It’s amazing how shocked and saddened you can be when somebody you don’t actually know and have never met dies. I was really bummed when Jerry Garcia died back in 1995 (a lot of that was probably due to the fact that he died shortly before the first anniversary of my dad’s death). And the news yesterday bummed me out quite a bit, too. No, not Slim Whitman (no offense to Slim but he was 90 and I was more surprised to hear that he was still alive than to hear that he’d died), of course, but James Gandolfini (by far the best thing to ever come out of Rutgers).

A lot of that is due to the face that he’s about my age (about 10 months younger, in fact), and I don’t like to hear about people my age dropping dead of a heart attack (especially since I am currently in pretty crappy shape, and a guy I work with who’s five years younger than I am just had a heart attack – though fortunately not a fatal one – a week or so ago).

Of course, it’s also because I felt like I knew Tony Soprano. I mean, Tony was my age, listened to the same music I listen to, and, other than being a homicidal sociopath, seemed like a guy you wouldn’t mind hanging out at Satriale’s (or the VIP room at Bada Bing) with (assuming you didn’t owe him any money or have anything that he wanted).

Tony was, in some respects, your typical beleaguered husband, father, brother, and son (oh, that mother of his – talk about a sociopath), trying to deal with a snotty kid and a demanding wife (though not demanding enough to keep him from having a goomar or two). He was kind of the Dagwood of “waste management.” Right up until he brutally beat somebody to death.

I think that’s what made the character so powerful. He was a guy you couldn’t help but like and even root for – and then out of nowhere this monster would be unleashed. That’s what made it so shocking.

So, anyhow, RIP James Gandolfini. I hope you’re feeding the ducks up in heaven.