THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, January 22, 1996 TAG: 9601200067
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E3 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Medium: 73 lines
EXCUSE ME, but I have no intention of honking into a hankie now that Michael Jackson and the luverly Lisa Marie Presley are splitsville.
I never figured the marriage would last. What woman wants to wake up in the morning with a man who's wearing more makeup than she is?
And who would want to raise their children on bean sprouts and keep them in a bubble dome until they go to college?
She was hamburgers. He was vitamin-enriched wheat noodles. Now it's over. And not a minute to soon.
Imagine the irreconcilable differences that lead to their bust-up. She wanted leopard-skin sofas and he wanted a futon filled with water supplied by one of those imported cherubs that whizz into European fountains.
It must have been hell living in their multimillion-dollar home with the swimming pools and the Boy Scout encampments out beyond the gazebo on the back 40.
Not that I suspect for a moment that their marriage failed because of lack of sexual attraction.
It probably was something more basic . . . little incidents that drip like water onto the bedrock of a marriage, eroding, always eroding:
``Honey, I've told you a thousand times that it's disgusting to find pantyhose over the shower curtain rod every morning when I walk in.''
``I just forgot, Lisa, sweetheart. I have a fitting for a new diamond-dotted jumpsuit at 9. I want you to tell me whether you prefer the night shade blue or the magenta, which is, I think, a truly luscious shade of purple with overtones suggestive of the Alps at twilight.''
``I dunno, Michael dearest. Mah daddy, the King, always leaned toward simplicity. He said a basic black jumpsuit with a rhinestone eagle spread across the back was hard to beat. Fit any occasion.''
``Lisa, my pet, I thought we agreed not to discuss your father. While it is true all artists of great talent borrow from each other - as I did with your daddy's elegant crotch grab - we come from different worlds.''
``Yeah, daddy was from Memphis, not Uranus.'
``What's that supposed to mean?`
``It means mah daddy, thuh King, was a real man, Michael. He didn't do Moonwalks. He didn't eat freeze-dried legumes flown in from the Andes. He was of the people.''
``I am of the people. I have performed at halftime of the Super Bowl, something your fathuh never did.''
``It's not the same, Max Factor Face. Last night I nearly died when I made a sandwich. I reached in and spread some of the stuff in the jar back in the corner where I usually find the peanut butter. It was your refrigerated hair mousse. Arrrggggh! Mah daddy would never, never have put mousse on his head.''
``You're right, Lambkins. Let's make up and be kissy-kissy again. Why don't we curl up in the bed and let me read you a bedtime story. Fun. Fun.''
``My room or yours, Michael?''
Later, after the bedtime story, cuddled in bed.
Michael: ``Oh, oh, that was great. So good for me! I feel like a young boy again. Wonder where one is?
Naturally, all our hearts go out to the distressed Lisa in her despondency over the failed marriage. She is, after all, a Suthren lady with a fine Graceland background. One who entered the marriage with the highest hopes and finest intentions and no thought of publicity.
Sort of like when Rhett left Scarlett, ain't it? Just remember, luverly Lisa, that tomorrow . . . tomorrow is anuthuh day. ILLUSTRATION: AP FILE PHOTO
Was having the most makeup an issue for Michael Jackson and Lisa
Marie Presley?
by CNB