
With the passing of Michael Jackson yesterday, there has been an effort by his celebrity friends to beatify him, which is fitting, since like some men of the cloth, he couldn't keep his hands off children. With all the glowing tributes around the world, plus his own addiction to plastic surgery, it's hard for some people to forget that he was merely a gifted an talented human being. And, for what it's worth, one hundred years from now, all that will be left of his legacy is the most important part: his music.
What struck me following the news of his death was not the immediate response, nor are the rumors of his prescription drug use as a probable cause, since he was his generation's equivalent of Elvis. What I read yesterday was the story of his people following him into the hospital pleading for the doctors to save him.
Not to be crass, but a megacelebrity ( or do I mean ubercelebrity?)like Jackson employed an army of helpers, I'm sure. From the personal trainer, a nanny or two for the photo op prop tots, nutritionists, housekeepers, personal security, drivers, you're talking about a lot of people who relied on Jackson for their daily bread. So what is likely to happen once all the glowing tributes have faded, and the twenty-four hour news cycle pounds the story into the ground, is one or two of those former employees, non-disclosure forms be damned, will be a spate of tell-all books, leaked to supermarket tabloids, lurid details of just how fucked up a drug addled celebrity with more money than guidance can get when surrounded by sycophants who won't tell him no. And, barring a suit by the Jackson estate, people will pour through them, cluck their tongues and feel, better them selves because they know that if they had that much money and talent, they wouldn't have squandered it like Jackson. And then, it twenty years or so, all that will be left is his music. Which is as it should be.













