man in the mirror

Last week, within mere hours of each other, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day. Both had ascended to become icons of an era – he for a non-stop collection of catchy pop tunes and dance moves that captured the public’s imagination; she for a girl-next-door glamour that beamed radiantly from an entire generation's worth of posters and lunch boxes. In later life, she became known for her surprisingly strong acting ability and an involvement in community causes. He became known for his growing reclusivity, elective surgeries bordering on self-mutilation, and the constant companionship of children and a chimp. She died after a long and courageous battle with a formidable disease. He died as he lived, shrouded in mystery amidst questionable circumstances.

Here’s the thing: Our popular media machine – so gleefully on their game whenever a turn of events calls for collective teeth-gnashing – were poised to stage a public send-off for Ms. Fawcett when news of Mr. Jackson’s passing abruptly rattled the airwaves. You could almost feel the communal exhale of cathartic homage choked off in mid-breath by the first shocked, hysterical whisperings of the Jackson tragedy. And that instant spawned a new MTV for the ages: Michael Television -- all Michael, all the time. He was prodigious, he was mythic, he was brilliant. Did we forget about the unflattering monikers, the disdainful whisperings, the pop-tinged public spectacle that had shaded our perceptions in recent years? It seems we had. In death, the King of Pop was transformed into a minor deity … and the memory of Farrah was all but trampled underfoot.

The reaction may seem woefully imbalanced, but I have at least a theory. The theory is that Michael Jackson unwittingly pulled off the ultimate show-stopper: He died without warning, on the brink of a comeback, in the prime of life. Farrah Fawcett had been terribly ill. She was over 60. She had filmed a makeshift memoir of sorts. In short, her passing had not been wholly unexpected. But Michael Jackson, who wore surgical masks in public and dangled his infant son over a balcony rail, had the added gall to remind us that life can be short and death can be sudden. To rudely holler in our faces and say, you know what, all the money and fame and talent and plastic surgeries and Peter Pan trappings in the world cannot shield you from this random finality.

And we pick and pick at that, and then we pick some more, the way a child picks at a scab or a bug bite or a blister. It’s a fascination that flirts with the edges of mass hysteria. We can’t leave it alone, and we can’t leave him alone, because we’ve worked too hard to bury this knowledge deep beneath our daily routines. Keeping the image of his greatness alive makes the knowledge seem much less real. Though it doesn’t change the reality.

But then, you know what they say about a seasoned showman: He sure knows how to exit with impact. And our alarmed and urgent curtain calls follow him out, to no avail.

Rest and reflect in peace.