Not sure if you heard, but Farrah Fawcett died a few days ago.
I was mildly sad about this. When I say mildly, I mean no disrespect. Of course it’s sad, because she was a human and now she no longer exists. That’s no good. But outside of a few Charlie’s Angels re-runs, I had no real connection. My youth coincided with Michael Jackson songs, not Fawcett TV movies.
That said, here’s what I find interesting about the aftermath of Fawcett’s death at age 62:
A. I’ve now heard at least 10 people say, “It’s so sad that Farrah Fawcett died on the same day as Michael Jackson, so she didn’t get her due.” I strongly disagree. Had Michael Jackson not died on the same day, Fawcett would have been a B17 obit and water cooler conversation for, oh, four seconds. That’s not to say Fawcett wasn’t good people. It’s to say not too many people really cared about her career. Now, however, because of Jackson’s death, everyone is talking about Fawcett and her slight. It’s given her death life.
B. The “It’s so sad that Farrah Fawcett died on the same day as Michael Jackson, so she didn’t get her due.” strikes me as especially stupid because, when you’re dead, your ability to read a newspaper or watch, oh, Entertainment Tonight is severely impaired. So while I understand the humanistic need to give life to everything, Farrah Fawcett is—sadly and tragically—dead. Her place in the media is, to her, insignificant.
C. That’s about it. But, I must say, I really love obituaries. I’m in no rush to have one, but I find them fascinating and historical and impressively unbiased. Today the New York Times ran a lengthy piece analyzing Michael Jackson’s dancing abilities. And while it didn’t exactly lavish praise on the so-called King of Pop, it held my attention.
