The day began with the announcement of the death of Farah Fawcett, whose struggle to live we had witnessed just recently. Then came the bombshell: Michael Jackson was rushed to the hospital; Michael Jackson was in a coma; no, he was dead.
Outside the hospital, a vigil developed. It was surprising given the tattered state of both his reputation and career. There were, after all, those allegations, the trial. Could he really have been that twisted, this man/child? I'd like to think that it was all innocent, that this stunted individual saw himself as a child, trying in vain to capture the childhood he never had. In any case, it was irrelevant to the numbers outside.
The truly sad note is that it is not about Jackson. It never was. It was always about those insatiable fans and those whose lives were set to the score of his music. So even in death, Jacko will get no privacy. It was a Faustian bargain- the stardom, the adulation, the money. In return he oozed his humanity across our screens. True, it was a bargain made for him when he was too young to choose otherwise. But it was a pact he kept...at great cost, it would seem. May he know the peace now that he never had in life.