Like a meter maid scrambling to make her quota, he racked up casualties with disturbing efficiency.

First there was Gary Papa, Action News' beloved sportscaster who died, far too soon, of cancer. Then came Ed McMahon, a local institution before he rocketed to stardom as Johnny Carson's loyal sidekick.

Then Irv Homer, who spent his last moments doing what he was born to do: giving the less-informed and less-engaged a piece of his fabulous mind. And then, on the same day and seemingly at the same moment, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson passed into legend.

The Jackson death overshadowed all the others. Cable networks joined in a macabre competition to see who could come up with the juiciest, most scandalous tidbits about the entertainer's life and - more important to them - death. It was as repulsive as it was predictable.

And while I can understand why the Gloved One's death resembled a solar eclipse sucking the light out of the sky, it bothered me that this one passing would cast the others into such a deep shadow.

CLEARLY, Papa and Homer were local celebrities and their deaths, while heart-wrenching, had limited significance beyond the Delaware Valley. And even though anyone who ever received a Publishers Clearinghouse circular in the mail was saddened to learn of McMahon's death, the effect was regret, not shock.

The death that didn't get enough attention, that should have been noted by more than a few anemic articles and a marathon of old "Charlie's Angels" episodes was Fawcett's. Sure, we were treated to remembrances from ex-Angels Kate Jackson, Jaclyn Smith and Cheryl Ladd. We saw that poster flashed across the TV screen a few times, had a chance to view that sad documentary of her final days, hear the critics talk about her "brave" career choices.

But it felt to me, and to others I've talked to, as if the real significance of the woman was lost in the Jackson whirlwind. And that's a terrible shame because, even though she was as much a product of the tinsel factory as Jackson, she had a humanity that, for all of his genius and epochal accomplishment, he didn't.

None of us can really identify with Jackson. We might remember moments in our lives where his music provided the soundtrack, and we might have strong opinions about whether he molested those children (I have my doubts), and we might even feel an almost parental tenderness for the man-child who was put on the road to destruction by a pathological father (and finished the deed himself).

But he was as removed from us as Elvis Presley, as brilliant and as damaged, and we can't own him.

Fawcett, I think, was different. For women of the '70s generation, she was the embodiment of femininity, golden and sparkling and as substantial as a soap bubble.

Yet she also seemed approachable in a very real way. Unlike the Bo Dereks and Christie Brinkleys who shared her era as icons of teen lust, Fawcett seemed a gentler creature. Someone who, behind that childlike voice, had a native intelligence. She was both appealing and unthreatening.

When she burst onto the scene in the mid-'70s, I was a high school freshman filled with the usual litany of complaints about life's injustice. I was overweight, wore glasses and had just missed having braces. (Getting down on your knees and throwing yourself on the mercy of your orthodontist sometimes works.)

Despairing of ever achieving physical attraction, I focused my energies on schoolwork. But I secretly wanted to tap into some of the golden glow that emanated from Fawcett and her even more beautiful co-star Smith. I knew it was "jiggle TV," but it was tame and innocent compared to what passes for titillation these days.

I think I realized even then that there was a difference between Fawcett and what would come after. She wasn't Grace Kelly, but she also wasn't Pamela Anderson - not entirely a lady, but surely not a skank.

That became clear once again as I watched the dignified way in which she was carried to her final resting place. Fittingly, the ceremony took place at Our Lady of Angels Cathedral in L.A., with few paparazzi to mar those final moments.

Now, as we watch how they're cannibalizing Jackson, we should take some lessons from that.

Rest in peace, angel. *

Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer. See her on Channel 6's "Inside Story" Sunday at 11:30 a.m. E-mail cflowers1961@yahoo.com.