"It's my own damn fault"

     "Part of loving opera is hating operas," I used to say, back when I attended operas regularly. Meaning, you can have an affection for the form, generally, and still flinch at the prospect of sitting through "Wozzeck," which I've done twice in 25 years, which is two times too many.
     Similarly, part of reading The New York Times is cringing when you read the New York Times. Sometimes. Maybe even often, despite the publications unquestioned general excellence. Not just for the tendency for its Style section to be periodically duped by three teenagers into presenting some unique outlier as a popular trend. Or because large parts of the paper seem written for people pulling down half a million dollars a year.
     But for their occasional tone deafness. The sense of something being slightly askew, off, wrong. We saw it again in their obituary of Jimmy Buffett, particularly that initial headline:
     "Jimmy Buffett, Roguish Bard of Island Escapism, Is Dead at 76"
     The first two words — the singer's name — are fine, accurate, unobjectionable. As are the last four. No argument there.

     But "Roguish Bard of Island Escapism"? Really?
     First "roguish." Is that a word you've ever used in your life? Or heard used? "He's a rogue," maybe, though even that is an arcane way once used to describe Hugh Grant types. It's like calling Buffett " scoundrelly."
     Next "bard." Another word thick with dust, welded to Shakespeare. An antique, affected term. I could see using it sarcastically. "Donald Trump, the bard of bitching..." But would you call someone you respect a "bard"? I think that's my problem with the Times obit of Buffett — there's a smirk in it.
     "Island" just shows how wrong the other three words are. Simple, natural apt. Jimmy Buffett's job was island the way Ken's job was beach. And "escapism" — way to go all Freudian on us, Grey Lady. Is there a single Parrot Head who, firing up the blender and blasting "Cheeseburger in Paradise" thinks, "And now for a little Jimmy Buffett island escapism."
     If you haven't read Bill Friskics-Warren's obituary, you can find it here.
     Meh, right? The opening sentence also pokes the reader in the eye with its odd qualifiers: "Jimmy Buffett, the singer, songwriter, author, sailor and entrepreneur whose roguish brand of island escapism on hits like 'Margaritaville' and 'Cheeseburger in Paradise' made him something of a latter-day folk hero, especially among his devoted following of so-called Parrot Heads, died on Friday."
   "Something of a latter-day folk hero." Buffett fans live in retirement communities — Latitude Margaritaville, oddly left out of the obit — built around his songs. I'd say he's a full-fuckin' fledged latter-day folk hero.
    "So-called Parrott Heads." No, that's what they are actually called. Later, the obit mentions "Dead Heads" without the lift-up-the-term-with-tweezers "so-called." Which either denotes "this is really what they're called" for some theoretically reader who never heard of Buffett. Or carries a sniff of skepticism.
     Frankly, I'd still have let the whole thing slide, except for this paragraph:

     "Mr. Buffett’s music was often described as 'Gulf and western' — a play on the name of the conglomerate Gulf & Western, the former parent of Paramount Pictures, as well as a nod to his fusion of laid-back twang and island-themed lyrics."

     Does what jumped out at me jump out at you? "The former parent of Paramount Pictures." Thanks for the background, New York Times! Talk about sliding into the weeds. And I've never heard Buffett's music described as "Gulf and western."
     I could go on. Certain word choices were so wrong they stopped me dead. "A supporter of conservationist causes" read as "conservative causes." I went back to read it again; still, a very odd way to describe somebody concerned about the environment.
     Understand, I don't have a dog in this race. While I liked my margaritas well enough, back in the day, I was never much of a Buffett fan. I never attended a concert of his or bought one of his albums.  But that doesn't mean I don't have a sense of what he was about, a sense that obviously eluded the New York Times. You don't have to be an admirer of a person to write their obit, but you do need to have an understanding of what they were about. You have to grasp their essence. To fail to do so is like reviewing a book by weighing it.

    Before we go, I don't like to criticize anybody's headline without providing a better one, because headlines can be tough.
     Deep breath. Think for three seconds ... okay, how about:
     "Jimmy Buffett, who blended up billions singing of boozy, sun-baked fun, dead at 76." Not perfect. But an improvement. I bet you could come up with an even better one.