R.I.P.

First there was Ed McMahon. Second banana to Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show, Ed introduced Johnny, played the straight man, laughed at the punch lines, and moved down the couch when it was time.

Would "Here's Johhhhneee!" as uttered by Jack Nicholson been as scary if we hadn't heard it first from the completely non-threatening Ed?

Then there was Farah Fawcett. Unfortunately, the last performance I saw of hers was a roast of William Shatner. She looked drugged or drunk, her slip strap falling down her shoulder. She was incoherent and didn't seem sure why she was there. Frankly, I wasn't sure, either.

Sis#2 had the feathered Farah 'do in junior high. I was impressed by Farah's athletic ability: she did her own skateboarding stunts, back in the day when skateboards were little more than a board on wheels. They were also much smaller than today's high-tech version.

Farah was upstaged by Michael Jackson. The summer I turned 19, I was a counselor at Girl Scout camp and pictures of The Jackson 5 and The Osmond Brothers were lovingly plastered on tree trunks in the units of the 'tween girls. Arguments about the relative musical merits and "dreaminess" of each group, and specifically between Michael and Donny, were frequent and often heated. As the adult, I was called on to arbitrate.

My answer: I preferred Simon & Garfunkel.

Who? That usually was enough to stop any further arguments.

And now Billy Mays. Who would have thought a TV pitchman would have become a celebrity, including his own show? His death seems the oddest, most arbitrary of all. He seemed so ordinary. Wife, family, just making a living pitching products. No drama. No outrageous behavior.

Death comes for us all.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen