Now, I don’t know if Michael Jackson ever had any tour dates in Greece or not; the post title is from an old Eagles song and the tie in is the “freak” part because, in my opinion, Michael Jackson fit that label.

I only ever listened to any of Michael Jackson’s music in a peripheral way.  In the ’80’s you couldn’t avoid it, really.  It was on the radio and on television as the media picked up on the fervour and hyped it up to astonishing levels.  I never bought a single recording of his.  Not one.  Nor any other piece of Jackson fan trash.

In fact, other than those times when the media placed Michael Jackson squarely in my face, I never gave him a second thought.  And, I now patiently await the day when MJ-related headlines disappear from the top of my news reader.  I already hide anything entertainment-related and how the aftermath of MJ’s passing can be considered “news”, I have no idea.

I abhor the American cult of celebrity.  I don’t understand it, really.  I fail to see how so much “value” can be placed on individuals whose “talents” contribute nothing to the world, other than “entertainment” and tabloid fodder.  I am saddened, also, that Canadians have willingly imported this idea and are making it their own.  Is life really so uninteresting that you have to devote your energy to being the consummate “fan”?  Pity.

Although I recognize that I am in the minority, I am not entirely alone.  Alicia penned an excellent essay on the hooplah surrounding the deaths of “celebrities” and the resultant mourning sickness.

 Annie wrote a bit for her grog, again solidly re-establishing herself in the minority, inviting criticism for saying what many others think but are apparently afraid to say themselves.

However, the topper came from one of my regular reads this morning.  Jim Kunstler writes thought-provoking essays with uncommon flair.  Today’s piece – the man in the mirror – strips away the gauzy veil from Jackson’s existence and ties it in to his usual theme about how the US is driving at breakneck speed down a highway all the while ignoring the signs warning of a “BRIDGE OUT” ahead. Here’s how Jim sums it up:

When he dropped dead last week, the nation’s morbidly maudlin response suggested a cover story for the relief of being rid of him and all the embarrassment he provoked. One CNN reporter called him a genius the equal of Mozart. That’s a little like calling Rachel Maddow the reincarnation of Eleanor Roosevelt. A nation addicted to lying to itself tells itself fairy tales instead of facing a pathology report. Yet, like Michael Jackson, the undertone of horror story still pulses darkly in the background. The little boy who grew up to be the simulation of a girl was really a werewolf. The nation that defeated manifest evil in World War Two woke up one day years later to find itself stripped of its manhood, mentally enslaved to cheap entertainments, and hostage to its own grandiosity. Maybe in grieving so exorbitantly over this freak America is grieving for itself. All the loose talk about “love” from the media and the fans gives off the odor of self-love. America is “the man in the mirror,” the gigantic, floundering Narcissus, sailing into the stormy seas of history.