Sigh

In the cool light of day (well, it won't be cool here for very long, but . . . ) I'm trying to figure out how the deaths of two people I've never met makes me feel. Farrah Fawcett did have a beautiful smile and seemed to be a zesty sort of lady. Clearly, Ryan O'Neal loved her from his guts. And "The Burning Bed" makes me cry every time. And isn't it awful that after the creepy death watch people have been keeping for months, she's now just fading away under the shadow of MJ?

And now, Michael. Dear Michael. The "tributes" being relentlessly played on television are a sad testimony to the country's relationship to MJ. What occurs to me now is that I didn't know him. And he was weird. My only real relationship to him is his music, in all it's brilliant glory. I remember watching the "Thriller" video at my childhood skating birthday party. It was a mind blowing experience. And my head and hands automatically do the "Thriller" dance as soon as I hear the first note. So, instead of having clueless 20 year olds acknowledge the well-known fact that they all stole from MJ, I'd really rather just hear his music. (My husband asked me not to get second rate statisticians to comment on him if he passes. Ha!) To quote Country Fried Mama, "Spare us the inarticulate commentary and play the man’s videos like you did back in the day." That's all I need.