Michael Jackson dead at 50, pop icon touches generations of music lovers

When I first heard the shocking news about the legendary entertainer, singer, dancer, and songwriter – heck, pop icon - I was traveling in my car on the way to the grocery store. The radio talk show host had just interrupted his regular broadcast to matter-of-factly announce the death of Michael Jackson.

Michael Jackson, King Of Pop? Dead? How could this be?

I immediately thought news wires had jumped the gun again. After all, you can’t believe everything you hear or read. Actor Jeff Goldblum was still alive. So were Harrison Ford and Artie Lange.

It must be a mistake, I thought, leftover catharsis from the wearying chatter over Farrah Fawcett. A beautiful and talented actress, news of her passing had quickly become a number one topic trend. Sensing the end of her courageous battle with anal cancer, many bloggers had turned a blind eye to the unfolding tragedy, giving her family a respectful reprieve. Now they were reacting in overdrive. Perhaps some had gone overboard in the fray.

But the radio host was right. Michael Jackson, 50-years old and poised to reclaim the mantle of stardom with a scheduled comeback tour, had suffered cardiac arrest and could not be revived. Today, almost 24-hours later, fans remain camped outside UCLA Medical Center. In New York City, they’ve turned the Apollo Theater into a makeshift shrine. The news reverberates, leaving pockets of emptiness in its stride.

The King is dead.

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Much will be written about Jackson in the days following his tragic end. His visionary talent and creative passion along with stories of his troubled past, including a nightmarish obsession with plastic surgery, aversion to public recognition, acquittal on child molestation charges, and financial demise -- none of it will fade easily. Nothing I could add would shed any more light on this complex, yet tortured individual. He grew up in the spotlight and burned too brightly in its glare, end of story.

Still, that doesn’t seem adequate in the face of such enormous loss.

For what it’s worth, I can conjure up personal memories. To those of you expecting a news article I’ll completely understand if you skip ahead.

As a child, I envied Jackson, his amazing talent and ability to transfix an audience, the dizzying fame, immense wealth, and elbow rubbing with the glitterati. I remember sitting in a junior high school gymnasium watching “Ben” with my teenybopper girlfriends. The movie’s title song cemented his career as a solo artist.

We swooned over his lyrical melodies, enchanting vocals, and costumes, and didn’t care who gawked. In the days of lingering social prejudice, Michael Jackson transcended racial barriers. His magazine posters shared bedroom walls with the likes of David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, and Donny Osmond. We rushed to buy Tiger Beat magazine for his latest updates. If you didn’t like Michael Jackson, you must be from the Stone Age. Even parents thought Jackson was cool.

Soon came the days of “Thriller,” the best selling album of all time. Jackson had the foresight to adopt a new form of entertainment, the music video, incorporating dance choreography with catchy music lyrics. The resulting sensation turned him into a superstar.

As the world elevated him to an icon, I became a little less mesmerized. Who had time to become a clone in a line dance? And I looked positively ridiculous trying to learn how to moonwalk. Shuffling backward in the opposite direction of my feet felt awkward and uncomfortable. My days of pop idol worship had come to an end.

One day, I saw Jackson’s picture in the paper and didn’t recognize him. Good gawd, his skin had turned white! He had also straightened his hair and gotten a nose job. Did the King of Pop know he was tinkering with perfection?

Rumors began flying about a skin condition. A clingy chimp and opulent theme park fueled massive conjecture. More rumors about liaisons with impressionable young boys, then public appearances behind facial scarves and SNL satire. Over time, Jackson became a source of late night comedy, an eccentric recluse looking back at a storied past. Even the Beatles music catalog couldn’t save him. In the end, he went down a broken man.

On this day of reflection, the last thing I want to do is make fun of him. The man had more talent in his little finger than most of today’s performing artists. In our collective consciousness, Michael Jackson will live on.

Watch the movie “13 Going On 30” and you’ll see what I mean.

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