Elizabeth: Farrah vs. Michael

Boy, Farrah sure had her thunder stolen yesterday! Brian Williams even said that Farrah was the lead story on ‘NBC News’ until Mr. Jackson’s demise was reported—that they would get to her story a “little later.” I mean, which death is more dramatic, more newsworthy? The long, drawn out struggle of a beautiful woman battling cancer who finally, sadly succombs or the amazingly sudden expiration of a pop icon? (Personally, I’d rather drop quick like lightning than suffer the agony of poor Farrah, but I digress.)

I have to admit that I was truly saddened by Farrah Fawcett’s passing yesterday. I didn’t really know that much about her—I never watched Charlie’s Angels, and I did not have “that poster” on my bedroom wall, but I felt like I had a highly personal glimpse into her life when I watched her documentary, “Farrah’s Story.”

I can hear it now: “you actually watched that thing?” Well, I did because my next door neighbor, Larry, is battling liver cancer much the same as Farrah’s. Larry is a big ol’ bear of a man (or was, I should say) and I wanted to learn more about what he is experiencing—to have some questions answered that I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking, but am curious to know. He is 56 years old and has maybe six more months to live. I felt better after watching that documentary; I felt like he had a fighting chance to make it a little longer. I learned a lot about the disease, and I like being informed. (But, I digress again!)

The passing of Michael Jackson is tragic—he is gone way before his time, as well. He was a legend. As much as it changed through the years, probably one of the most recognized faces in the world. I could never figure him out, though. I would like to believe that he was simply a “troubled soul,” a child trapped in a man’s body, but I’m just not sure. What always horrified me was the possibility that he had used his unfathomable fame and fortune to take advantage of young boys (and their families, for that matter.) The first instinct, I think, is to give the guy the benefit of the doubt—that all that fame had made him a target. Plausible, to be sure, until that boy took the witness stand; until that day he dangled his infant over a balcony. The story started to fall apart for me then. In his passing, though, we shall celebrate his victories, his musical genius and remember the strange behavior, but leave it on the back burner where it probably belongs.

No one can argue that popular culture lost two icons yesterday and one earlier in the week in Ed McMahon. They say these things come in threes, so maybe we will have a reprieve on the sadness for a bit; at least we can hope.