When I heard Farrah Fawcett died yesterday, I was saddened even though it was not unexpected. I remember seeing Farrah in this great old sci-fi flick, "Logan's Run," and immediately being taken with her, and then of course she took over everyone's imagination as Jill in "Charlie's Angels." Teenage boys' bedrooms - and not a few teenage girls - were not official without her famous racy-for-the-time poster. She always reminded me of girls I went to school with, grew up with, worked with, hung out with - pretty, funny, down-to-earth and fun to be with. Over time she completely surprised me by morphing into one of our finest serious actresses, blowing my mind particularly with her scorching performances in the grueling "Extremities" and "The Burning Bed." It became evident that beneath the sunny ultrablonde prototype was a woman with issues, insights and a lot to say. At times over the years her acting career was overshadowed by her eccentricities and personal difficulties, but her pure talent was never diminished. It was undeniable. When I heard she had passed on, I thought, ahhh, I hope now she is at peace.
Then I learned Michael Jackson had died. At 50. So young. I was at work when I learned and we all were shaking our heads and speechless. I was a little bit in shock, a little bit incredulous. As the day moved on, the memories came flooding in. The Jackson 5 on tv, Michael a ball of fire with a prodigious vocal talent. The way that group ruled radio for a time. The time when I was off work for three months with hepatitis and went into San Francisco and found his early solo LP, "Forever Michael" in a record store on Polk Street for 99 cents, brought it home and fell in love with the songs and his transitioning voice. I learned that album by heart and, years before I had even a glimmer that I would be singing and composing myself, I would stand up in the living room of the cottage I rented in Daly City and perform the entire record to entertain myself.
Then there was the time I was on the first post-trick date with Bob, who later became my partner for a couple of years, and we went to a disco below North Beach in the City frequented by bisexuals, open-minded young straights and gays, and heard and danced to "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" for the first time. That electric percussion avalanche that opened up that record snared me immediately, and his work with Quincy Jones ("Off the Wall," "Thriller") captured my imagination as well.
Yesterday was a sad day, and it got sadder as the day got longer. There had been great things happening earlier in the day that had me happy and smiling, but by the time I got off work, I had been on the verge of tears several times, feeling the loss. I watched the news when I arrived home and saw that hundreds of people had converged on the Embarcadero in SF and had a spontaneous dance party with Michael's music. It was still going on when the 11 PM news aired. I wished I hadn't been at work. I felt connected to those folks.
This morning I woke up and I could feel the tears close to the surface again. As I jogged around Lake Merritt, they came up a couple of times and I let them. Fuck it. There's nothing wrong with feeling grief, even for people I don't know personally, especially true icons like Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. In their own unique ways, both artists informed, inspired and shaped my dreams, and I'm grateful for them. I hope they're at peace after all their trials. Their legacy will live on, and I can tap into their spirits through their art whenever I choose to, or, like today, when I walk past an open door, and "Thriller" is washing out into the street.
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