Further proof of how out of step I am with mass culture is my reaction, or lack thereof, to the death of Robin Williams.

Like most, I was surprised to learn of his death, a bit more surprised to learn it was a suicide and not at all surprised that our commercial media seized on it for one of their periodic paroxysms of national eulogizing. Television news being equal parts celebrity marketing and reporting, (OK … 70/30 marketing), couldn’t find enough time to milk the tragedy of the “untimely death” of “a comic genius”. Hyperbole being an essence of marketing, Williams was suddenly and fully elevated into the pantheon of American culture.

I recognize that it is August and there isn’t a lot going on, if what you care about most is pop culture. And I have no animus toward Williams. He was one of thousands of actors crowding the media landscape, and at times (much) funnier than most. But I can’t escape the feeling that these exaltations are primarily a function of a media culture with an over-weighted investment in pop celebritydom and in playing minister to parish in times of common bereavement, especially as they control the magnitude of the mourning.

I only met Williams once, and he did induce a level of hysteria.

It was one of those movie press junkets. A hotel room in San Francisco where he was dutifully hyping his latest film, “Good Morning, Vietnam”. Every writer has a technique for these stagey encounters. Mine was often to begin with something completely unrelated to the obvious/pack line of questioning.

(I once asked William Shatner how he could spend an entire weekend in a hotel, 82 separate interviews at that moment, answering the same question … “How do you explain the enduring popularity of ‘Star Trek’.” His answer? “Drugs. LOTS of drugs.”)

That morning the whack job Governor of Arizona, a right-wing, arguably racist ex-car dealer by the name of Ev Meacham was making news again. The guy was an easy punch line, and assuming Williams followed such stuff I tapped the headline on the morning paper and said something to the effect, “Can you believe this shit?”

That was the last thing I said for 20 minutes. Williams launched into a completely spontaneous monologue, full of sleazy car dealer political pitches, racist rednecks, dessicated cowboy barroom bluster and … something about a coke-snorting pope.

I was in tears. It was (very) funny. But it was also … overwhelming. The compulsion factor was close to frightening. Clearly, he could not stop himself. I remember thinking, “This guy is going to collapse.”

I have a tape of this … somewhere.

Amid all the eulogizing has been talk of the pain underlying every gifted comic. Its a cliche. But there’s something to it. I felt it later in Williams’ career with his series of indigestible, maudlin film characters, chosen I kept thinking, to apply a balm to some wound he felt maybe worse than the audience. Likewise, there has been valuable conversation these past few days about the country’s appalling depression-driven suicide rate. 108 a day, if I heard right. More, if you can believe it, than we gun down exercising our precious Second Amendment rights.

Williams was a unique talent. Who could argue with that? In most ways he seemed a decent, if compulsive, human being. He brought far more to the pop scene than the latest hillbilly reality star du jour, or any preening Kardashian wannabe. More too than a sizable chunk of elected officials, many of whom in this Tea Party age are in it for the same personal aggrandizement as cheap celebrities and are shamelessly marketing themselves to much the same audience in much the same way.

So Williams will be missed. RIP, dude.

I just can’t get passed the feeling that these monumental outpourings are more about the marketing strategies of the media machinery than the “beloved geniuses” they proclaim to mourn.

But that’s just me.