bad, right?

Anyway, I do feel bad about this. You don't like to see senseless things happen. It makes you question things, and there are no answers. What do you say in this case? "God wanted a half dozen people to have eyes, liver, kidneys and stuff from a mediocre songwriter who wasn't going to have another hit anyway..." Nice.

This guy wasn't doing any harm, and some people really got off on his stuff and applauded him at his showcases, and he probably had a decent day job and lots of friends. BANG. Some fuckhead isn't looking where he's going (we'll assume ROB was not jaywalking) and that's it.

"What I Did Last Night." DIED.

(See, I couldn't get away with that brand of gallows humor if I thought anyone he knew would read this!)

PS, Ms. Cuntwell, and the fabulous Basket Case, notice how FEW hits his CD Baby stuff and his live show YouTube deals had. And he was much more credible than either bitch, and was located in the middle of prime Los Angeles marketing venues, and DID get a bunch of co-writes on the latest from CrissCross.

NOTHING is gonna happen with Ms. Cuntwell or Basket Case, but they're too young to know it. They will have a few more months or years before they get real jobs, get pregnant, or get killed in a car accident.