My son Jake reminded me that Billy Mays could sell you putty to fix a leaky faucet even if you didn't have a leaky faucet. That's how good this guy was. He could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. To me, with that unbelievably full and robust beard he looked a bit like Brutus from the old Popeye cartoons. He'd sell you a set of vice grips at 2am that you know you wouldn't use, but because of his fiercely manic delivery and sincere belief in the products he hawked, you were compelled to buy one (and get one free) and you better do it fast too or else they might sell out. It's one reason why I stopped watching TV in the middle of the night. Too much stuff.
And Farrah.
Farrah, Farrah, Farrah.
I was a teenager when "The Poster" was unveiled to the world and yes folks - of course I had one tacked to my wall. I want another one. She was beyond hot back in the day.
Alas, aside from her playing Jill Munroe on Charlie's Angels for one stinkin' year, and a few made-for-tv movies that no one watched, I really can't think of anything she did artistically or otherwise for, oh, the past 33 years. But Farrah didn't need to do anything. She was Farrah. We all loved Farrah. Part of my boyhood died last week.
Lastly, I think we were all shocked to learn that The King of Pop died. Michael Jackson was the Elvis of my generation. Amazing talent, a recluse, and larger than life.
I was in the airport when the news broke that MJ had suffered a heart attack and in humankind's attempt to get the scoop, the internet nearly crashed. That's big. I landed in Salt Lake and caught the news that he did in fact pass away.
The next day, I'm watching TV and Jesse Jackson has marched into this circus rhyming all his words together like he does (how does he do that?). And why does Jesse always show up whenever a black person or black family is in the media crosshairs? This begs the question: Do all black people know each other?
The MJ my generation knew was long gone by the time my sons were born. MJ was his best with Off the Wall and Thriller. He got strange post-Thriller when he began hanging out with midgets, monkeys, little kids, and wearing marching band or military uniforms....with a glove on one hand. His once magnificent afro became all jeri-curled and stringy while sticking to his face. Later on came the operating room face masks. Then all the weird cosmetic surgeries that became a staple of the late night humor mill and presto, he'd become Wacko Jacko.
Here's where the comparison with Elvis ends. Even though Elvis was always drunk, bloated and full of pills for the last 10 years of his life, he never carved up his face or was accused of questionable behavior. Raucous and hedonistic behavior? Yes, of course. He WAS Elvis. He died trying to live the dream all gassed up and rarin' to go. Mike? Not so much. He went out with a wimper. Baby needed more pills.
Didn't anyone in his family notice how odd he had become? Didn't anyone have the guts to tell him what how stupid his nose looked? And having kids spend the night at his house? The bad hair? The baby voice?
So a little bit of our collective history left their earthly bounds last week. Fame, fortune or notoriety - Tomorrow is promised to no one.
Sort of makes me want to live a little better each day. To remember to love those around me alittle more. To perhaps not worry so much about the little stuff - or even the big stuff.
Oh yeah, and laugh.
A lot.
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