Ode to Jacko

They say we lost the King of Pop. Now mind you, they didn’t say we lost a music writing legend, a song and dance maestro, a famous entertainer or even world-class artist. To do that would be an insult to first rate Rock and Roll song writers like Buddy Holly, John Lennon or Roy Orbison; to song and dance legends like Gene Kelly, Sammy Davis Jr. or Fred Astaire; or artists and world class entertainers like The Beatles, Rolling Stones or The Who.

No, The King of Pop was a “generational” icon, known more for his idiosyncrasies, irrational behavior and penchant for scalpels. He meant something to those born after 1960 and before 1980. And while like his talented predecessors Jacko could write and perform his own music and dance routines, he couldn’t complete a crossword puzzle, change the oil in his car or have a conversation about current events. He was at once a man of the world, even though it was his own world.

Michael existed in a bubble of his own making. And it was crowded in there, because he could do little for himself; no cooking, no cleaning, no white glove making. It is doubtful that he could tie his own shoes. But hey, when you’re Michael Jackson you don’t have to. You have people to do that, lots of people.

Let’s face it folks, Michael Jackson was a living train wreck. His eccentricities, flamboyant lifestyle and outrageous persona was not to be missed. His transformation from cute little black boy to ugly old white woman was a thing to behold. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, even when the strobe lights and camera angles were manipulated just to give you glimpses of his latest nips and tucks.

And if he ever eclipsed his own persona, it was when he died. His death in the same week as Ed McMahon and the same day as Farrah Faucett was a tragedy. He would never to be more beautiful than Farrah or funny and articulate as Ed, so he just grabbed his crotch, slammed some dope and with one last pelvic thrust dropped the curtain on two true television icons.