I was at work yesterday when the news came through. ”No way,” was my first reaction, refusing to believe that it was possible, assuming it was nothing more than another ridiculous tale from the ever-churning rumor mill.
But it was true: Michael Jackson, at only 50 years old, was dead. The self-proclaimed King of Pop was gone, and I was in utter disbelief and shock.
To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why that was my gut reaction, and why part of me still can’t wrap my mind around this sad notion. I’ve never been a huge MJ fan, although I can easily sing along with every No. 1 hit he attained. And despite my brief attempts at the moonwalk in my youth, I have no memories hinged to the star. Yet something inside kept me glued to my television last night, rapidly flipping between CNN, MSNBC and MTV as this story unfolded. I simply could not walk away from the remote, nervous I’d miss something important or interesting. And it was on my couch that I fell asleep, MJ news still streaming from the set when I finally woke up around 4 a.m.
June 25 became a day when history happened. You hear people today talk about the day Elvis Presley died, or John Lennon, or Jim Morrison, or Kurt Cobain. Our parents or grandparents mention these musical figures and how the news of their deaths affected fans around the world. And as conflicting reports came in from CNN versus the Los Angeles Times yesterday, I was watching the same kind of moment in history; the day a bright star in the sky finally burned out.
Naturally it was sad when Ed McMahon passed away earlier this week, and Farrah Fawcett took her last breath yesterday morning. But – as horrible as this may sound – their deaths weren’t surprising. As an older man with a variety of health issues, McMahon’s death was sad, of course, but nothing shock-worthy. And articles were written nearly daily about Fawcett’s consistently declining health as she battled anal cancer for the last three years. For many, Fawcett’s death was merely a question of “when.”
But Jackson … very few individuals can truly say they saw this coming. Like the others, there were noted health concerns, and maybe a few mental health inquiries as well. But he was 50 years old and slated to embark upon a 50-concert tour in London within the next month – a tour that was said to mark yet another comeback for the star whose peak likely came in 1980s. I can’t imagine anyone seriously believed with more than a grain of salt that his death would be imminent.
So when it unexpectedly occurred, it was nothing short of a monumental moment in history. This phenomenal pop star, the man who paved the way for so many others, was dead and my eyes were transfixed to this news. Maybe it was the journalist in me, or maybe the girl who, one day, would like to tell her kids where she was when MJ died, but I couldn’t pull myself away and I’m glad I didn’t.
Listening to what this man meant to so many, ranging from the everyday person on the street to some of today’s best performers in the entertainment industry, clearly Michael Jackson touched their lives in some way. And to hear that, to see the musical legacy he will leave behind, was quite significant.
Yeah, sure, he also unfortunately departs this world as “Wacko Jacko,” a man who was accused of child molestation, who had a pet chimpanzee, who dangled his child over a balcony ledge, and whose appearance was regularly tabloid fodder. However, his talents could never be denied and his popularity still remained strong despite the crazy tales coming out of Neverland Ranch and beyond. And though some may want to focus on his weaknesses, the iconic symbol MJ has become will never tarnish for the majority of fans mourning his death today.
As corny as it is to say, Michael Jackson was more than a man – he transcended to both myth and legend. He may be gone, but his reputation – both the good and the bad – will live on, and I can nearly guarantee his death with hold the same semblance as that of Elvis. People will talk of this moment, of this single fatality, for years and decades to come, and I can say, with detail, where I was and what I watched unfold. And even though this particular entertainer held little astonishment for me, his death will remain more than historic. It’s pretty damn epic in my lifetime.
Filed under: Adventures in "Motherhood", News Girl, Recommended by yours truly
Her inquisitive self will most definitely be at work with me on Friday.
You read that correctly, and this Friday, June 26, is “Take Your Dog To Work Day.” And if you don’t believe me, you can visit the official site before asking the boss if Fido can accompany you.
I, for one, can guarantee my Sophie girl will be with me at the Tribune office at the work-week’s end, and I hope your puppy can tag along, too. And if you’re curious what the top five pet-friendly employers are, check out this article from Petside.com, which is an awesome Web site filled with tons of helpful information about animals – everything from health and wellness to interesting pet news.
