This American Life

The news lately -- some sad, some farcical, some infuriating -- presents a target-rich environment for any blogger. The only problem is, "Where to begin?"

Lately every other day, it seems, has been punctuated by another celebrity death. I am totally mystified by the prolonged brouhaha over Michael Jackson's demise. I thought The Freak Show that was M.J. for the past twenty years was barely on the radar anymore. Who wanted to hear about a disgraced, unsavory pedophile addicted to self-mutiliation and an infantile grandiosity? Apparently, half the globe. Now there's a tidal wave of distraught fans ready to immolate themselves on his funeral pyre in an elaborate parody of grief? Sure, as long as the cameras and helicopters are hovering over the writhing, narcissistic mob.

Then there's the latest episode of America's Gubernatorial Freaks, the smash reality show wherein state chief executives from around the country vie for the title of Biggest Horse's Ass. Thrill to the spectacular idiocies of "Macaca" Allen, Elliot Spitzer, Rod Blagojevich, and the latest contestants -- Mark Sanford and Sarah Palin. Talk about a cage match! Just when you think you've seen the ultimate in addled egos from "Bull of the Pampas" Sanford, Madame Moosejaw Palin comes along and blows him away with a single insane presser/pity-party.

You settle in for a prolonged mocking of one elected hypocrite and before you know it, another comes along. Or a mega-celebrity death pushes the lucky pol off the front page.

Oddly enough, the one death that saddened me the most was that of pitchman Billy Mays. Some people found him totally annoying. Many more -- myself included -- thought of him as an American original. I could count on seeing Billy almost every day on tv, pitching OxiClean or Kaboom from his roster of household products, and somehow I trusted him. I never ordered anything on the phone -- the S&H charges are where the sellers make their money -- but I have bought OxiClean and Kaboom in stores. And they work!

Billy wasn't a distant, surreal celebrity like Jackson. He wasn't an ancient icon finally leaving the scene like Ed McMahon. He was the typical overnight success who worked 25 years to get there. His new reality series on Discovery, "Pitchmen", was surprisingly enjoyable.

Billy was the king of the two-minute infomercial. He was unmistakable: "Hi! Billy Mays here for OxiClean!" His voice was a gravelly shout. His smile was eye-crinklingly happy. His hand gestures were pitch perfect, pun intended. He'd reach out with both hands as if he was grabbing you by the lapels and drawing you close to him. And he always wore the uniform of the Everyman: blue shirt open at the collar, khaki pants and sneakers.

He was only 50 years old, far too young to go. He worked with his son, Billy Mays III, from his first marriage. He had an adorable three-year-old daughter from his second marriage. The people surrounding him weren't delusional egotists, sycophantic courtiers or fame-whores. They were ordinary Americans like you and me.

Billy was astonished and thrilled that he was living the so-called American Dream. He was a very rich man when he died. It's too bad he didn't have more time to enjoy his success but I believe he died a happy man. I've been surprised at the depth of affection I grew to have for Billy and his pitches. I miss him already.