Celebrity Deaths Spark Memories

Friday, July 3, 2009

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Celebrity Deaths Spark Memories

By J’AMY PACHECO

August, 1977. I was fresh out of high school, working my first job, and driving a brand new MG Midget roadster. I pulled into a parking space at work, started to turn off the radio and heard the news: Elvis Presley was dead.

It’s been 32 years, and I still remember sitting in my car, numb with surprise. It wasn’t that I was obsessed with Elvis – I was just stunned that the guy I’d mildly crushed on in “It Happened at the World’s Fair;” the singer whose records had spun on my old suitcase record player, was gone.

I wouldn’t describe myself as star-struck (although I can’t be sure I’m not harboring some latent crush that would cause me to scream like a ‘tween were I to encounter Bobby Sherman somewhere, someday). But there’s something about the loss of a celebrity that almost always leaves me feeling like I’ve lost someone I know.

Farrah Fawcett’s recent death wasn’t unexpected, nor were my feelings of sadness upon learning of her illness. If we girls didn’t want to be Fawcett in the 1970s, we sure wanted to have her glorious hair. My first major haircut was done to match a photo of Fawcett.

When I think of Farrah Fawcett, I remember her returning for an episode of Charlie’s Angels – sitting on a beach, and turning her beautiful face to surprise the other Angels. I recall being amazed later by how good she was acting in the films “Extremities” and “The Burning Bed,” and how creeped out I was by her portrayal of the murderous mother in “Small Sacrifices.” One of my favorite Fawcett roles, however, was the 1995 comedy “Man of the House,” in which she played an artist engaged to Chevy Chase.

“Farrah’s Story,” the film that documented her battle with cancer, was very moving. It saddened me, but left me thinking she just might be tough enough to beat her illness. I was very sorry to learn that I was wrong.

The death of Michael Jackson, on the other hand, shocked me. While I wouldn’t describe myself as a huge fan, I certainly admired his talent and accomplishments.

Somewhere, I still have a Jackson 5 “Maybe Tomorrow” album that I got for my birthday many, many years ago. I vividly remember seeing the music video “Thriller” broadcast on television for the first time, surrounded by a bunch of co-workers who all gathered at the boss’s house for the premiere.

When I think of Michael Jackson, I don’t see the troubled man disfigured by plastic surgery, or dangling his baby outside a hotel window. Instead, I recall the energetic man who wowed audiences with his extraordinary ability to dance. I hear the sweet voice that sang songs like “I’ll Be There,” “Out of My Life,” and “Ben.” I see him as the space-age Caption EO in the 3-D film that used to show at Disneyland.

We were shopping for a television stand at an electronics store when my daughter was introduced to Michael Jackson. The “Thriller” video was being shown, and my daughter and husband abandoned me to sit and watch.

The audio and video versions of “Thriller” are now on her iPod, and she and her friends try valiantly to do the zombie dance moves. My daughter can do a fairly good moonwalk, and is still trying to figure out how Jackson did the move where he appears to tip forward then rise back up – feet flat on the ground the whole time. It’s a pretty spiffy move.

Clearly, Jackson had some problems in his life. I suspect he never had a shot at what most of us would consider a “normal” life. But he impacted millions of people, through his songs, his dancing, and his efforts to “Heal the World.”

My shock at Jackson’s death was twofold – my immediate thoughts were of his children. I can’t imagine anything worse for those three children than to find themselves orphans. It’s tragic.

But I was also stunned because Jackson was just a little bit older than I am. Although I haven’t lived anything like the crazy busy, high-powered life Jackson had, it was still pretty scary to see someone my age taken away so suddenly.

The recent deaths Karl Malden and Ed McMahon were sad as well. But theirs were tempered by the fact that each lived a long, full life, and died elderly.

I’m sorry to have lost both Jackson and Fawcett. I wonder what else they might have accomplished had they been given more time; what other memories they might have left their millions of fans all over the world.

To borrow an idea from the Righteous Brothers: if there’s a Heaven, there’s probably one heck of a good show awaiting the rest of us…