They Drop Like Flies

Attention, all famous people: knock it off with the dying, why don't you?
Last week began with the transition of Ed McMahon. I'd hoped that a special, or even a few more clips of his work with and without Johnny Carson of the "Tonight Show" would have been shown. If thirty years as sidekick doesn't make you an icon, please tell me what does. He was in his eighties and his health had been failing for some time. No real surprise, just a little sadness.
Tuesday, John Callaway, founder and former host of WTTW's "Chicago Tonight" and current host of "Friday Night Show," died suddenly of a heart attack at 72. He had the gift of being confrontive about tough issues without being combative and putting guests at ease to the point where it felt as if they'd invited the viewers to join them for cappuccinos.
We had a break on Wednesday, and the breathing space was good. Thursday? Not so much. First around lunchtime in my area came the news that Farrah Fawcett had quietly slipped off to where she needed to be, seen off by her longtime love Ryan O'Neil and best friend Alanna Stewart. Bittersweet, but expected.
Late that afternoon came the bombshell: Michael Jackson had died, no, he was in a coma, no, oops, he's really dead from an appearant heart attack. The intrigue and updates continue.
Yesterday came word that Billy May, a high octaine spokesperson for Oxi-Clean crossed the void. Now we open this Monday with the news that Las Vegas comic and frequent gameshow guest Fred Travelena has passed on due to cancer.
And, oh yeah, in case you're interested, Bernie Madoff got 150 years for his Ponzi scheme, the government in Iran has offered a partial recount to placte the populace, the US is set to launch a test missle from someplace on the Pacific coast, the US will start standing down in Iraq tomorrow, and I'm going to go plug in a Loreena McKennett CD and make tea before my head explodes

Grateful to be Me

I'd had no intention of watching "Dateline," a news show, this past Friday night. I just couldn't turn away from the shots of a gaunt, pale woman preparing to shave her head. The voiceover explained that she'd been fighting cancer for several years, and this round of chemotherapy had caused her hair to fall out. Determined to stay in control of what she could, she defiantly turned on the clippers and removed the last few locks clinging to her head like cobwebs in a corner.
At first I didn't recognize her, thinking it was just another unfortunate saga of life threatening illness. Then the announcer said her name: Farrah Fawcett. I froze. This is the actress I was so jealous of when I was a pudgy, socially awkward ninth grader with bad skin? At the time, she'd starred in "Charlie's Angels." I had tried really hard to get my nondescript brown hair to look like hers, tried to starve myself down to her size so that I, too, could wear a red bathing suit as she had in the iconic poster. Boys would fight for the privilige of my company, and so on with the fantasies of a fourteen year old.
It took time, but my skin calmed down, my weight stablized at a healthy if non-Hollywood level for myself, and I started getting my hair cut by professionals rather than trying to do it myself in a bathroom mirror with less than optimal scissors. The guys showed up, too, poets and techies rather than the lowest all-too-common denominator that she appealed to.
I don't recall anything that she'd been in after "Charlie's Angels," save a disasterous appearnce on David Letterman, until now. She'd been a fixture in the tabloids, though, and done a video for "Playboy" for her fiftieth birthday.
I sincerely doubt I will do the same when my fifthieth rolls around. But I am pretty confident that I won't be allowing filming of my final days.