Photo: Jared Polin
The last two childhood icons who died in close proximity to each other were Johnny Cash and John Ritter, nearly 6 years past (yes, it really has been that long since the Man in Black went to meet his beloved wife and his beloved maker–assuming one believes in romantic metaphysics, to say nothing of an afterlife period).
(Photo by Frederick M. Brown/Getty Images)
At the forefront of Fawcett’s artistic legacy (so much more than two-dimensional ubiquity and so-called ‘jiggle TV’) is The Burning Bed, the acclaimed 1984 TV movie starring Fawcett (and directed by Robert Greenwald, now of Brave New Films) that, as Hil rightly notes, “had an enormous effect of bringing the discussion of domestic violence into the mainstream.” Fawcett’s last days were spent living with cancer in a manner that was dignified and quietly understated, even if there were some who violated her privacy with requisite post-Gawker Stalker voyeurism. It is a testament to her character that Fawcett had more than enough strength left to defiantly reject (and, later, reappropriate on her own terms) the public’s asserted right to claim collective ownership of her life (and death), regardless of ‘celebrity’ status.
As for Jackson, he spent the past two decades as the punchline to an overutilized joke that really, really isn’t at all funny (and will likely spend the next few days as posthumous fodder for gossip-mongers using his still-warm body as fertilizer to sprout page views and newsstand sales). So I hope you will all excuse me if I instead choose to look back at Michael Jackson as he was before the tabloids claimed him as their patron saint, before the ugly truth eventually became stranger than even the most gonzo fiction.
Because if you’re my age and this:
doesn’t make you remember what it felt like to wear one glove to school for the first time; to lobby your parents in vocal futility for one of those red leather jackets that were just so fucking cool; to keep trying to perfect the Moonwalk in the vain hope of one day nailing it the way MJ did at Motown 25, well, you fall into that all-too-overpopulated category of hollow fucks with no goddamn soul worth saving.
And if this:
doesn’t make you get the fuck up right now and shake your ass, you’d better check your fucking pulse.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that not only am I aware of the series premiere of the new 90210 tonight, but I’m planning on having a little viewing party. I’m sure the new version won’t come close to the original series (For one thing, the bodies have become more streamlined and unattainable. FlowTV has a pretty good article about the shrinking bodies of the new cast, the increased sexualization, and the new emphasis on designer labels here), but I feel compelled to give it a chance anyway. I was a big fan of the first few seasons of the original.
Take a trip down Memory Lane with me!
I know that we use media to anaesthetize our selves from the daily strain of this mortal coil however, a release should not be achieved by watching or listening to someone else be degraded. The media is not the benign lifeless force that we construct it to be. It helps to frame morals, and is a reflection of our social discourse. When we sit there blindly consuming these images without giving pause to understand that some of these images are a reflection of the ugliest parts of humanity, indeed we are embracing the darkness. There are just some things that will never be funny. When we sit there and laugh at things like rape, domestic violence, or the sexual objectification of women we are colluding with patriarchy in our own marginalization. This has real world effects because it normalizes this behaviour therefore reducing the possibility that such crimes will be taken seriously. Just because it is not happening to you does not give you the right to assert privilege, and demean the life experiences of others.
– Renee, Feminists Have No Sense Of Humour