Let me state right up front I have, without question, been Michael Jackson's harshest critic here at the E! family for many years. That's because the questions of Jackson's associations—and exactly what those associations were—were never satisfactorily answered.
But this isn't about that.
This about a death, an occurrence I would never wish on anyone, regardless what their crimes may or may not have been.
The point is, save the Beatles, Jackson's probably the most influential pop genius to mark his generation. I've always loved his music (probably up until Bad, which I thought was still pretty catchy, even though it got a generally lousy reception).
And what's just as sad as Jackson's besmirched rep—thanks to holding the hands of little boys and sleeping next to them, among other highly questionable activities—is Michael's colossally wasted mind. The majority of his adulthood was spent attempting a comeback that never came, buying millions of dollars' worth of tchotchkes and then going practically bankrupt, when he wasn't obsessively and grotesquely tinkering with what was to begin with a very, very handsome face.
Why couldn't Michael see that he was as great as he was?
Probably because his parents never told him so, that's why. They were too busy commercializing him into a little dancing and singing cash machine, that's why.
Sorry to see you go, Michael. And I mean that.