I know this isn’t exactly breaking news, but for those of you for whom this website is the only window to the outside world, Hollywood actress Brittany Murphy (Clueless, 8 Mile, Don’t Say a Word) died yesterday at the age of 32.

Certainly her loss is tragic. First because she brought a banged-up/slutty quality to the screen that is noticeably absent these days; in a parallel universe she was doing barely-legal porn for crack and the fleeting affections of an abusive pimp, not making Hollywood pictures for Lamborghini money, but such was her fate. Second because unlike a lot of her starlet brethren, Brittany didn’t engage in the sort of public train wreck tomfoolery that would’ve made news of her death a welcome early Christmas gift. True, her marriage to a shady British con-man/screenwriter (hard to say which side of that slash is the more dubious designation) who made Ron Jeremy look like a GQ model by comparison raised some eyebrows, but Brittany never mined this bizarre relationship for tabloid cover space. As far as the outside world could tell she was genuinely in love with this troll, and for whatever reason this came off as endearing. Had it been Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Amy Winehouse or Paris Hilton found dead in a puddle of her own make yesterday morning there’d be dancing in the streets. For Brittany Murphy however, even a hardened internet cynic like me can’t help but shed a little black tear.

Of course it comes as a surprise to no one that drugs were likely responsible for Brittany’s demise. And while the autopsy results aren’t in yet, it would be hard to imagine that the cornucopia of mother’s little helpers cluttering Murphy’s West Hollywood home weren’t at least an accomplice in punching her ticket. This brings to light the curious relationship between celebrity, pharmaceuticals and death. In the past two years Heath Ledger, Michael Jackson and now apparently Brittany Murphy all met the Reaper thanks to substances that were legally on their persons and prescribed by medical professionals. Long gone are the days when a young star numbs the pain of celebrity with a packet of white powder bought under a freeway overpass from a dead-eyed Eastern European with facial tattoos. Of course the practical reasons for this sea-change are obvious: You don’t need to stuff a condom full of Oxys up your asshole to get past airport security so long as you have a valid prescription. RX crack doesn’t send people to jail or ruin their careers. At worst you do a stint in rehab and people feel sorry for you. At best you die tragically in a pool of half-digested Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and your bloated corpse gets propped up on the Celebrity Death Pro Bowl Pedestal to be deified and remembered forever. It’s the safe, politically correct way to be a junkie. But personally, I find this a little sad. When Jimi, Jim and Janis rode the white horse to Valhalla, they were being anti-establishment, anti-authority, anarchistic. In other words, dying as they lived by taking their fates – and the needle – into their own hands. They weren’t being preyed upon by opportunistic greedy doctors and pharmaceutical manufacturers promising a magic pill for every pain — in other words, the same assholes stuffing money in Republican pockets to ensure that public health care is NEVER an option. Like much of the sanitized, corporate-shilled “art” that dominates our popular culture –- films, TV and especially music –- Heath, Michael and Brittany were kllled by the very machine that created them, used up then tossed away like last year’s model of scented sanitary napkin (now with wings!). Which makes even their deaths feel contrived.

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