Like Farrah Fawcett's death the same day of Michael Jackson's, Teddy Kennedy's death today has eclipsed that of Dominick Dunne's.
Dunne was my journalistic idol.
My journalism professors pointed to him as an example of a near-perfect feature writer, and once I became a professional journalist I continued to read his work for inspiration.
His coverage of both of O.J. Simpson's trials set the bar astronomically high for anyone covering courtroom drama. His semi-fictional book about the Simpson matter, called, "Another City Not My Own," was the kind of book one starts, then has to call in sick and cancel all social appointments until it was finished.
Dunne may have been a stiff, rather patrician old Yankee, but he had a wicked sense of humor and a delight in telling and hearing stories about famous people.
I always dreamed of one day meeting him and becoming his confidante and best friend.
There's a well known game where we are asked which six people, living or dead, we'd want at a dinner party. Dunne always made my list.
Journalism has lost a major talent today, and I've lost my idol.
