Media overload

When I heard about the death of Whitney Houston last week, I was shocked.  Now I'm bored.  The funeral, the search for medical records, her money, Bobby Brown and their daughter--seriously, who cares anymore? 
Judging by the turnout at her funeral, I would guess--a lot of people.
When we heard about the violence in Beit Shemesh, Builder and I were shocked.  Now, Builder doesn't want to hear about it anymore.   However, I do. 
And this is what I realize.  For Whitney Houston fans, her death meant something.  It meant the end of a pop star and legend.  It meant a favorite musician would no longer perform, no longer release new songs, no longer win a Grammy.  It affected their lives.  Since I really hadn't followed Whitney Houston's career, I didn't really care about the details.  Similarly, the violence in Beit Shemesh is something I want to think about because it affects me.  A lot of gender discrimination that originated in Israel has crossed the ocean and come to Brooklyn.  How much longer before I have to duck a zealot's rocks?  Before they get in my face and call me a slut?  How much longer can I walk the streets in Brooklyn before every payot-sporting male declares war on me because of the way I dress?  But, because Builder doesn't have to worry about gender segregation, or a dress code that grows more restrictive by the hour, it doesn't affect him.  And so he's tired of it.  But I can't ever be.