The outpouring of remembrance for Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett

is understandably, huge. I cannot come into close proximity to a television without seeing or hearing about them.

But this is understandable. These icons from the Seventies and Eighties represent what is best about this world: the manifestation and celebration of art and beauty, beyond what we had realized up to the point we came to know them.

Still, I am missing my mom the most today, who represents truth, love, and persistence to me--all of which are even better than the best the world has to offer.

UPDATE: Here is James Lileks, saying similar things in his erudite voice as compared to my kindergarten scribbling:

Then came the scandal years - the lawsuits, the hideous surgeries. It was almost like watching the Joker carve up his face in the mirror, without the Joker’s delight in his own depravity. He thought he was sculpting something supremely beautiful, but to the outsider who watched his face change as the stories of his personal life came out, it was like watching Dorian Grey walk around holding the picture from the attic before him, convinced it was lovely.

... it’s no shame to have your best work behind you. It’s a pity to die young. It’s a testament to the work you did to be mourned by millions.

I'm telling myself that my SAT math score was probably higher than James'. Sniff.

UPDATE: And then I stumbled across this:

[Ayn] Rand, perhaps better than anyone else, helped Fawcett understand her place in American culture.