It’s been a strange week. On Tuesday, Ed McMahon died. A few days later, Farrah Fawcett, Sky Saxon, and Michael Jackson died. And then this morning, we found out that Billy Mays died.
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- Ed McMahon
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- Farrah Fawcett
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- Michael Jackson
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- Sky Saxon
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- Billy Mays
It’s always so peculiar when celebrities die. It’s not like we knew them, but in a way, we did. Actually, I met Sky Saxon a few times. He was a sweet, crazy, old, man. At least, that’s what I gathered from our brief interactions during the period I was dating the bass player of his reformed band. Poor Sky. He didn’t look particularly healthy when I met him. He was old and the 60′s had taken their toll. I suppose it was only a matter of time.
Whether they were sick for a while or we never saw it coming, it’s still intriguing to think of how they changed the world, how they made their mark, and how they will remain in collective memories for a long while to come. Some more than others.
I’m not a huge celebrity fanatic. I have my favorites, but even then, I’m hardly obsessive. When each of the aforementioned celebrities died, my initial reaction was, “Oh, that’s sad“. It’s not that my day to day life was impacted very much. Aside from being inundated with news reports and retrospectives, life goes on very much the same way it did when they were alive. Naturally, with this particular group of celebrities (Michael Jackson aside), it’s not as though they created anything on the scale of say, Gene Roddenberry, Rod Serling, or William Shakespeare. Ed McMahon seemed like a nice guy, Farrah was a decent actress and a famous poster, Billy Mays annoyed us into buying products that didn’t always work, and Sky Saxon helped change music in the 60′s but managed a level of obscurity that only die hard music fans could appreciate.
The natural exception is Michael Jackson. I read a nice TIME Magazine article that talked about the sad aspects of Michael’s life and discussed his particular classification of abnormality; one that we hope is never duplicated. While my standard response of “Oh, that’s sad” is handed almost unenthusiastically to the other dead celebs this week, I do in fact feel bad for Michael. I feel bad for anyone who is that lost, that sick, and that tragic.
Like a lot of people, as a child, I was a huge fan. I grew up listening to his music and continue to love many of his songs; specifically his album “Off the Wall”. I remember the photo my sister and I tore out of Bop Magazine and pasted to the wall of our shared room. I used to look at it and think how adorable he was. And yes, like most 8 year olds at the time, I had a huge crush on him. When Thriller came out, I thought it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. It helped fuel a life long love for zombies, cheesy horror movies, and above all: Vincent Price. I guess I have Michael to thank for all that. Or perhaps (more appropriately) John Landis. Thriller also made me want to see American Werewolf in London and the rest is history.
I don’t really know the point I’m trying to make. I guess all I can really say is that Michael’s death has stirred feelings of conflict. I’m sure a lot of people feel the same way. I loved him, but I also thought he was severely deranged.
This morning, during a Twitter conversation, my soon-to-be cousin-in-law, a writer for TIME Magazine (London Bureau Chief), recently interviewed Quincy Jones where he said “the idea of a well-adjusted artiste is oxymoronic”. I replied, “Which supports my theory that great artists are never sane. Of course, this means I’ll never be great. LOL.” My soon-to-be cousin-in-law went on to say that “I don’t agree with Quincy. The trope about great artists being mad gives a lot of mediocre talents the excuse to behave badly”.
I think in some cases, insanity leads to great things; take Edgar Allan Poe or Pablo Picasso. Then again, I suppose it depends on your perspective. If you don’t think Poe or Picasso were great, than insanity is a bad thing. My soon-to-be cousin-in-law is right, it does give mediocre talent an excuse to behave badly; take Britney Spears.
What this means is that there really is no recipe for greatness. The idea that you either have it or you don’t remains ever true. I surmise that fame is really about luck – either self made or fated by the stars. Who knows. It seems that fame takes it’s toll and perhaps, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Even for someone like Michael Jackson who will be remembered among the ranks of Elvis or The Beatles…I have to ask, was it worth it? On the one hand, he had a pretty great life. Never feel bad for a man who owns a theme park in their backyard (even if he did have to sell it to settle debts). Michael’s life was riddled with pain and emotional torment, but I reckon he did it to himself; which is just sad.
So long all you crazy fucks. Rest well.
