Sugar News: And I Wish That I Could Beeee... Richard Coryyyy...

Rising out of the flotsam this week is a poem we all learned in middle school: “Richard Cory,” by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Except the name has changed…

WHENEVER Owen Wilson went down town,    
  We people on the pavement looked at him:    
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,    
  Clean favored, and imperially slim.    
 
The end of summer is always a dark time in the Big Town. The subway platforms stink of heat; it can be a breezy 75 degrees outside, and the Tunnels of Hell are still hotter than an oven on steroids. Kids seem to be in hiding—they know they have to go back to school soon, and they’re not taking it lightly. You seem them clutching their basketballs and barbiedolls, snarling. Suits are still wearing their suits, and still, they seem to miraculously avoid sweating—but it is as if all that plugged-up sweat in their bodies has turned toxic, and now they push past you on the streets with a fury no imminent business meeting could possibly demand.

Summer sucks. Plus, I need a job. I’ve been cast off by my boss-man, that suit of suits, who seems to be best suited to some other Girl Friday. Time to put on more sensible shoes and pound that unforgiving, steamy pavement. I can’t wait.

And he was always quietly arrayed,             
  And he was always human when he talked;    
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,    
  "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.    
 
Things aren’t so great for this Fleyshie. I’m not famous. I’m not one of the cutest actors in Hollywood, with a cutely bulbous nose, and cutely tousled blond hair. I don’t have my pick of starlets and models to date, screenplays to star in, and remote, idyllic vacation locales to which I can retreat. I’m not the envy of most other human beings on the planet.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,    
  And admirably schooled in every grace:      
In fine, we thought that he was everything    
  To make us wish that we were in his place.    
 
I try not to report on the ridiculous entertainment news—the Britney Spears slop, the Amy Winehouse whining, the Nicole Richie ridiculousness. I’ve tried to keep my Gather friends relatively Lohan-free. I’m not even putting these train wrecks in bold—that’s how much I want to spare you from the detritus of most entertainment news!

But when Owen Wilson tries to off himself, this newshound cannot stay silent!

Apparently, the actor overdosed on pills and cut his wrists in his Los Angeles home, where he was later found by one of his actor brothers (the older, not-Luke one). He is currently in “good condition” at a Beverly Hills hospital, and released a statement asking the press to respect his privacy “during this difficult time.”

The gossip rags are going nuts on this one, and with good reason. The very face of jollity with the body of a young Achilles! A dashing hero with the twinkling eye of a trickster god! Adorable in “Wedding Crashers”! Funny in “Zoolander”! Wealthy as a mofo! What could possibly be wrong with this dude?

Who knows? His split with Kate Hudson? An overwhelming case of I-Have-It-All-And-It’s-Still-Not-Enough-Ness? Who can say?

I just know that I may wake up these days unemployed, overheated and vaguely-anxious-about-my-future, but I’m not thinking about ending it all.

And this must mean that—sometimes—once in a great while—in times like these, say—it might be better NOT to be Owen Wilson. Wow.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,    
  And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;    
And Owen Wilson, one calm summer night,      
  Went home and put a bullet through his head.