Gone Too Soon

Michael's HIStory statue in Europe -- Picture courtesy of Wikipedia

by blogSpotter
When news of Michael Jackson’s recent death reached me, I was shocked but not entirely surprised. In the 80’s, People ran an MJ byline that said, “Is this guy weird or what?” At that point, he was just known for harmless eccentricities -- an Elephant man here, a chimp over there, maybe a hyperbaric oxygen chamber next to that. By the 90’s, his behavior verged upon reactionary neurosis and mental melt-down. He veered from child molestation charges to weirdly arranged marriages and then baby-dangling episodes. His odd plastic surgery evolution had to be (at least in part) outwardly indicative of his inward mental implosions.

Probably in part as a reaction to all his bad press, he had been treated for pain killers and rushed to the hospital on various occasions. Now if TMZ and various tabloid sources can be trusted, it appears that Jackson was getting daily Demerol injections from a live-in physician. How much emotional or physical pain do you have to be in to require such dosages from a Dr. “Feel Good”? This drug is potent, and Jackson probably cheated death innumerable times before the grim reaper came and stayed.

His death reminded me in some ways of other tormented celebs -- Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley and Judy Garland to be sure. Marilyn was found in “barbiturate coma” a time or two by agents and housekeepers prior to her actual death in 1962. At 42, Elvis was a bloated vestige of his youthful persona -- chowing down peanut butter & banana sandwiches and popping tranquilizers. He also had a Dr Feel Good in the wings at the time of his 1977 death.

What to make of these things? Marilyn was 36, Elvis was 42, Judy was about 47 and MJ was 50. All were around mid-life but still young enough for reinvention and new career moves. A modest being might just be content to do like Greta Garbo -- retire at 38 and live happily off of investments. You’d have lingering mystique and privacy to boot; she certainly did. Somehow with others, the out-size fame and fortune brings out-size expectations… “I’m famous and beautiful, how can I be so alone?”

Michael and Elvis in particular created insular, make-believe worlds even similar in name -- “Graceland” and “Neverland”. Both were surrounded by sycophants, servants and doctors wielding needles and vials with mighty elixirs of sleep and relaxation. One supposes that out-size egos might want out-size medications that exceed the limits of ordinary budgets, FDA laws and even common sense.

It’s a mighty shame, because all of the aforementioned had so much more to give the world -- in spite of low self-esteem moments they might have felt at the times of their demises. I was very much looking forward to a Michael Jackson comeback -- musical redemption was in the offing. We (and they in the beyond) can settle on the weird consolation that the world will never see their bodies buckled with age or faces withered like leather masks. To the athlete (or entertainer) who died young -- we will miss you terribly. Thank you for what you gave us while you were here.

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