They say these things happen in threes, but with the death of TV pitchman Billy Mays today, it's been a really bad week to be a celebrity.
First, Ed McMahon died. My one solitary Ed McMahon memory revolves around finding out that he was a Boardwalk salesman of knives and various and sundry items. I found this out at a very early age, and each year when we went to Atlantic City for our summer vacation, I was mesmerized by the pitchmen hawking Ginzu knives, etc., etc., ad infinitum, in storefronts on the Boardwalk. "Is that Ed McMahon?" I'd ask my mom, and when they told me no, it wasn't Ed McMahon, I'd ask if they thought he worked there. I soon figured out that that was previous job Ed had, not something he moonlighted in during the summers. I think his Tonight Show gig, even in the 60s, paid better than selling knives on the Atlantic City Boardwalk.
Farrah Fawcett wasn't exactly a poster girl to me. Although I admired the hair, the teeth, and a couple of other prominently-featured body parts on that iconic poster, I always thought Farrah was a bit dumb for leaving Charlie's Angels after only one season, kind of like McLean Stevenson. As an actress, she had really nice hair, even though she proved herself later on. But then there were those times she was such a trainwreck on talk shows, like Letterman. Her death is sad (all these are), but not unexpected. If you read the tabloids or watch the TV entertainment "news" shows, she's been dying since 2006.
But of course, Farrah's death on Thursday was overshadowed by the passing of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. I am of course tempted to invoke the old show biz joke: "good career move," but even I can't deny how incredibly talented Jackson was. But when you sit and watch the metamorphosis of strangeness his life became, seeing how his appearance changed so drastically over the years--and couple that with the child molestation allegations--it's hard to like the guy. Still I find myself humming Jackson songs all weekend long, probably because they're in the air (somebody in a car keeps driving around the Gaslamp playing "Billie Jean"). And some of them that pop into my head, well...I'm surprised I even know them. They are, at the very least, catchy tunes. The Jackson circus is far from over, though. There's people crawling out of the woodwork to get a piece of all this media attention (the family friend who histrionically went on and on on the CBS Evening News about Jackson's drug usage and how he warned the family that this was going to happen springs immediately to mind; the Rev. Al Sharpton is a close second). The Michael Jackson saga is far from over.
And then finally today there's the death of Billy Mays, a man who I owe my thanks for my entire exercise regimen. That regimen consists entirely of me lunging for the remote every time Billy starts to shout on a commercial, and let's face it, that's what Billy did. HE SHOUTED! ALL THE TIME! I can only imagine the strife and turmoil at TV stations and cable networks all over the country today as people scrambled to remove his commercials from rotation. They say Billy might have died from the rough landing of a US Airways jet last night, when a tire blew out upon touch-down, and something hit him on the head. He was only 50. Somehow I think his tombstone will be embellished in very large letters with exclamation points. And isn't that how it should be?
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