For someone who consumes pop culture at a rate of three square meals a day, this past week served up several heaping helpings.
With the deaths of Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and of course Michael Jackson in the span of one week, the news proliferated our newspapers, magazines, radios, TVs and almost crashed the World Wide Web. The last time I bore witness to such a global reaction, was the unexpected death of Princess Diana in 1997.
Sensationalism unleashed, images of almost immediate global tributes for the gloved-one were seen everywhere: from spontaneously assembled crowds attempting the moon-walk, to impromptu concerts in the streets. The simultaneous shock and grief at the passing of an icon has so far been a universal clamour to be a part of history.
While I understand and acknowledge the King of Pop's contribution to the world of music, and his undeniable talent and success, (I believe the term ‘global superstar’ aptly applies), I am left feeling indifferent at his death.
That’s not to say I am simply unaffected by death itself, or the death of celebrities specifically. The passing of both Kurt Cobain and Heath Ledger affected me greatly, and I would be lying if I said tears weren’t shed for both men.
So I tried to think about why, as others poured out their hearts and cried audibly on the radio in-between constant Michael Jackson tunes, I was left thinking about a life that was marred by scandal, child sex abuse charges, and an overall sense of the bizarre and creepy.
Over the past few days, I also thought of how surprising it was the way the media glossed over all unpleasantness, and spouted out ‘albums sold’, ‘records set’, and ‘videos made’—a string of musical epithets meant to steer thoughts away from the deeply troubled and somewhat disturbed soul he so obviously was.
I relayed these very thoughts to my husband, who, rather incredulously stared back at me. After a moment’s pause, he replied, ‘When you die, would you like those who knew of you to sit around and discuss all the ways in which you failed at your life?’.
The question gave me some food for thought...
When the epilogue of my life is written, would I like every secret, indiscretion, mistake, wrong turn, bad decision, and vulnerability amassed on a list of human failures for others to judge? In truth, probably not. But I think a head nod or two in the direction of my life’s disappointments wouldn’t amass to disrespect, but rather an acknowledgement of truth.
In the mean time, while the dust starts to settle, and the stage mercurially set for more Michael Jackson drama and media fodder (drug addiction? estate wars? custody battles?), I will pop in his 1991 album Dangerous, and listen to my favourite MJ tune, Give in to Me—without judgment, and in complete respect to an icon many loved, and continue to mourn.