All of Hollywood stopped dead in its tracks yesterday because two of its own did exactly the same thing. And the resulting feeding frenzy was indeed Hollywood at its very best and worst.
The news yesterday morning about Farrah Fawcett was not unexpected. When we saw her several weeks ago in that documentary film on NBC, you could tell it wasn't going to be long. The condo she lived in is very near my home and I'd think of her each time I drove by. I also was astounded that the ever present papparazzi were not camped out in front. Finally, she was being left alone.
But Farrah passes on yesterday morning and the tributes start pouring in. God
asks Charlie for an angel. Yada yada. So, I sit at work and think that this will be the major news of my evening of TV viewing.
Little did we all know.
And now I think of Farrah Fawcett looking down at all this and saying, "Fuck me. I'm wiped off the front page in just four hours."
The Michael Jackson news buzzed around our office so quickly it was as if he was in an open limousine going past the Texas School Book Depository. And the rumors were fast and furious. Cardiac arrest. Coma. He's seen shopping for a new mattress at Sit N'Sleep. Who knew what the heck was going on? TMZ reports he is dead and I wonder when they became journalists, since all they usually do is sit on a curb and wait for Lindsay Lohan's next fender bender.
But, ultimately and sadly, we learn that the king of pop is truly dead and now Farrah is standing alongside him at the pearly gates and she is pissed. And there probably hasn't been such a blatant case of mortal one-up-manship since Groucho croaked three days after Elvis Presley.
The LA radio dial immediately goes into "Thriller" mode and we learn about the mass hysteria at UCLA Hospital as well as at the mansion in Bel Air. An even more horrific thought came to me.
How the hell do I drive home? You see, the UCLA route is my usual path. But, when I want to duck freeway traffic, I go by way of Beverly Glen, which just happens to be right near the house of death. Meanwhile, one of my routes also goes past Farrah's condo and I'm hoping there already isn't a dumpster outside as Ryan goes through her things. What to do, what to do?
I ended up driving a route that took me about five miles out of my way. But it allowed me to think about these two legends, one that signified the 70s and one that dominated the 80s. A musical superstar whose record albums could be found in my collection, although I was always more partial to the Jackson Five, relics of my Black-infused Mount Vernon, New York youth. And, yes, I do confess to trying Wella Balsam shampoo at least once.
The music on the radio was vintage Michael. And I thought about the guy. A true talent who was a complete Amtrak collision in all other aspects of his life. One woman interviewed on the radio was shocked by his death at the early age of 50. Frankly, I'm surprised he got that far. After all, he was legendary for mainlining painkillers (I am betting this will be the final verdict of the autopsy---Judy Garland all the way).
Meanwhile, Michael was psychotic. Anorexic with a body shape that looked like a stick figure in one of those Tim Burton stop action movies. Swallowed daily by the entourage from Hell, who took the last drop of normalcy from his life so that they could make their monthly lease payments on a Porsche. Dangling babies out windows and marrying women he had no interest in. He buys the bones of the Elephant Man and I wonder how I can compete souvenir-wise with a Casey Blake bobblehead.
I remember that Michael once hung with Tatum O'Neal and she is now Thursday's big winner in Six Degrees of Lethal Separation. The guy who was a revered idol for the entire Black population, yet he strove desperately to be White. Meanwhile, who knows what kind of Clorox made his skin look like he was Casper the Friendly Ghost. I recall the day his nose fell off and I wonder how I would have survived that nasal injustice. Add to that the infatuation with small boys and llamas and monkeys and Elizabeth Taylor.
A shocking death at the age of 50? I would have picked 42 in the office pool.
But, still the music through the radio speakers wiped all that out. I was a fan. And always will be. Another radio host tells me that Michael had a musical style that you could not put in a box. I can't resist the silent joke. Now you can, I chuckled to myself.
In the distance, I see helicopters hovering over West LA and realize that this has been a devastating loss for many people. The tradition here is for fans to bring flowers to the dead celebrity's star on Hollywood Boulevard. Except, in their haste, grief, and latent stupidity, most place bouquets on the star of the other Michael Jackson, the local radio talk host who has been in this market for years. But, I guess it didn't make a difference. Not for them. It was their way of connecting to Michael Jackson, any Michael Jackson.
And I'm sure there were flowers adorning the star of Farrah Fawcett who had her own goofiness in life but certainly saved her best and most courageous performance for the third act of life.
In show business, the adage is that stars leave this world in threes and, this week, we got them in short order. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. I think this has the makings of a great Carnac joke. But, I still have not been able to make the gag work.
With Michael now locked in sudden death with Elvis, I understand that his memory and image will linger for years just like the king of rock and roll who went buns up in 1977. And how long will it be until, as is the case with Elvis, there will be Michael Jackson sightings.
"Gee, I swear I saw him working at a 76 gas station on the way to Vegas."
"He's manning the drive-up window at Arby's."
"He's not dead. Diana Ross is hiding him in her basement."
This will all happen. But, in the meanwhile, he long ride home had made me think. In thirty minutes, I had made an amazing journey. From sardonic to squishy.
Maybe we never can say goodbye.
