Michael Jackson

Coincidences being coincidences, three pretty substantial personalities in the American public life of my lifetime have died in close proximity. I don't know if there ever was anyone better at his or her particular job than Ed McMahon. If you ever saw The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, you know what I mean. Farrah Fawcett was the poster girl who was famous for being famous, along with being the subject of a great Steve Martin joke: "I wrote a letter to Farrah Fawcett. She never wrote me back. And after all the time I spent holding her poster up with one hand!" (And before you accuse me of bad taste, may I remind you that she posed for, sold and got rich and famous off the poster, not me.)
And Michael Jackson.
My first memory of Michael and his brothers is on Ed Sullivan's stage, in the theater where David Letterman now holds court. The Jackson 5 were amazing. And, obviously, not least because of the little brother with the big voice. Michael was just a couple years older than me, and was the first person of my generation to become publicly accomplished. Maybe the Osmonds were out there, but Donny? Really? Not so much.
Michael was cool. He just got cooler and better through the years. At his peak, with the albums Off the Wall and Thriller in the early 1980's, Michael really was the king of pop, and not just as some dopey marketing slogan. Those records were awesome. Pure pop perfection, guided by Quincy Jones, whose importance to American music simply cannot be overstated. Michael was one of the forces behind We Are the World, raising buckets of money for Great Causes.
Then things got weird.
Everybody knows the details. You don't need me to restate them. Michael Jackson became the poster boy for the dangers of immense wealth, immense ego and the power to make sure there is no soul in sight who will tell you "No" about anything. Somewhere amidst the accusations, the surgeries, the Howard Hughes-type behavior, Michael lost everything that mattered. His music got stale and self-serving, his wealth apparently was squandered, his behavior grew ever-more bizarre.
Our culture of celebrity worship is sick. It's pathetic for every person who has actually wasted enough of their lives to know that Jon and Kate, much less the plus 8, exist. But it is even more costly and dangerous for those who become the objects of such worship. You tell people they are God for long enough, most of them will start to believe it. It rarely ends well. It just tends to end.
And it has, again.
Pardon me if I just choose to remember the little boy who could sing his tail off, or the young man who could make perfect music and dance like he didn't have a bone in his quite tall body. The rest of it makes me sick.
R.I.P. Michael. Maybe now, at long last, you are at peace.