Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson passed away today, and with them went another little bit of my youth.
Farrah’s passing was expected. We all watched her fight against cancer, and her work at educating the public about colorectal cancer and its prevention, and we are still hugely saddened at the inevitable outcome. Even more so for the many of us whose family and friends have also faced and beaten, or not beaten, cancer. And at age 62, she was far too young to have to leave this world.
We knew her first from “that” poster. Not too many guys around my age didn’t have that poster back then. I was totally blown away by something from an interview in Time magazine with poster photographer Bruce McBroom. He said “Farrah didn’t like the way she looked in a bikini.” Wow. Farrah. Slender, athletic, beautiful, and *she* didn’t like how she looked in a bikini? Wow.
Michael’s passing was a complete and total shock. He was my age. My. Age. We listened to the Jackson 5 all through elementary and junior high school. Tiger Beat and 15 gave him equal heartthrob billing with Donny Osmond. I still love listening to the old stuff (“I’ll Be There” is my favorite, in case anyone was wondering).
The image of who he grew up to be is just so at odds with the image I prefer to keep in my memory: the young man fronting the Jackson 5, with a natural look and not who and what he surgically morphed into later. Michael Jackson was an extremely talented, but troubled and fragile individual who left this world far too soon.
(NaBloPoMo | June ’09: 25 of 30 | 75% Challenge: 152 of 274)