I’m not normally starstruck. And when my husband told me, twenty minutes ago, that Michael Jackson had been found not breathing at his home, having suffered cardiac arrest, I didn’t feel a whole lot of sympathy for him.
The reason? I’ve been convinced for the last twenty years or so that Michael Jackson died after Thriller, and that the person we’ve been calling MJ is the clone.
But now that the word is out that they couldn’t revive him, that he might be dead, it’s hit me. This is the boy who sang me through my childhood. Fine, so he was four years older than me, and Randy is closer to my age, but Michael Randy ain’t, and fifty is way too young to die.