The King of Pop is Dead.

 

tasteless.
tasteless.

As you probably already heard, despite the internet being your number one summer source for news, information and incisive, hard-hitting commentary, Michael Jackson passed away yesterday at the tender age of 50.  Jackson was a monolithic figure on the pop culture landscape for almost his entire life, first as the pop boy-wonder, then as the reigning King of Music, and finally for his plastic surgery, reclusive behavior, accused pedophilia and confirmed weirdness.  Because of this, Jackson will always occupy a peculiar niche in the pop-culture lexicon, a burning modern example of the difficulty in separating an artist from their work.  It’s a shame that his story had no real final chapter, no redeeming Hollywood conclusion, though I would hope, in his way, he found peace.  But however Weird he lived, he was the King of Pop music, and if a few kids had to get buggered to make Thriller, I suppose thems the breaks.  Good Night, Mike.  You were the worst kind of strange but I wouldn’t trade you for anything.

Those early jazzmen knew what they were up to
when they set about making funeral marches swing.
So swing me away, please, with a rousing tune.

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