Dinner last night: Risotto with chicken and mushrooms.
The news yesterday morning about Farrah Fawcett was not unexpected. When we saw her several weeks ago in that documentary film on NBC, you could tell it wasn't going to be long. The condo she lived in is very near my home and I'd think of her each time I drove by. I also was astounded that the ever present papparazzi were not camped out in front. Finally, she was being left alone.
But Farrah passes on yesterday morning and the tributes start pouring in. God
asks Charlie for an angel. Yada yada. So, I sit at work and think that this will be the major news of my evening of TV viewing.Little did we all know.
And now I think of Farrah Fawcett looking down at all this and saying, "Fuck me. I'm wiped off the front page in just four hours."
The Michael Jackson news buzzed around our office so quickly it was as if he was in an open limousine going past the Texas School Book Depository. And the rumors were fast and furious. Cardiac arrest. Coma. He's seen shopping for a new mattress at Sit N'Sleep. Who knew what the heck was going on? TMZ reports he is dead and I wonder when they became journalists, since all they usually do is sit on a curb and wait for Lindsay Lohan's next fender bender.
But, ultimately and sadly, we learn that the king of pop is truly dead and now Farrah is standing alongside him at the pearly gates and she is pissed. And there probably hasn't been such a blatant case of mortal one-up-manship since Groucho croaked three days after Elvis Presley.
The LA radio dial immediately goes into "Thriller" mode and we learn about the mass hysteria at UCLA Hospital as well as at the mansion in Bel Air. An even more horrific thought came to me.
How the hell do I drive home? You see, the UCLA route is my usual path. But, when I want to duck freeway traffic, I go by way of Beverly Glen, which just happens to be right near the house of death. Meanwhile, one of my routes also goes past Farrah's condo and I'm hoping there already isn't a dumpster outside as Ryan goes through her things. What to do, what to do?
I ended up driving a route that took me about five miles out of my way. But it allowed me to think about these two legends, one that signified the 70s and one that dominated the 80s. A musical superstar whose record albums could be found in my collection, although I was always more partial to the Jackson Five, relics of my Black-infused Mount Vernon, New York youth. And, yes, I do confess to trying Wella Balsam shampoo at least once.
The music on the radio was vintage Michael. And I thought about the guy. A true talent who was a complete Amtrak collision in all other aspects of his life. One woman interviewed on the radio was shocked by his death at the early age of 50. Frankly, I'm surprised he got that far. After all, he was legendary for mainlining painkillers (I am betting this will be the final verdict of the autopsy---Judy Garland all the way).
Meanwhile, Michael was psychotic. Anorexic with a body shape that looked like a stick figure in one of those Tim Burton stop action movies. Swallowed daily by the entourage from Hell, who took the last drop of normalcy from his life so that they could make their monthly lease payments on a Porsche. Dangling babies out windows and marrying women he had no interest in. He buys the bones of the Elephant Man and I wonder how I can compete souvenir-wise with a Casey Blake bobblehead.
I remember that Michael once hung with Tatum O'Neal and she is now Thursday's big winner in Six Degrees of Lethal Separation. The guy who was a revered idol for the entire Black population, yet he strove desperately to be White. Meanwhile, who knows what kind of Clorox made his skin look like he was Casper the Friendly Ghost. I recall the day his nose fell off and I wonder how I would have survived that nasal injustice. Add to that the infatuation with small boys and llamas and monkeys and Elizabeth Taylor.
A shocking death at the age of 50? I would have picked 42 in the office pool.
But, still the music through the radio speakers wiped all that out. I was a fan. And always will be. Another radio host tells me that Michael had a musical style that you could not put in a box. I can't resist the silent joke. Now you can, I chuckled to myself.
In the distance, I see helicopters hovering over West LA and realize that this has been a devastating loss for many people. The tradition here is for fans to bring flowers to the dead celebrity's star on Hollywood Boulevard. Except, in their haste, grief, and latent stupidity, most place bouquets on the star of the other Michael Jackson, the local radio talk host who has been in this market for years. But, I guess it didn't make a difference. Not for them. It was their way of connecting to Michael Jackson, any Michael Jackson.
And I'm sure there were flowers adorning the star of Farrah Fawcett who had her own goofiness in life but certainly saved her best and most courageous performance for the third act of life.
In show business, the adage is that stars leave this world in threes and, this week, we got them in short order. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. I think this has the makings of a great Carnac joke. But, I still have not been able to make the gag work.
With Michael now locked in sudden death with Elvis, I understand that his memory and image will linger for years just like the king of rock and roll who went buns up in 1977. And how long will it be until, as is the case with Elvis, there will be Michael Jackson sightings.
"Gee, I swear I saw him working at a 76 gas station on the way to Vegas."
"He's manning the drive-up window at Arby's."
"He's not dead. Diana Ross is hiding him in her basement."
This will all happen. But, in the meanwhile, he long ride home had made me think. In thirty minutes, I had made an amazing journey. From sardonic to squishy.
Maybe we never can say goodbye.
Dinner last night: Risotto with chicken and mushrooms.
1 comment:
The only photo of Jackson worth posting.
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