Speaking of pet news, I found quite the gem on Petside as I was perusing the site today: “Indoor Pet Loo: The Litter Box for Dogs.” No joke! Apparently this grass-topped box is “perfect” for the late-worker, the apartment-dweller, the older pet owner or just your average lazy individual, although it got some mixed reviews.
The Pet Loo.
Could it be beneficial? Sure. Sophie sometimes doesn’t hold it long enough for me to get my arse home from work and I’m sadly greeted by a special present as I walk through the door. In times like those, the Pet Loo would be ideal! However, I had cats once and their litter box was not fun, not to mention the fact that this square box (of sorts) costs $200!!!! Last time I checked, grass was free and likely didn’t stink up half the house. So I guess, as with everything, the Pet Loo has its perks and its downfalls.
In other related news, the Associated Press released two articles/polls today about pets, “Americans consider pets family” and “Half of pet owners give pets human names,” both of which I found somewhat duh-worthy and yet interesting. Check them out if you have a chance and are craving a heavy dose of doggy articles today.
I debated whether or not to write this – and I’m still arguing with myself as I type – because delving into my personal life here is typically something I avoid. But the pull is strong, so I’ll write what I can and hope it turns out coherent.
For the last several months, my grandfather (my mother’s father) has been battling prostate cancer. And speaking to him last night, on Father’s Day, as he told me he had only ten days left of radiation, I couldn’t help but think of a million amazing memories with him that have made this process hard on me despite the tough exterior I reveal.
…Damn it. I’m crying already.
From going to chip-and-putt to the days he’d pick my brother and I up at daycare, promptly at 5:30 p.m. The vanilla milkshake he always ordered when we’d eat at Burger King. The morning breakfasts we’d occasionally share before I went to school. The way he likes his coffee – no cream, two teaspoons of sugar. The crazy songs on the juke box that he’d sing, including “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini,” and how he’d call my grandmother from work and leave her messages of “their” song: “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”
This is the man who first introduced me to computers and taught me how to properly type. The man who comprises every ounce of Italian blood I possess. The man who lightheartedly claims his favorite color is “sky blue pink,” who makes the BEST breakfast-for-dinner meals, and who jokingly says:
Grandpa: My best friend is Sobby Beymour.
Me: You mean Bobby Seymour?
Grandpa: That’s what I said: Sobby Beymour.
Although I’ve had considerably less time with my grandfather than my mother and grandmother, the two people I talk to most frequently about his cancer, it pains me to know that he’s waging this war daily. But because of the relationships they both have with him, I try to be the hard-shelled girl who listens and says, “he’s going to be okay” and “he’ll get through this,” instead of adding my worries to the mix. After all, prostate cancer has such a high cure rate that it’s difficult not to look at this optimistically, even if that confidence sometimes falters.
It wasn’t an irregular conversation with my grandfather last night, nor was it terribly long. But in the brief minutes of our phone call, it was just me and him. I wasn’t really calling for my grandmother and saying “hey” to my grandpa as I waited for her to come to the phone. I wanted to speak to him, to wish him the best this Father’s Day, and to selfishly hear him say he was feeling okay, even if I knew he’d be lying to me. And at the end of that phone call, I told him I loved him, and he said it back. For many, that’s normal, but growing up, “I love you, too” was not something my grandfather would utter often. I’d always say those three words first, and he’d reply with, “Me too,” to which I’d remark, “I know you love yourself grandpa, but ‘do you love me’ is the question.” He’d just laugh it off and say some form of “yes,” but each time he replies with “I love you, too,” it’s nothing short of amazing.
Crap. More tears. No wonder this is taking four hours to write.
He’s a short full-blooded Italian man with some spunk, I’d say, and it saddens me to see my jovial grandfather so downtrodden as a result of this cancer. The man who would play golf three times each week, or more, and play around on his computer for hours now remains exhausted and miserable. My grandmother tells me he’s constantly depressed, wanting to throw in the towel and accept death as his fate. That breaks my heart, yet I keep those thoughts bottled in, refusing to believe this 74 year old man will ever leave this earth, let alone in the near future. After all, since the day I was born, he’s been the most consistent father figure in my life. How could he not be there one day?
And now I can’t stop crying… Writing this at work was really stupid.
