Not Much Upstairs

Have you ever been mired in a conversation where, instead of actually paying attention to the mindless drivel crack-filling your ears, you're trying to remember the words to the Smurf's theme song, or alternately looking for a hallucinogenic toad to lick. This happens to me all the time. Sure, I could simply walk away or find a conversational fork in the road and take it, but where's the drama in that?

I'm quite happy to talk about current events, if there's some common ground on which to stand, but some people seem to go on about things to which I couldn't spare a rat's ass of interest. Current events are a safe topic with me, particularly because I haven't watched television in four years and I rarely read the newspaper. Almost anything you say to me is breaking news.

So Janet was never part of the Jackson 5? Wow, I did not know that.

I looked at a newspaper yesterday, August 29, only to discover that Ted Kennedy died four days earlier. I understood that Ted was pretty much in a coma before he died, so it's unlikely that he had much on his mind. Prior to his death, I wonder how often he thought of Mary Jo Kopechne and Chappaquiddick.

I've got a better idea of what was going through brother John F.Kennedy's brain when he died:

1) Dammit Jackie, you've maxed out my Amex Gold card again...how much did you say that hat cost?

2) Mom's going to be pissed when she finds out that I forgot to close the gate at the compound.

3) A bullet.

It's funny that the Kennedy's are so revered. JFK was a supposed philanderer. When handsome Jack checked out, Jackie married a rich old sugar daddy called Ari.

You want a new hat? Hell, I'll buy you a hat factory! Pass the moussaka.

Robert Kennedy did some good work, tackling organized crime and the Teamsters, but look where he ended up, six feet under, and seven years ahead, of Jimmy Hoffa's cement shoe prints. Ted walked away, or swam, from an accident that claimed a young girl's life, a death that probably could have been prevented by someone with a conscience. JFK Jr. tried to land his plane nose first in the ocean. It's as though the family was cursed.

It's amazing what news squeaks through the cracks and makes it my way, despite my furtive attempts to become a bastion of ignorance. Somehow I found out that it would have been Michael Jackson's fifty-first birthday yesterday, had he not sold the farm (err, ranch). I can hardly wait until next year when the media celebrates what would have been MJ's fifty-second birthday. I expect that we'll suffer through this annual ritual until someone more famous dies suspiciously. If only Madonna would choke on a sausage. On the upside, MJ's death will probably give us a break from Elvis for a while.

Not likely. Elvis will celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday this coming January, and none of us will be able to escape the festivities. Both Elvis and Michael Jackson overdosed on prescription drugs, which makes me wonder about the price of fame, and the availability of prescription drugs (someone keeps sending my spam folder some great deals on Viagra, but that's not going to cause my fall from grace). It's quite weird, really, all this drug abuse. If I was rich and famous, I can't imagine taking twenty drags from my puffer.

Michael Jackson will never be able to tell us about the pain he suffered, though his brothers can speculate (Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Marlon, Phil, Randy, Andrew, Stonewall and Pollock).

Speaking of painful dialogues, you might wonder where this blog is headed today. I might wonder if you're hearing the Smurfs' theme song yet, or searching for toads.