First Farrah Fawcett, then Michael Jackson – apparently today was a bad day to be a famous white female. While MJ will get the most attention, of course, it seems to me that Farrah’s fight against cancer makes for a much more compelling story than Michael’s fight to become a species unto himself. I’m sure negotiations are already underway over the rights to turn both stories into TV movies.
No, I’m not what you’d call a fan of his – I’ve been largely indifferent to his music, and found his later behavior (alleged and otherwise) to be creepy and sad at best. Fifty’s not a half bad run, but still, there’s a little pang of sadness for him in my cold, cold godless heathen heart. My condolences go out to his friends and loved ones, and to Farrah’s as well; those are the people who will have a missing place in their lives that will be remembered long after the rest of us have moved on to the next news cycle.
We lost Ed McMahon a few days ago, too, something I wouldn’t have mentioned except that I was reminded today of a story about him:
The navy sent my father to training outside Chicago in the year when the first Superbowl took place. He and a friend went into the city on leave on the night of the game and the first bar they found was a little more upscale than they might otherwise visit, but they settled on it because it had several TVs and wasn’t too crowded, so they could hear and see the game. Ed McMahon walked in just as things got started and sat down right next to them; they ended up watching Superbowl 1 with him, and he bought them drinks and sat and talked to them late into the night.
