Traveling in England last week, away from TV and computer, I wandered into the local newsstand to be greeted by the trumpeting headlines of Michael Jackson's demise.
Everywhere I turned, it was all Michael, all the time. And, as I suspected, it turns out that in the wake of a chaotic life, a multi-million/three children trail of chaos and debt has been left behind for others to clean up.
This man, father of three, who owned half the Beatles song catalogue, didn't get around to making a freaking will!
I flashed back to 1977, waking to the news of Elvis's summons to Eternity. Watching that melodrama unfold, especially from my native Nashville, none of the Jackson saga is surprising. Same stupidity, different year.
Why does this culture idolize people, however gifted, who create raging chaos at every turn? Does artistic achievement give anyone license to be the proverbial bull in the china shop? Haydn, Mendelssohn, Rachmaninoff, Bing Crosby, Eddy Arnold, Bob Hope, Dolly Parton, Stravinksy, Yo Yo Ma, Van Cliburn--the list goes on and on. They have created an enormous body of enduring work, and have also lived ordered lives. Far from perfect, to be certain, but on the whole, sanity prevailed.
Why do Elvis and Michael get a pass? Why won't anyone state the obvious?
Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be celebrities!
Artists, yes. Celebrities, no.
Here, on the other hand, is a life that mattered.
This kid died within a few days of The King of Pop. Look at what he accomplished in the short time allotted to him.
You be the judge.
