Now that the Michael Jackson uproar has died down a bit—at least until that concert movie gets released in October– perhaps it’s time for a bit more reflection on Farrah Fawcett.

For Rossi, the fantastic writer, humorist, and radio host, the best way to remember Farrah is with an entry for Oh Brawling Love!

After the jump, please join Rossi on her journey from Farrah Hate to Farrah Admiration.

Learning to Love Farrah
By Rossi

For me, one of the great tragedies of 2009 is that Farrah Fawcett’s death got maybe one hour of airtime before it was obliterated by Michael Jackson’s.

I’m not taking anything away from Michael here, but give the lady her due. A whole generation of girls changed the way they did their hair because of Farrah.  She at least deserved her own day of mourning.

I never would have believed, while I was trodding down the hallways of Rumson Fair Haven High School in New Jersey in the late 70’s and early 80’s, that I would ever give a hoot about Farrah Fawcett. Never mind The Omen or Rosemary’s Baby:  To the teenage me, she was the anti-Christ! While the snobby girls of Rumson put Sun-In in their hair, parted it down the middle and feathered it back, becoming an army of mini-Farrahs, I dyed my hair pink and tied a black bandanna around it. Joan Jett was more my cup of tea.

At sixteen, Farrah Fawcett symbolized everything I hated: Perfect teeth, perfect body, all-American vibe. If I hadn’t preferred to spend the money on a new coke spoon, then I might have used one of her posters as a dartboard.

Then something staggering happened. I grew up. Farrah grew up, too. I watched her in Extremities and The Burning Bed and was amazed to find out the babe could really act!

Then she turned 50, and at a time when a former Angel might start dressing conservatively and designing clothes for K-Mart, she celebrated by posing nude for Playboy.

As my mother might have said, “That’s chutzpah!”

When I heard the rumors that Farrah was suffering from anal cancer, I first wondered, “What in the hell is anal cancer?!?” Then I thought that the only thing worse then cancer would have to be anal cancer—deadly and friggin’ humiliating! I figured Farrah would go into hiding. I mean, wouldn’t you?

But no. Farrah Fawcett did the unthinkable. For two hours on prime time TV, she let the world see a documentary of her cancer battle. I’m talking the full shebang here: Losing her hair, losing her looks, and losing her life, right before our eyes.

It was brave. That’s all there is to it.

I’ve done a lot of gutsy things in my life—moving to NYC, alone, as a teenager is on the top of my list—but no way, no how could I let the whole world watch me succumb to anal cancer. I’m Jewish. We don’t do anal!

Farrah Fawcett leaves behind a soft breeze, a hint of Texas sunshine, a killer smile, and the knowledge that the woman who may very well have been America’s last great pin-up queen was a whole lot more than a pretty face.