Everybody Dog Poo

I've only recently learnt that the line I chose to title this post is in fact, "everybody dog food", but I don't know if I believe it.

Today was very much a nothing day for me. Aside from watching the Tour, I wasted my day reading various stories sourced from Google News about situations surrounding the death of one of my heroes (yeah, I am a fan - it's just that I never brought him up on here prior to his death and have really wanted to steer clear of the bandwagon effect), Michael Jackson, as well as the even more bizarre shooting of former NFL star, Steve McNair. Is that weird or WHAT?

In the gym yesterday morning, the instructor of the spin class I was attending played Michael's "They Don't Really Care About Us" - a dance routine that Nicola and I perfected on the fields at Fairfield Intermediate School when we were aged eleven. "Is anyone else really upset that he died?" she asked. Um, duh. While I've seen some outrageous comments on Twitter, mostly that refer to those awful allegations of child molestation, I'm pretty sure the world in general is fairly upset about the fact. Actually, yesterday I heard a funny comment from a friend, that she has "a right" to be upset about his death on account of the fact that she owned Michael Jackson Number Ones prior to last Friday (it was Friday morning New Zealand time when TMZ announced to the world that he'd passed away). A right? Okay, then.

I am, and have been since the age of about seven (the first time I recall knowing of his existence), disgusted by this man's treatment by the media. Oddly, it's never put me off yearning to be a superstar just like him - which we all know won't happen anyway, due to my lack of any musical talent past being able to play Hungarian Dance No. 5 in F Major on violin and piano - but it feels like my entire life, all I've ever been told about him are bad things. Since his childhood, people constantly took advantage of his uncommon talent and even less common kind-natured personality. Is it really any wonder that he expired as one of the world's most isolated men? If I couldn't leave my house (or friend's palace in Bahrain) without every scrap of my existence being raped beyond reason, from what I wore, to what I did on my outings, how I dressed my children or otherwise chose to raise them, I have a feeling that I too would become something of a societal anomaly. Perhaps without the prescription drugs, but who I am to say? No-one else on the planet had the life that this man led, so NO-ONE is in any sort of position to judge him.

When I first spoke of Farrah Fawcett's death (past the teary conversation I had with my mum immediately after learning of it) - via Facebook, a friend of mine wrote "oh well, at least she is at peace now." and - due to the uncanny timing of her passing in relation to Michael's demise - she almost is. Her death hasn't become the media circus that his has, although I was disgusted to see paparazzi stifling Ryan O'Neal's first departure from the hospital in which she died
"Ryan, Ryan! How's Farrah?!"
Good god, people, get some dignity!
For some reason, I thought Michael's passing would allow him some sort of abate from the harsh criticism that became part of his everyday life (admittedly less so in recent months, on account of his aforementioned reclusive behaviour). Not so.

Don't you guys remember that great song he sang? "Leave Me Alone"?

For his sake, do it.