by Alexis O'Hara
For weeks, I've been trying to conjure up an opinion on Dana Plato's death. I read the People magazine cover story, written before her death was ruled a suicide. I searched for links on the web ("Stay on top of Dana Plato - we'll email you anytime we have a picture of her"). It was on the web that I came to know about an organization called A Minor Consideration, run by God lovin' ex-child stars who pledge to be there for all child stars, past and present. Paul Petersen (I must have missed his career) writes most of the articles on the site: an open letter to Macaulay Culkin, a eulogy for JonBenet Ramsey and most recently, a note on poor Dana Plato. He stated that she'd been on the AMC's danger list since their inception. Petersen had also been a guest on a Sally Jesse Raphael episode that featured Dana Plato, high as a kite, claiming to be clean and happy.
Poor Dana. Dana who was never really a star in the first place. Not like Todd, superstud for a half dozen years, I suppose. And not like Gary with his millions and his 'whachutalkinboutwillis' merchandising deals. Of course they are all washed up now, problem children every one. Daddy Drummond certainly had a way with the child rearing. But Dana had never been much a star in the first place. She had to tube top talk her way into the discos all flipped back hair and baby smooth Nair legs. She was wasted then, cashing in her paychecks to pursue her degree in septum deviation. Drunk and pregnant, eventually dropped from the show. Married then divorced, bouncing from boyfriend to boyfriend, often dropping her son with relatives. Getting bit parts in big wastes of money with titles like Return to Baggy Creek. Spending every last dime on cocaine, the most uncool of the uncool drugs that the uncool cool people do. If she'd at least been a junkie then I might empathize with her understanding of the true despair of life (ha ha). But no, not our Dana, poor Dana who signed every autograph and letter with the inscription, Rainbows and Butterflies Forever. This, to me, is not a sentient being.
It really dosen't matter what drug she did. Of course she snorted coke, of course she dated losers, of course 'acted' in pornos (Search for these titles in your video store: Different Strokes aka Jack & Jill...& Jill; Bikini Beachrace aka The Sex Puppets). And of course she spent most of her life talking about how she was this close to her big comeback. All the while deluding herself, deceiving the people around her, scamming money wherever she could (robbing a video store in Vegas) and most certainly screwing with her young son's head.
Poor her, she died. Fuck that. She is no different to me than the other drug casualties I've known. And even the ones I loved dearly when alive, get no sympathy from me in their deaths. We all have our crosses to bear and there are people out there with far greater reasons to despair. We (North) Americans are so self-centered. Wasted and wasteful. We, who have so much are always so wont to whine about our lack. You wanna stick your head in that mountain of sand and spit in the faces of the people close to you, go ahead. If you aren't willing to work at carving your happiness out of this big brown rock, move over and give some room to someone who will.
