I know … I know—it’s only Facebook, self-indulgent land of HERE ARE MY 15 FAVORITE CDs and HOW MANY FRIENDS CAN I LASSO?
But, really, this whole Michael Jackson thing has gone waaaaay too far. The man died more than two weeks ago. He was a wonderful talent, singularly responsible for—along with The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill—my favorite CD of all-time (Thriller). He could dance, he could sing, he could influence fashion. I’ll even agree that he was the latest Elvis. Not exactly the same, but at least in a similar boat.
But a national holiday? Michael Jackson Day?
In my head, I have a list of Americans who deserve days more than Michael Jackson. Here are five:
Lucille Bliss (the voice of Smurfette).
Miriam Cohen, my neighbor.
Anyone with a last name that rhymes with an embarrassing word and has to suffer with such throughout childhood. (Quick story: My mom’s maiden name is Herz, pronounced Her-tz. When she was a kid, peers would ask, “How’s your cousin Dick?”)
Michael Jackson doesn’t deserve a holiday. He barely deserved his Staples Center memorial service. Well, deserves is the wrong word. I hated that service. Loathed it. Incredibly over the top, and, then, to have his bawling daughter speak … uhg. Represented everything I despise about celebrity and showbiz; the need for everyone to wear their sadness on their sleeves.
Oy.
