Till Death Do Us Never Part

The saying goes that “the first condition of immortality is death.” In this era of Pop Culture idolatry, it is not surprising that the featured story of every newscast last week, both local and national, focused on the passing of those who attained varying degrees of demigod status. Each individual occupied their unique niche on the landscape of the American psyche. Of the four, all but one underwent at least one metamorphosis before ending up in a quite different form than the one that captured public attention. For all their noteworthiness, they still wound up the same as the rest of us will one day end up, albeit with much more fanfare.
The lives of Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, and Michael Jackson, have had their lives, and in the case of Farrah Fawcett, their death, played out in glorious technicolor across every form of media. Not a week went by when a picture of any of the three could be seen adorning the covers of gossip magazines located at the supermarket checkout. A headline often accompanied the photo, claiming some cataclysmic event had befallen them. This was done is such a fashion that you would feel guilty without knowing all of the grisly, and occasionally fabricated details, making it a “must read” for those who want to be “in the know.” I didn’t, nor did I care if I wasn’t.
If you didn’t get your fill via the written word, or if you fell into “just barely able to read” category these publications consider their target audience; all major networks, and several cable stations, offer tabloid “entertainment television” programs that air each and every night, chronicling each burp, fart, and bowel movement of your favorite celebrities. What a full life one must lead that in order to complete their tapestry of cultural fulfillment a daily dose of celebrity gossip puts a finishing touch to such a rewarding canvas. And then one of the cultural icons dies…and those, whose lives are so dull, get the opportunity to delve even further via the magic of television. So long have they peered into the fishbowl, they feel connected, though the closest they’d ever been, or got, to having a relationship, was strictly vicarious. Take note all you stalkers.
Billy Mays was different. Billy Mays was a salesman for many years prior to him becoming a TV pitchman, or salesman if you will. Billy Mays didn’t morph into anything; he stayed the same, but with a larger clientele. It’s been speculated that Billy Mays died of a heart attack. As of this writing, that has been neither confirmed nor denied. However, if you ever watched or listened to Billy Mays try to convince you to buy something, a heart attack is a very reasonable assumption. There was no assuming necessary when it came to Farrah Fawcett’s cause of death.
Right from her first diagnosis, revealed in print and on television, cancer killed her. You heard about her courageous and epic struggle against the dreaded “Big C.” A made-for TV movie chronicled the last few weeks of her life until she became too weak, or too withered; where following her battle would border on the macabre.
Over the years we watched Farrah go from eye candy on a sex-ploitation television series, to pin-up queen (I tossed a couple of salads to that poster), to serious actress. We sighed a collective “Awww” when she married Six Million Dollar Man, Lee Majors. Not me, but there were those who, for whatever reason, gave a crap. From the comfort of living rooms across the country, these same camp followers felt sadness when the happy couple stopped being happy. The euphoria returned when Farrah and Ryan O’Neal wed, only to exit again when they too, divorced. But, as so duly reported, their romantic spark was rekindled, her adorning fans rejoiced. And then she had the bad luck to die the same day as Michael Jackson, who would steal every grandiose sympathetic headline.
Nothing hogs the spotlight like sudden early death to spoil someone else’s. I use the word sudden, because if you had been a faithful follower of Michael Jackson, you shouldn’t have been too surprised given his track record. “Unexpected” is not a word I would use in association with the announcement of his death. Plagued by years of prescription drug use, tormented, subjugated, overflowing with idiosyncrasies and insecurities, it’s no wonder he made it this long. Still, the death of Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed “King of Pop,” is cause for all of us to at least say “whoa!”
A newsperson rhetorically asked the general viewership what exactly Jacko’s legacy would be. Would Michael Jackson be noted for the wonderful music he created, the dancer extraordinaire, the amazing showmanship; or would he be noted for his bizarre behavior, his suspected pedophilia, and his truly wacky attempts at altering his physical appearance? I am of the opinion it will closely resemble that of the “King of Rock and Roll.” The eccentric, overweight, drug abusing, womanizer, has left a body of work, and an ever-longing fan base, that has been passed down to the next generation. Children not yet born will know of, and perhaps grow to adore the music of Michael Jackson, much in the same way as current followers of the music of Elvis, and Jim Morrison and the Doors.
Michael Jackson was once the lovable front-kid for the famous singing Jackson Five brothers. He struck out on his own to become the man-child mega-star, who made music videos an art form. His sisters, though talented, owe Michael their careers. Had they been siblings of anyone else, they may have been forever doomed to a life of obscurity. Perhaps they would have been better off. Or do people like that; though they’ll firmly deny it, crave the paparazzi’s attention. A life in the limelight is better than no life at all. I say be careful what you wish for. Even in death, there will be numerous forays into the saga of Michael Jackson. The media will leave no stone unturned. The never-ending coverage will easily surpass that of Anna Nicole Smith. Why couldn’t they have died on the same day? That would have spared us all that Anna Nicole bullshit.
There will be books and movies about Michael Jackson’s life; some authorized, some not. One thing is for sure, like Elvis, Michael Jackson became a parody of himself, and will be immortalized in some films depicting him as such. Personally, I think Elvis, if he were alive, would think the portrayals of the fat, bloated, buffoon, humorous. But, I can’t really picture Michael Jackson ever laughing at what others consider to be his foibles. Too bad, he gave people so much material to work with.
It is only fitting I save for last, the one who died first. Ed McMahon always walked in someone else’s shadow. He will never be known first and foremost, as the host of StarSearch. McMahon only got that gig because he parlayed “Here’s Johnny” into a career. The longtime sidekick on The Tonight Show, became one of the most recognizable faces in America by playing straight man for Johnny Carson. McMahon met with limited success in films, struck gold as the spokesperson for Publishers Clearing House and some fly-by-night life insurance company. All these engagements paid phenomenally well, yet McMahon spent it all. His home was facing foreclosure. How does that happen after thirty years on The Tonight Show followed by umpteen years as host as one of the most successful programs on the new Fox television network? American Idol owes Ed McMahon and StarSearch a debt of gratitude. Ed McMahon died as he lived; in the shadow of others. I wonder if he was jealous, hoping just once to not have to share the spotlight. Once a second banana, always a second banana.
As this is being written, actor Karl (nice nose, not) Malden and former champion boxer and cokehead Alexis Arguello, have died. More fodder for the tabloids and the respective television counterparts. If it’s any consolation for any of these recently deceased is, with the help of the media, they, like those in this piece, will not have to "go gentle into that good night.”