Lots of people died this week, as they do every week. But this week, the deaths were especially significant to a lot of people, occurring as they did to people fighting for their freedom, and to people an inordinate number of us are familiar with at some level.
For the Iranians, I cheer and hope and pray. I’ve never met a Persian (which they always style themselves as here in the US) who wasn’t good-looking, good-natured and quick-witted. You wonder how their country could get so far gone.
Then there was a little buzz because Ed McMahon died. I was always surprised he didn’t die before Johnny Carson. He always seemed so much older to me. I loved him as the sidekick icon but always thought the Publishers Clearing House thing was sleazy. I hope he didn’t suffer much.
Then there was Farrah. I never had the poster, never would’ve had a pinup in my bedroom. (Even now, my breasts posts here are way gaucher than I’d ever be in real life.) But my proud and enormous mind was definitely mesmerized by “Charlie’s Angels”. I thought Jaclyn Smith was the prettiest at first (and a few years later, Kate Jackson), but Farrah had the smile–and I’ve always been a sucker for a big smile.
I saw the mediocre Sunburn (with Charles Grodin) and Saturn 3 (with Kirk Douglas), and then I didn’t see her much any more. I lostr track roundabout the time of The Burning Bed–which I think pioneered the modern tradition of sex symbols frumping it up to be taken seriously as actresses–a role that she earned praised for but which didn’t seem to lead to anything else.
Then it all seemed to be about the dysfunctional private life. Not a lot to smile about there.
Shortly thereafter, of course, Michael Jackson caused entire TV schedules to be upended with his heart attack. My dad said back around ‘83, when he hit it mega-big, that he thought Jackson would be dead by 40. Only off by a decade, there, pop.
I never bought an album and had completely lost track of Jackson by the time of Thriller. (Too busy playing my own music, I guess.) Catchy stuff, for sure, but not my kind of stuff. Not exactly the Paul Simon level of poetry or the Randy Newman level of irony or the John Lennon level of imagery. But the kids seemed to like it and you could dance to it….
Then Bad seemed to be the begining of the end. (I guess, again, not following closely.) Then all the child molestation accusations.
I make no claims to knowing the truth about that; it’s very easy for me to imagine that he was both remarkably inappropriate and yet not sexual. Find someone without an ulterior motive, you know?
Lastly there was Jeff Goldblum, who didn’t die but instead had the honor of being the fake death on the day when Farrah and Michael died. (Have you ever noticed that? Celebrity deaths are often followed by a fake celebrity death. I thought that immediately when I heard the rumor.)
Weird as it might sound, I’d probably take his death the hardest. I’ve always felt a kind of kinship with Goldblum whether he was turning into a fly, running away from dinosaurs or chasing lectroids across the eighth dimension.
So, glad you’re still with us Jeff. I’m afraid Walter is probably next in the queue.