This has been the week of random celebrity deaths.
Ed McMahon died on Tuesday, Farrah and Michael Jackson died on Thursday, and Billy Mays died on Sunday.
I was at work when Michael Jackson died. It was incredibly interesting to watch the major news outlets catch up to TMZ – who reported everything, including his death, an hour before everyone else.
By the time I left work, every news agency had finally caught up to TMZ and Michael Jackson was officially dead. Michael’s greatest hits were on most radio stations.
I turned on the car radio, rolled down my windows, and joined the collective Michael jam session blasting from every car in Minneapolis.
I started bawling when “Don’t stop till you get enough” came on.1 I was crying not because I was sad, but because I was disappointed and pissed off that someone who had so much talent turned out to be so weird and creepy despite himself.
Michael’s death made it clear that he could never turn himself around, and it was a shame.
What distinguished Michael from the typical pop culture disasters2 is that Michael was actually talented, and his strangeness was probably a mental illness issue instead of the usual drug and alcohol combo.
I couldn’t blame Michael for his crazy so I just had one good cry for him while driving home.
Later that night, I left my apartment building with Harley. As I led my dog down the apartment steps, a young-ish black woman with a small child approached on the sidewalk. She saw the dog and said,
Woman: “Woah, that’s a big dog!”
Me: “Yep.”
Woman (passing me): “He’s big and bad! He’s bad! He’s really really bad!”
Yes. He’s bad…and kid friendly!
1 My favorite MJ song.
2 Those scenes are from Factory Girl, the biopic about Edie Sedgwick.
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