The Jackson death overshadowed all the others. Cable networks joined in a macabre competition to see who could come up with the juiciest, most scandalous tidbits about the entertainer's life and - more important to them - death. It was as repulsive as it was predictable.
And while I can understand why the Gloved One's death resembled a solar eclipse sucking the light out of the sky, it bothered me that this one passing would cast the others into such a deep shadow.
CLEARLY, Papa and Homer were local celebrities and their deaths, while heart-wrenching, had limited significance beyond the Delaware Valley. And even though anyone who ever received a Publishers Clearinghouse circular in the mail was saddened to learn of McMahon's death, the effect was regret, not shock.
The death that didn't get enough attention, that should have been noted by more than a few anemic articles and a marathon of old "Charlie's Angels" episodes was Fawcett's. Sure, we were treated to remembrances from ex-Angels Kate Jackson, Jaclyn Smith and Cheryl Ladd. We saw that poster flashed across the TV screen a few times, had a chance to view that sad documentary of her final days, hear the critics talk about her "brave" career choices.
But it felt to me, and to others I've talked to, as if the real significance of the woman was lost in the Jackson whirlwind. And that's a terrible shame because, even though she was as much a product of the tinsel factory as Jackson, she had a humanity that, for all of his genius and epochal accomplishment, he didn't.
