They’re all older than me. Walter by many years (like, almost 50 years-- who's not dead but dying), Michael a handful, and Farrah in between.

Farrah’s death today at 62, is the hardest hitting, since it’s she whose hair and body had the biggest impact on my way-younger self. It’s her hair that kept me forever-devoted to a big purse, although big hair and butane-powered curling irons are long since gone.

I still love to curl my hair. And if I date someone long enough, a curling iron (a good one, from a salon, a salute to Farrah) will show up at his place, and remain there until (or if?) break-up time.

My nearer-contemporary – Michael Jackson, who was announced dead tonight of heart failure – had moves I tried to mimic but never could, a circumstance I wrote off to a combination of genetics, race, gender and luck. I loved him so – even when he was accused of trying to turn white and longing to love youngsters.

I will always be a wannbe-clubber at heart, if for no other reason, but for Michael Jackson’s video memories.

Walter Cronkite’s been ill and it’s only tonight – June 25, 2009 – that his family says he’s not expected to recover. WC was the talking head, the voice of news, the sound bite of all things important to hear. He spoke to me, even when I didn’t care to listen – and sometimes I didn’t. I never imagine he’d be dead anytime soon, any more than I thought Farrah or Michael dead now.

Walter Cronkite snapped me out of Farrah and Michael world – and wherever else my head was buried – and reminded me of the news and all things not hair, dance, pop and TV.

Thank you Walter Cronkite, for setting the tone, and the stage. And for setting me straight.

Tonight -- June 25, 2009 – my youth came round to smack me. First Farrah, then Michael.

Walter hovers, as the dying do, straddling the past and present in such a way the future reveals itself in pieces of the past.