There are Inuit, right now sitting on the shores of the Arctic Sea watching their precious sea ice melt, who know way too frigging much about the intimate details of Michael Jackson's life. Why? Because the guy died and the news media refuses to shut up about it. They're still shouting it from the rooftops, those jackass journalists.
When it happened, I was as surprised as anyone. By all means, tell me what happened and we can all take a moment to reflect on his life and career. And, maybe while we're at it, we can remind ourselves that in the last years of his life, no one outside his ardent fandom gave a flying fig about him. But after that--after we've buried the man and memorialized him with one of the most ridiculously televised spectacles in recent history--I would hope we could have all moved on with our lives.
My hopes were dashed.
I was a fool to think the memory of Michael Jackson could fade away quietly, with a semblance of dignity ill-afforded to the man while he lived. The subsequent three-ring circus has made Jacko's corporeal existence look like little more than prelude. The pop singer's much maligned idiosyncrasies were nothing more than the warm-up act, greasing the gears of tabloid journalism so that when the man did die we would have years of lascivious newshounds scouring the countryside for any kind of lead they could get their dirty mitts on, no matter how fallacious or tenuous.
I'm over it. I was over it the day I heard he kicked the bucket. Did his doctor kill him inadvertently through immoral use of prescription medicine? I don't care, I'm over it. Did he really father his three children, or even that look-a-like kid who sat in the front row of his funeral? I don't care, I'm over it. Is Anderson Cooper going to interview Bubbles the chimp one more time, to see if he can sully what little credibility CNN has tucked away in its coffers?
Oh, hey. Farrah Fawcett died. When did that happen?