Michael Jackson, dead at 50. Of course, the news has taken over the air and cyber waves, pushing aside everything else, even Farrah Fawcett.
I was never a Michael Jackson fan, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. He had talent, yes, and one or two of his tunes were slightly catchy, but by and large I thought the vast majority of his work was garbage, and after Thriller it was all garbage.
So you'll excuse me if I don't jump on the band-hearse of regret. I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, unless they really deserve it, but I can't say I'm the slightest bit moved about Jackson's death. Unfortunate? Maybe. Heartrending? No.
Farrah, on the other hand, I'm a bit brought down about, because like most people my age, I'll always remember Farrah as a red-swimsuited hottie from TV, and not the strung-out ditz she became in recent years. Still, as long as the honesty train is in town, I always thought Jaclyn Smith was the hottest Angel.
I'm not posting links to either of these stories. If you can't find one on your own, I'll doubt you'll ever find your way back here to yell at me for it.
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