Unless one has been sitting under a rock for the past few days, it's plainly obvious that the world has had its fair share of great folks taken away. Ed McMahon, the whimsical sidekick of Johnny Carson. Farah Fawcett, the 70's sex icon. And of course, the king of pop, Michael Jackson. Oomph. Now that a chunk of my childhood has been stripped, you'll have to excuse me.
Jackson's death was the most shocking. I mean, who the hell dies from cardiac arrest at 50? And with all of the issues he'd been facing these last few years, it wouldn't be entirely surprising if there wasn't some self-assist in the whole matter. If there's a matter. Because I have my thoughts. See, Michael Jackson was well known for his exuberant eccentricity. He lived in a theme park with a chimp and Corey Feldman, for fuck's sake. And he was also accused of bribing kids with his vast array of toys and video games and cookies in exchange for touching no-no parts. And he made the Thriller album, which I still cherish. So yes, he's pretty messed up. And all that's without a comment on his ghoulish face.
Anyway, my point is that I think, or would like to think, that Michael staged his death, Andy Kaufman style, to just escape of to some remote tropical island, so he can just live in peace. If that were really true, it would be the dick move of the century, but only Michael could pull that off. He was that crazy. But it probably isn't true, which is a shame. So say what you want about his bizzare behavior, but the guy is gone, and his music remains as a reminder of a great musician. And while I don't believe in conventional heaven, I'd like to think that at the very least that wherever Michael is now, he's black again.
I find Farrah's death tragic in the sense that the cause of her demise sounds so unflattering. Anal cancer. One would think, in our time, that we could come up with a better name for that. I dunno, intestinal cancer? Lower abdominal cancer? Something that wouldn't coax me into chuckling cruelly, anyway. And while she was quite a bit before my time, I can't deny she was pretty hot. She was especially attractive in her later years, which makes this seem even sadder.
So imagine that, less than an hour ago, I found out that my grandma's eldest brother died. But there will be no remorse for this guy, if there is any justice. Cecil Campbell, as I call it, is scum. If I sound like a prick, let me elaborate. Have you ever watched TV and there's a crime story about a child molester that gets sent to the clink for what, five years. And did you ever go, "They need to just kill that bastard." Let me say that the world is now a little bit safer. There's one less of them.
As a kid, I didn't know Cecil well. By that point in time it was pretty much established that he was fucked up. His unusual behavior went back as far as when my grandma was a kid, and children were cautiously warned not to be alone with him, although there was no real reason given. It was just an understanding to stay away from him. I remember going to his and Aunt Jean's house at least once, idly playing with Micro Machines on a space heater for a few hours until it got dark. I was, of course not out of my grandma's sight. Not long after, he went to jail for, well, yes. I don't know the circumstances exactly, but by then it had gone on for too long.
One of the only other memories of Cecil I have is somewhat jarring, if not frightening. I was probably around seven, and one evening my grandma got the occasional prison call from Cecil. Oddly, he asked to talk to me. Keep in mind I hardly knew the man, and had enough wherewithall to know he went to prison for something bad. Even stranger was my grandma obliged him. She called me to the phone, and here I was speaking to a convicted sex offender. At age seven. To be fair (right...), he wasn't lewd or suggestive. He asked short questions - how I was, how the family was, school, pets, so forth. I answered him as I would a good friend, but thought the entire time that this was the most fucked-up shit ever. After all was said, I handed the phone back to grandma and that was that.
My memory's a bit off, but I could argue that this happened more than once. And while nothing about the phone call(s?) was inappropriate in content, I look back now and wonder what the hell went through than man's head while he was talking to me. And honestly, I can't say that this makes me feel like a victim of violation. He did worse to others, making the phone call seem like bullshit on a stick.
The aftermath was that after a five-year stint, Cecil got out and moved next to his sister-in-law, in an old schoolbus he converted into a broke-ass RV. Years later he got too old and got moved into a retirement center. And now he's dead. Good riddance.
I've done some reflection these past few days with all these losses, and I feel apathetic considering the number of people I lost last year that I was close to. Small potatoes. Things go on as usual, and my direct world isn't disrupted. I can only hope that mother nature continues shedding her kindness.
Hey, lighten up! Transformers 2 is at least as good as the first movie! This is, of course, if you like the first one. Otherwise I'm not proud to give you more bad news.
-C.
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