Yesterday the world lost Farrah Fawcett. Sadly, her death was eclipsed by the passing of Michael Jackson just hours after. Countless Michael Jackson hits play on radio stations, television networks run Michael Jackson footage intermingled with interviews from friends and colleagues, and today news crews hover like vultures outside a coroner's office in California waiting for the first morsel they can get on the cause of Michael's death.
Like so many others, I grew up a fan of Michael Jackson. Michael pictures adorned my bedroom walls. I devoured Michael articles in Tiger Beat magazine. I even sported my own navy blue velvet cap, because I thought it resembled a cap Michael wore. I desperately wanted to look like his sister LaToya, and unsuccessfully attempted to style my own curly locks to look like LaToya's. As I reflect on the passing of a pop icon I grew up listening to, watching, even fantasizing about, I cannot help but think of other famous people whose larger than life lives have ended in tragedy. Why is it these rare and gifted people who possess an undeniable magnetism seem to be denied the opportunity to grow old gracefully and pass peacefully? I think of Marylin Monroe, Elvis Presley, and even Anna Nicole Smith. Now it's Michael's turn to have every sordid detail (fact or fiction) of his life as front page news for days to come.
Fame seems to exact a tall price from uniquely magnetic supertars. I wonder is a shortened life span part of their genetic makeup, or is it the burden of fame that causes their larger than life energy to crash and burn too quickly?
One thing is for sure, it's impossible to forget a life that burns so brightly - even after that light has fades to black. Memories - that warm afterglow - remain.
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