Wow, just wow. The lead singer of the Jackson Five-turned-pop star extraordinaire — reduced, in more recent years, to a caricature of his former self — is dead.
I remember the death vigil TV news crews held for the Duke, and I recall our next-door neighbor in Lafayette, Louisiana, coming home for lunch with the news that Elvis was dead.
But, on a day that’s already been dominated by the death of Farrah Fawcett (and, in my personal rock-and-roll iconography, Sky Saxon), I never imagined I’d hear that Michael Jackson had left the building.