The Anatomy Of Farewell

When Ed McMahon's death was announced yesterday I was sad but not crushed. I wasn't a big Tonight Show fan, though I fully appreciate the genius of both Johnny Carson and McMahon.

Today Farrah Fawcett's death was announced and, despite not having followed her since Charlie's Angels days, I was deeply sad. Especially because she and Ryan O'Neal had announced their plans to remarry but not been able yet to follow through. Ridiculous, huh? Especially coming from a woman who is so conflicted about the relative usefulness of marriage.

Then this evening, by chance, a neighbor told me that Michael Jackson had died. I verified with the internet and thought I should feel more than surprised. He was a much more integral part of my formative years than either McMahon or Fawcett. But I didn't. In a restaurant, waiting in line for the rest room, I saw the television screens filled with mourners outside the hospital, experts being interviewed about his career and music and I felt bad for his family and for his loss but worse for Farrah. She'd been so ill and it was just the culmination of some extremely hard years for her and in a heartbeat even her loss was overshadowed.

On Facebook the chit chat in my age bracket is nearly all of celebrity death. Gar's update was, I thought, the kindest and most satisfying, "g'bye jocko. now you are free." It was Flea, though, who on her blog gave the most fitting tribute of the day. It's short and evocative and to the point and, to my mind, does Farrah the honor she deserves.

Godspeed you unlikely trio, may flights of angels...