When my mom told me the news – as I sat in the drive thru of Taco Bell – my immediate reaction was “should I come home?” She told me not to, and somewhere in my mind I knew that wouldn’t do much good regardless. But at times like these, the 500 miles seems like a trillion. Being so far away and unable to help him get through this, I’m left with few options in showing him my care, concern and fervent hopes for the absolute best outcome. The devices I’m left with, cards and phone calls, likely do little, but hopefully it’s enough for him to realize that his battle never leaves my mind and I’m sending him lots of love and prayers – yep, prayers – every day.
As these last two weeks of radiation wind down, my entire family will probably remain on edge, crossing our fingers that the cancer has been eradicated. Until then, I’m going to do my best to be the rock they – especially and primarily my grandmother – need right now, the one who refuses to believe any options other than remission are possible. I’m not fooling myself, I know what could happen. But I also know the odds, and with them in his favor, I’ll be the cheerleader, I’ll be the optimist, I’ll be the believer.
… Truth be told, I’m just not ready to stop hearing my grandpa say “I love you, too.” I waited my entire childhood for those four syllables, and I’m not ready in the least bit to never hear them again.
I absolutely loved, and appreciated, the feedback I received from those of you with more photography experience last time I posted a “Foto Friday,” so I’m going to attempt to make this a regular gig. Thus, a second installment today.
Except for the last photo in this bunch – which was apparently my moment of narcissism – these are some pictures of my pup, Sophie, whose shenanigans are nothing new to this blog. However, she behaved amazingly well when I shot these pics.
I will note that I snapped these the same day as the previously posted pictures – June 5, “How about a ‘Foto Friday’?” – so I haven’t yet put anyone’s advice to the test. But I certainly plan to before the next batch of photos rolls out. Let me know what you think and please offer any constructive criticism you can. Thanks!
P.S. I know, I know, I should use Flickr, but … I don’t want to. Sorry!
Until just a few weeks ago, Sophie *hated* this chair. Now, it's her favorite spot.
She kept trying to take a nap, but then her mean Mommy would wake her up to snap another photo.
It looks as though she's daydreaming. I love it.
Starting to doze...
Doesn't this look very relaxing?
Took a quick picture of myself as I laid on the floor. That's where I was as I tried snapping the shots of my Sophie girl.
Filed under: Argh, Getting my RANT on, How rude, I clearly have nothing better to say, What were they thinking?
Woman 1: “Ohhhh! It looks like there was a celebration here.”
Woman 2: “Yes, there was. It’s my birthday tomorrow.”
Woman 1: “Congratulations. My birthday is next month.”
Ignoring the fact that someone forewent* the traditional “Happy Birthday” for congrats – which really seems to be a polite way of saying, “Yay, you haven’t died yet!” – why exactly do people feel the need to tell complete strangers about their birthdays?
This conversation happened between a lady who just came into the office (Woman 1) and our lifestyles editor (Woman 2) only moments ago, and I found it strangely bothersome. Woman 1, who we’ll never see again, ensured that our entire news department knew about her July birthday. Does she expect a cake? Why else would she have found it necessary to share this information? Couldn’t a simple “Happy Birthday” – or in this case, “Congratulations” – suffice?
I wonder if we’re all guilty of this – unknowingly divulging senseless, meaningless tidbits with others throughout the day. Is it something subconscious? Or a simple gut reaction, like saying “nothing” after someone asks “what’s up”? Are we internally programmed to make everything about us?
Whatever the answer may be, isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume anyone other than ourselves and maybe our parents care about the day we were born? Sure, I’m all about celebrating July as “the month-long celebration of Mindy’s birth” – so Woman 1 better back the eff** off, and you better mark July 15 on your calendar - but there has to be a line somewhere, right?
I guess I’m just babbling on about this because I found Woman 1’s response a little selfish when, clearly, we Tribuners spent this afternoon honoring one of our own. There was zero need for her to gear the conversation her direction by mentioning her birthday. I mean, come on lady, we all have birthdays. Why must we know when yours is?
* Did you know that “foregoed” is not a word? It’s actually “forewent.” You truly learn something new every day!
** Just wasn’t feeling the actual word today. Ha.
