When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. LOVED him. I remember when I brought the Thriller album home. I would spend hours listening to that album, gazing at the album cover. In fact, I even had the Michael Jackson doll.
That's how far back I go.
For my generation, also known as Generation X, Michael Jackson's music was the sound track to our lives. He was the King of Pop long before the genre of pop became a punchline.
So, imagine my shock when I flipped on CNN last week to hear them talk about him being rushed to the hospital with cardiac arrest. My tingly nurse-sense told me that the outcome wasn't going to be good...but it was still stunning when it was announced that he died.
I never did buy into the molestation stories. So many things just didn't add up. But this post isn't about whether he did or didn't. Hell, I'm not even going to get into his apparent self-loathing, he inability to emotionally evolve into a mature adult, or even go into the fact that I think Joe Jackson ought to do humanity a favor and drive himself off a cliff.
This post is about the fact that so much of my young life was woven with his music that had nothing to do with how much money he made, what he drove, the bling he wore, and how many bitches he had. His music usually had a good message, and he didn't come off like a complete douche bag when he sang it.
To say that when he died my childhood died, would be a disservice because I left my childhood behind me a long time ago, and am painfully reminded of my adulthood every time I make my mortgage payment. But his death, to me, does make me remember the innocent girl I used to be, before horrible things happened...and when those horrible things did happen, I was always able to seek the safe confines of music for comfort. Michael Jackson was one of those safe outlets.
So yeah, I'm a fan of his music for a lot of reasons. And for those reasons, I do mourn his passing. Yes, he may have died a drug addict, but most celebs are shooting up something anyway, and no celebrity should be looked upon as something to aspire to. At least this guy actually contributed something other than beaver shots and bad reality television. It is possible to admire the music, yet pity the man who created it.
He died as strangely as he lived. His death proving to be every bit a circus that his life was, and it makes me glad I live in relative obscurity.
Hopefully he can find in death, what he could not find in life.