No longer Wacko, just Dead-o

Man, if you hadn't heard by now I'd say you were hiding in some cave without any kind of technology (Osama Bin Laden, isdatchu?).

So Michael Jackson is dead, huh?

When I heard the news this morning, I didn't really have any reaction to it. There was no disbelief or sadness or anything of that sort that usually happens to you when you hear someone had passed away.

It was inevitable, anyway. His life was spiralling out of control and there were scandals left and right. Whatever former glory he had became tainted with child molestation and dangling his newborn over a balcony.

But still, I grew up listening to this guy and danced to his songs. His big comeback suddenly became his goodbye tour.

So what if he's trying to be Elizabeth Taylor or his sister, Janet? Everyone was insecure about themselves at some point -- he's just more "challenged" than we are of overcomming that, I guess.

He will always be King of Pop. Unfortunately, he lived long enough to squander his excellent image. Elvis was getting towards that before he died, anyway. So was John Lennon. They were all a little loopy in their own way.

At least he died a respectable death of cardiac arrest (assuming, of course, that it wasn't induced by some drug or something) and wasn't found hanging naked in a closet somewhere in a Bangkok hotel with a rope tied around his neck and bits (you should know who I'm talking about).

Hee! Hee!

This is how I would like to remember him. The "Dangerous" era had been a good one.