I would have written sooner, but I was busy watching the 102nd hour of continuous live coverage on the death of Michael Jackson.
I am now taking meals in front of CNN and am thinking of installing a TV in the shower so I can still maintain some semblance of personal hygiene while all of this is playing out.
I am not proud of this facet of my personality. But I figure if I wasn’t addicted to lurid and gross over-exposure of news events, it might be something even worse, like mah jong.
If you are famous in America, you are what your obit says you are. Usually, it’s boiled down to some silly line you uttered in a commercial, your divorces or other legal problems. If you’re lucky, your accomplishments are great enough to make the lead paragraph.
I’m glad I’m not writing Michael Jackson’s obit.
I can’t think of a more conflicting legacy than that of Michael Jackson’s.
I flash back almost immediately to the memory of watching the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family in the late 60s and 70s like most every other white kid in this country, and then being absolutely knocked silly by the talents of Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five.