His final act:
“How do you feel, Michael?”
“Bad! I’m bad!”
Unfortunately, the emergency vehicle was fresh out of Babb-o Sanitized Prepubescent Boy Topical Application Pads, and the pop star perished en route to the hospital.
It is said — stupidly — that tragedies come in threes. Like tennis balls, stooges, and adulterous 2012 Republican presidential candidates, I guess. So this week, Hollywood (CA) bid farewell to the triumvirate of Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and now Michael Jackson. Of course, it’s only Friday.
In my own limited experience, Ed McMahon was just some aging, overgrown stooge in a rumpled suit whose job consisted of flashing his dentures during Johnny Carson’s excellent commentaries. Evidently he did it well, or perhaps I miss the point. When it comes to teevee, I usually do. In fact, it’s not clear to me that teevee HAS a point.
Farrah Fawcett, in her heyday, caused me to whimper and melt, then reach for my crotch. In this I was no different than most males of the era, who drooled lustfully in her direction, whether she appeared to them on small screen, poster, or magazine cover. It was all in her hair, eyes, and toothy smile: her slim, unexceptional body was there in a back-up role. Not a great pair, but what a great team!
Jack-o, on the other hand, made me ill. Not as much as Prince did (and does), or Madonna used to. I never liked his music, and I never understood his appeal. His personal life was something I tried desperately to avoid hearing about, but that was about as possible as not hearing news about OJ.
Dying as they did in the first week of the summer in the first decade of the Oughts, they’ll be linked for awhile, and then forgotten. In fact, it’s almost the weekend. I vote for accelerating the amnesia. Whose round is it?
PS Selecting the right graphic for this post was pretty easy.