America's Loss

Some people consider the residents of the Manor as Luddites despite the fact that we regularly use computers. The reasons for these accusations may be due to the fact that this writer prefers to use manual typewriters or pen and ink for his serious writing, that we do not have an automatic dish-washer, our (by contemporary standards) overuse of commas, semi-colons and dashes, or the fact that we have neither cable nor satellite television.
Your faithful correspondent suspects that the main ground of accusation lays with the television matter. The idea of receiving television signals over the air and not paying for the "privilege" seems, to some, as quaint as the idea of sitting in the front room (called by those with aspirations of appearing sophisticated the "living room" or by others, mostly long dead, "the front parlor") listening to a Philco or Dumont radio waiting for John McCormick to start singing Ave Maria.
But, believe it or not, we here at the Manor at one time received cable television back in the days when we, and MTV, were young. We saw the first Michael Jackson music videos. In fact, this writer's brother The Honorable Mister Daniel, worked with Mr. Jackson as a sound editor on several of Mr. Jackson's early music videos. And to tell the truth, during our days being connected to the cable teat and thereafter, we have never been particularly enamoured of Mr. Jackson. He was a good dancer, but no Fred Astaire, a decent singer of his type (meaning of the frenetic hard breathing style) and an entertainer who depended more on technology than real talent. In other words, he was a busker who made a lot of money and fooled a lot of people.
Mr. Jackson died this past week and the world seems to have gone into the type of mourning that is saved for the trivial. The same type of thing happened when Diana Spencer, John Belushi and James Dean et al died. The logic behind this mourning seems to be based on the idea that the dead were mis-understood., when, in fact, the deceased were really not much more than parasites.
To paraphrase Bryan Suits, entertainers and celebrities are remora and the public is the shark. Celebs feed off the public and really never give anything of value back to the public and the culture. Celebs, including Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon and David Carradine, as well as Mr. Jackson, Elvis, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and others, were nothing more than officially sanctioned court jesters, actors or talkers. They made us laugh, tap our feet or were nice to look upon and they expected money in exchange. Meanwhile, the guy or gal you work with who tells good jokes or stories that make you think or laugh five days a week gets nothing but a pat on the back; and the guy you work with is working at a job of work making something.
There was a day when professional entertainers were suspect by the public. And the reason is because entertainers fed off the lower desires of the public. Music and story-telling were a part of daily life among one's peers and done to pass the time, not something done to make more money than the audience.
It is a sad thing that Mr. Jackson died at a relatively young age. But the man was a pederast and a man who, probably without knowing it, strove to lower the datum of civilized behavior during a time when the criterion should have been raised. Not to put a religious bent on the matter, but Mr. Jackson, Mr. Carradine and Mr. Belushi were evidence of de-evolution. They appealed to the basest part of the human experience. Ms. Fawcett, while pretty and a sex symbol for some, was, in reality, on the level with Nell Gynne and Lillie Langtry.
Billy Mays, America's greatest pitchman, died today. If you do not recognize the name Billy Mays perhaps you might look in your pantry and find a bucket of Oxy-Clean, a bottle of Orange-Glo or a tube of Mighty Putty. Mr. Mays, with his solid body and square bearded face and cry, "Billy Mays here!" was the cause of a lot of scrambling for the remote control by certain segment of society, but his death, was, in fact, a much greater loss to the Great Republic than was the death of Mr. Jackson. Billy Mays was an example of a man who had come from nothing and had risen to a level in his various pitches in county and state fairs, and television that he had made for his various employers something to the tune of a half billion dollars. When one sent money to a phone number that Billy Mays announced for a product one could be assured that one would soon get a tangible thing in one's hand within as week or two. Billy Mays, whether the products he pitched were good or bad, Mr. Mays carried on a long, long tradition of medicine men in America in a way that Mr. Jackson did not. Mr Jackson sold himself. Mr. Mays sold something you could use.
So when the funerals of Mr. Jackson and Ms. Fawcett (at the Taj Mahoney: this writer did not know that she was a Catholic) take place this week, please remember Billy Mays. He was better, in his life, for the nation, than the others.