Michael Jackson died last year, so did Farrah Fawcett, Patrick Swayze, Walter Cronkite. All of our iconic famous faces, the untouchable larger than life personalities of pop culture, are disappearing and, in their place, we have our new “celebrities” smothering the ranks. They are rock stars without personalities and trademarks, they are actors without charm and class, and they are reality show stars who are our next door neighbors. Gone are the fairy tales of true music idols and mysterious movie stars, the famous few beautiful people we grew up revering. To see this happening leads me to the images of this country’s hurried race away from all things aging and traditional and a molasses-moving. One of the places within these borders where I feel things are a little less rushed and people are still communal is Santa Fe. I found myself running there to get away from my contemporaries, my rushed lifestyle, but then feeling the betrayal to my own generation and, in response, leaving. This has never been reconciled.