Ed, Farrah, Michael, Billy
The past week has been a sad one, procrastinators. On June 23, Ed McMahon died at age 86 of various health problems related to his age. On June 25, Farrah Fawcett succumbed to her three year battle with cancer at age 62. Just hours later, pop icon and worldwide cultural phenomenon Michael Jackson was rushed to UCLA Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead of cardiac arrest at the age of 50. On June 28, television pitchman Billy Mays was found dead in his home with no apparent cause of death. He, too, was just 50 years old.
He was probably the greatest sidekick of all time.
This string of tragic headlines really has me thinking. Each of the four celebrities who went on to reap his or her reward this week affected my life in one way or another. The one I remember being aware of first is Ed McMahon. When I was a little boy, my mom loved to watch The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I remember the rare occasions, usually during summer vacation, when Mom would allow me to sit beside her and watch the show. I always loved to listen to Ed McMahon laugh at Johnny’s jokes. He had the kind of laugh that spread to other people. My mother would sit and chuckle softly, trying not to wake my dad or younger brothers, while Johnny and Ed bantered back and forth. Being allowed to sit up and watch The Tonight Show with my mom was one of the first “big kid” privileges I ever earned. It was Mom’s silent acknowledgment that I was growing up. When Johnny Carson died a few years back, I felt a small part of this childhood memory slip away. Now that Ed McMahon is gone, as well, another small piece of my life has transitioned from dynamic reality to a crystallized memory.
Although the height of her popularity was a little before my time, I know that Farrah Fawcett was the sex symbol for guys my age and just a little older. Starting with her portrayal of Jill Munroe on Charlie’s Angels in 1976, Fawcett’s smile, and her hairstyle, became a mainstay of American pop culture. From television, she graduated to starring in feature films, most memorably1984′s The Burning Bed.
This 1976 photo is the world's best-selling pin-up.
This is where my memory of her begins. I can’t recall if it was in public school or CCD (that’s Bible study for kids, in the Catholic church), but I know that I watched The Burning Bed in a classroom somewhere as an example of the horrors of domestic abuse. I must say that it has stuck with me. I remember the lights coming on in the classroom after the credits rolled and all the students sitting dumbstruck. Many things go into the formation of an adult, and my father was certainly the most important influence on the way I undersand the way men should treat women. The Burning Bed is probably next on the list. The horror and sympathy I felt while watching Farrah Fawcett struggle against her abusive husband made a lasting impression on me. I’m sure that watching the movie at a young age added to the effect, but that’s how formative experiences happen. You just have to be in the right place at the right time.
If Farrah Fawcett was a little before my time, Michael Jackson was my time. Every kid I knew had a copy of Thriller. The lucky ones had it on newfangled cassette tapes. We listened to it on our boomboxes, cruised to it at the roller rink (although I never could skate), swam to it in backyard pools, and danced to it in the middle-school gym. In fact, to this day, I can’t help dancing to pretty much any track from Thriller when it plays at wedding receptions. We didn’t have MTV at my house, but when Michael made appearances on network TV, I remember being absolutely fascinated at his unmistakable style of dancing. When I
Michael Jackson, as my generation remembers him best.
heard that he had died, I watched some live performances on YouTube out of a sense of nostalgia. It turns out that I’m still mystified at the way Jacko could dance. My body just can’t do that. In the years after his musical superstardom, I watched with the rest of the world as Michael Jackson faced one struggle after another. Financial missteps, public relations nightmares, criminal accusations, ill-advised surgeries, and tabloid headlines plagued him for years. Over the course of just a few years, he fell from the top of the world to the depths of public disdain. No other single person has served as more of an example to teach me never to take anything for granted. Anyone can fall from grace at any time.
Just when it seemed that the odd phenomenon of celebrities passing away in threes had been fulfilled, the pattern was broken by the death of Billy Mays, who most people know simply as “The Oxy-Clean Guy” or “The Guy Who Shouts About The Products He Sells.” Although he may not have been as major a contributor to American popular culture as Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, or Michael Jackson, he was no less recognizable, and he probably got considerably more face time on television than any of the other three, in the past few years. If Ed McMahon serves as a memory of my young life, and Farrah Fawcett is tied to one of the formative experiences that helped define the way I view male/female relationships, and Michael
That's the smile of a very determined fellow.
Jackson was not only the soundtrack of my childhood but also a case-in-point lesson about appreciating the good things in my life, what possible difference could a guy like Billy Mays make? After all, I never bought Oxy-Clean, Mighty Putty, or the Quick-Chop. Simply put, he was a model of determination. The products he sold to midday television viewers weren’t especially useful. Nor were they especially life-changing. Billy Mays knew his job, though, and he dedicated serious energy to completing it. Never for a moment did a person viewing one of his infomercials doubt that he believed 100% in the stuff he was hawking. Granted, he got paid to look that way on television, but who among us couldn’t use a little more firm determination in our lives and wholehearted belief in our work?
A good friend of mine, while discussing this week’s string of celebrity deaths, said that the only thing she takes away from them is the reminder that she’s getting older. I think there’s a little more to it than that. As each of these people fades from a living person in my world to a memory of a person past, I’m reminded that everyone–everyone–has something to teach me. Whether they’re teaching us about ourselves, giving us examples of who we should be (or not be), or simply modeling an admirable trait, celebrities are really just regular people put on display. They work like we do. They get ill and grow old like we do. They rise to great heights like we do, and they fall to terrible depths like we do. They’re more than just faces on the television. They’re lives lived publically so that we can watch their experiences and learn from them. I hope that I, and you, my fellow procrastinators, learned a thing or two from Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and Billy Mays. May they all rest peacefully.
