When I was a child, I remember the hubbub over Demi Moore’s pregnancy photo splashed across newsstands. Here was one of the most famous people in the world, daring to be pregnant and on the cover of Vanity Fair. The only thought in my head despite the controversy was, “One day I’m going to party with her kids.” Just 20 years later, I do just that, often seeing Rumer Willis at my nightlife haunts, and that makes me feel … old.
Now I pray that I’ll have something better to do come 2018 when I get an invite for a club night hosted by Suri Cruise and Lourdes Leon and DJ’d by Maddox Pitt Jolie. Violet Affleck will be giggling in the corner, canoodling with Bronx Wentz and Kingston Rossdale.
The deaths of Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Ed MacMahon and to a lesser degree Billy Mays have brought up a discussion about celebrity worship. Long thought to be a trend that preys on the weak and uninspired — the topic has reached a fever pitch in the last week alone.
A report circulating the internet by HealthDay reporter Margaret Farley Steele claims it’s the “dwindling influence of religion [that] adds to a sense of yearning in people, making the stars’ exploits and eccentricities, their loves and losses, more than a form of entertainment.”
I’ve cried several times over the death of Michael Jackson. Like many mourners out there, I grew up listening to his music and obsessed over his fate through court visits and album releases. I always held out hope that he’d persevere. What’s strange about that? We’ve never met.
I saw him in concert once in 1984 at Dodger Stadium. Coming home with my program and T-shirts, I never thought that he’d disappear as magically as he came into my frame of reference. I correlate my memories and match them to his career milestones: Bad was released the year we moved to the countryside, Dangerous came out during my freshman year, the second time he was acquitted — I was at my grandfather’s bedside and it was our last laugh before he passed away.
In my opinion, these deaths scratch the surface most Gen Y’ers didn’t think they’d have to deal with so soon: aging.
You’re no longer a baby, teenager or young adult. That’s right, if you are 29 to 40 years of age, you are questioning your own mortality for possibly the first time in your life. It’s bigger than celebrity worship — you remember when Farrah was married to The Fall Guy, when Ed MacMahon hosted blooper reel shows with Dick Clark or you can count how many times in one day you watched “Thriller” on MTV … you even remember back when MTV showed music videos!
We are in collective grieving mode — not because of the deaths of people who no doubt touched our lives though the majority of us had never had contact with them — it’s just, coupled with the faltering economy, the threat of nuclear war, and conflict overseas, this is all a bit too much. We are also grieving over the loss of childhood and the sweet memories of yesteryear. Now those memories belong to the generation behind us. Soon they will mourn the death of a celebrity that means so very much to them, and we can only hold out hope that it is not Spencer Pratt or Heidi Montag.
As children, we fantasized about being like the stars we are losing, having the hair, moves, money and opportunities they had! Because their deaths weren’t quiet and dainty, we are smacked in the face with reality, that celebs no matter the money or the access are indeed just like us.
If you are mourning the loss and reconsidering your celebrity worship, check out this link on overcoming your obsession. If you are simply coming to grips with growing up, check out this in-depth report, “Becoming Adult: Meanings and Markers for Young Americans.”
Either way, if June has taught us nothing — it will go down in history as the month that changed the face of how we perceive “celebrity.”