Do not weep for Ebert

I refuse to join those in the media who seem to be eulogizing Roger Ebert. The reason is simple: He is not dead.

He proved that today on "The Oprah Winfrey Show," testing the new digital incarnation of his voice and giving his predictions for what he correctly called a very predictable Oscar telecast. While cancer has claimed his jaw and his abilities to eat and speak, it hasn't claimed his smile, or that bright gleam in his eye -- one we've rarely seen after Gene Siskel's death.

What I couldn't believe was that Winfrey treated this man -- this friend -- who is very much alive like a dying, demented charity case. I had to turn away from the TV this morning, not because Ebert is hard to look at (he really isn't) but because I couldn't bear to watch Winfrey dote over him like a sick puppy, or tell her audience in her trademark, sing-song delivery that he's "CANCER-FREEEEEEEEEE!"

Ebert's recent spate of visibility was spawned by this incredible profile in Esquire, that rare magazine article that has become essential reading in the digital age. And it is essential -- an unflinching portrait of a man who is much, much more than the fat guy with the thumb. The newfound attention has naturally put the focus on his disabilities, but Ebert himself has never used them to gain our pity, nor has he used them as a crutch. He is clearly happy with his life.

But the attention has also spawned a number of remembrances that genuinely sound like eulogies. Will Leitch -- whose Deadspin.com now, under A.J. Daulerio's watch, resembles the cesspool Buzz Bissinger always said it was -- wrote such a piece this week. It's beautifully written, yes, but canonizes a man who is still very much alive, and very vital to American journalism, such as it is.

I love Roger Ebert, and I have my own Roger Ebert stories. But his story is not finished. He's still writing it, every day. I suggest you keep reading it. It won't disappoint.