The news of Michael Jackson's death late Thursday afternoon was shocking. At first, my feelings were confused. Like many, I watched Michael morph from a confident, beautiful black man to a frail, disfigured white man who purportedly had a taste for young boys. He disgusted me. I didn't pity him. I judged him to be loathsome. And really, it was astonishingly easy to do. The surgeries, the excesses, the chimp, the alleged pedophilia, the Diana Ross obsession, the Beatles song catalogue...In my opinion, the guy was a nutter and worthy of my scorn.
But nobody can deny his gift for entertaining. His music is the soundtrack for an entire decade of my life. And after reading the comments of Elizabeth Taylor, Lisa Marie Presley, Quincy Jones and Deepak Chopra, I'm not sure what to think anymore. Even though I've always held that where there is smoke, there is fire, I'd like to believe that Michael Jackson wasn't a monster. Instead, I'd like to believe that he was a troubled and naive man who never understood the trappings of his celebrity. It's easier to mourn him that way.
I read a blog post by Andrew Sullivan which resonated with me. You can find it here. 
Before the extreme surgeries, the prescription drugs, the lurid rumours and the evident withdrawal from reality, there was this Michael.
He seemed happier then.
This is how I choose to remember him.
(Picture courtesy of Time Magazine. On news stands today.)
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