Unless you live under a rock, you know that the King of Pop, Michael Jackson, died this week. I was surprised to find he was actually older (though not by much) than I am. Jackson had what seemed to be an ageless, perpetually juvenile persona – probably due to a combination of bad plastic surgery and media-induced mystique. I personally thought he was a man with incredible talent, unlimited potential, and a life filled with people who took unfair advantage of him.
There are many words that come to mind when I think of Michael Jackson. Strange, odd, eccentric, different, bizarre, weird, peculiar. But the word most prevalent in my mind is “pathetic”. In the dictionary, I find the definition of “pathetic” to be “causing or evoking pity, sympathetic sadness, sorrow, etc.; pitiful; pitiable.”
Yes, I know the stories and accusations as well as I know about the charitable foundations and donations. Believe me, I’m not making a judgment call on his character here. I have no interest in playing judge and jury to his complicated life. All I’m saying is that when I see the life of Michael Jackson, it evokes emotions of sadness and sympathy. This darling little boy with the voice of an angel and dancing skills meriting Fred Astaire’s assessment of him as the “greatest dancer of the century” seemed to never be allowed to be a real person. How sad.
The death of Michael Jackson has touched the entire world, and people are showing an amazing display of grief. I wonder if the level of sadness is elevated by the fact that the man never appeared to know real happiness in his life.
My memories of the King of Pop will continue as I happily clean my house to his hit tunes, dancing from room to room with my rags and furniture polish. My only hope is that my cleaning is not as pathetic as my moon walk.