The news of Michael Jackson’s death is, predictably, obliterating everything is in its path. The Iranian revolution? Over. Mark Sanford? Gone as fast as it came. But Farrah? C’mon. She at least deserved her own day, right?
Celebrities aren’t like you and me, both in life and in death. The death of a celebrity is occasion for the mother of all curtain calls for his/her life and career, and the worst that can happen from their point of view is to be upstaged in death. Those close to Farrah Fawcett would probably never admit it in public, but they have to feel cheated that Farrah’s death is now forever a postscript to Jacko’s.
The most bizarre occurrence of this phenomenon took place when two of the world’s great writers — fantasy novelist and Christian theologian C.S. Lewis and ‘Brave New World’ author Aldous Huxley — died on the same day. It’s not that one overshadowed the other. It’s that that particularly day was Nov. 22, 1963, the day John F. Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas.
Farrah will get her due, you say? Everything about her will pushed to second lead now. She’s the second story on the front pages, on the Web sites. She’ll be an afterthought in the TV specials. Pity.
The really strange thing is how Michael Jackson himself might be overshadowed by the frenzy of the newly Twitter-ized news world. Rumors are still flying about other celebs having died, creating a dizzying what’s-next roundabout of shaky news.
I’m going to have a drink for Farrah. Jacko can wait until tomorrow.