A lot of journos (including columnist Emanuel Levy) have written pieces about the just-passed 50th anniversary of James Dean’s death, which happened around sundown on 9.30.55. But how many have driven up to the actual collision spot in Cholame, California, and…you know, gotten out of the car and stood there and closed their eyes and smelled the air and let the lingering vibe of that tragedy (and believe me, you can still feel it) sink in? I’m just asking.