King of Pop: Don't Care

Yes, Michael Jackson is dead. I don't care.

Though I've largely managed to avoid it myself, I've heard plenty about the frenzy surrounding his death. Mourners (the vast majority of whom never personally knew or even met the man) flooding Facebook and Twitter with their lamentations. Pop psychologists analyzing his life. Media outlets providing round-the-clock coverage of the unfolding details of his passing. It's enough to make me glad I don't have cable TV. It's even beginning to creep into personal conversations I'm having with others. Because that's what people want to talk about, I guess.

I don't care. He died. That's not news. Everybody dies.

Yes, the man was a talented singer and songwriter, and he could dance like nobody else. He made an obscene amount of money singing and dancing. And then he slowly and publicly descended into a maelstrom of poor decisions and self-destructive behavior. I don't know if there is an academically sound dictionary of popular culture (D?), but if there is, I expect that in future editions they'll have his picture (or pictures, one before and one after) right next to the entry for "Train Wreck". But I won't see it. If I cared, I might. But I don't.

Someone on the Hero Boards suggested that if Michael Jackson had died filming that Pepsi commercial all those years ago, we'd only remember the good stuff from his life. Maybe so. Maybe, in the long run, it would have been better that way, for himself and for his family. Hard to say.

As for this morning, I logged on to one of my preferred news sites and saw a headline that read something like "Doctor tells police about Jackson's final moments". I have no idea what the article said, because I didn't read it. Because, as you've probably guessed by now, I don't care.

At this point, let me borrow a few words (slightly edited) from Scrubs' Dr. Perry Cox:

"I suppose I could riff a list of things that I care as little about as the death of Michael Jackson. Lemme see, uhh…. Low-carb diets. Michael Moore. The Republican National Convention. Kabbalah and all Kabbalah-related products. Hi-def TV, the Bush daughters, wireless hot spots, ‘The O.C.’, the U.N., recycling, getting Punk’d, Danny Gans, the Latin Grammys, the real Grammys. Jeff, that Wiggle who sleeps too darn much! The Yankees payroll, all the red states, all the blue states, every hybrid car, every talk show host! Everything on the planet, everything in the solar system, everything everything everything everything everything everything–eh-heh-heh-heverything that exists — past, present and future, in all discovered and undiscovered dimensions. Oh! And Hugh Jackman."

Still, I know that for the next several weeks, the lead stories on the news shows are going to be about the death of Michael Jackson and its aftermath, even though we have soldiers fighting in two different wars, Iran and North Korea are making threatening noises, and the economy's still in the toilet. Because those things don't sell. The huddled masses don't care about the real world. They care about celebrities and scandal and gossip.

The man is gone. Let go already. You have lives of your own, people. Live them.

Or don't. Really, I couldn't care less.