Elvis was before my time.  When he was swiveling his hips on TV, I was still in diapers.  By time he surged back to prominence in the sixties, I was pissed that he was displacing the British Invasion superstars.  But when he died it was weird.  He was so young!

I heard the news as I was pulling into my parking place on a gray West L.A. afternoon.  I must say I was shocked.  But I was not shaken to the core.  The death of Michael Jackson was like driving down the freeway and being pushed by the hand of God right off the road.

Left alone on Friday night, with the push-pull of the real world having receded, I got that strange feeling, you know the one, where you just can’t be alone, because you’re afraid of what you might do.

I immediately made plans.  But it wasn’t until hours later, having exerted myself physically in the mountains, that I calmed down.  And when I started reading the paper Saturday morning, I was fine until I got to that story on MJ, when suddenly it felt like aliens had stolen most of my essential juices and my insides were caving in.

I was born before Michael Jackson.  And I’ll die after him.  JFK was my parents’ hero, I knew it was a huge loss, but I enjoyed the day off from school.  Elvis was born in the thirties.  But Michael Jackson could have been that kid down the street, who you tickled when he was young, but grew up to be a world-beater.

They won’t let you make a Hollywood movie with an unhappy ending.  But in real life, we’ve got an endless series of tragedies.  Our heroes expire long before their time, having drowned their loneliness in alcohol and drugs.  The pain is just too severe.  Having to carry the hopes and dreams of the world upon your shoulders.

But if our heroes are gone, if they’re just as fragile as we are, where does that leave us?

That’s what I realized.  If Michael Jackson died, I could too.

I know, I’m not famous.  I know, I’m not a drug addict.  But I’m human.  Despite all the craziness, that’s one thing that showed through.  Michael Jackson was human. Displaying the flaws that used to be airbrushed out of the media stories, but are shown every day on the streets of your town.  Maybe that’s part of his legacy.  Something that the Internet has taken over from the tabloids.  The tearing down of cultural heroes, to illustrate they’re no better than you or me.

The stars of tomorrow may not feel the entitlement of the older generation.  Those film and TV stars with good looks, but little talent.  Who feel they’re entitled to their privileged status.  Who want to protect it at all costs.  Then again, will we have a star of Michael Jackson’s magnitude in the future?  One everybody in the developed world is aware of, and many in undeveloped nations too?

But Michael Jackson had talent.  Boatloads of it.  But talent doesn’t make you happy.  Excelling at sports or music or any pursuit is great, but it won’t ensure a fulfilling family life, it won’t eradicate your anxieties, erase your self-consciousness.  But it’s these problems that motivate stars to excel.  They want to supersede their issues.  And usually, when they realize they can’t solve these underlying problems via their careers, their great days are behind them.

But that’s the story of the creator.

On the other side of the fence, you’ve got the audience.

It’s hard to get people’s attention.  There are issues of quality, of exhibition.  But if something breaks through, and there is underlying talent, we won’t kick it to the curb, we’ll embrace it, hold it close and yearn for more.

Last night I went to the Wiltern to see the band Phoenix.  It drew a throng of twentysomethings.  Moving their bodies to the French art rock sound.  But, after a ten minute encore, after performing for seventy five minutes, the band left the stage and the house lights came up.

I decided to stay by the railing, I wanted to evaluate the audience, see exactly who was supporting this act.  And then I started noticing something.  The girls started shimmying their hips, the guys started throwing their hands in the air, most people stopped leaving, they were all suddenly dancing!

These hipsters were not moving to the sound of an obscure alternative band.  Rather, the hit blasting out of the speakers was totally mainstream, albeit a hit decades before.  Still, it sounded as fresh as the music that had been performed live moments earlier.

Girl, close your eyes
Let that rhythm get into you
Don’t try to fight it
There ain’t nothin’ that you can do

That’s right, the song everybody was grooving to was Michael Jackson’s "Rock With You", a number as sweet as honey, an elixir that implores us to shuck our self-consciousness and just groove!

I wanna rock with you (all night)
Dance you into day (sunlight)
I wanna rock with you (all night)
We’re gonna rock the night away

I didn’t want the song to end.  I didn’t want the joy in the room to evaporate.

If only Michael Jackson had been there to experience it.  He didn’t need fifty nights at the O2, he needed to know even if he were broke it made no difference.  He’d paid listeners with riches no hedge funder could ever accumulate.  People would have taken care of him…if only he’d let them.

As Liza Minnelli said, all hell is going to break loose when the autopsy results are released.  Already, the nanny is spilling her guts.  We’re finding out Michael Jackson’s life was nothing like ours.  And for that I am somewhat grateful, it allows me to separate myself a bit.  Because I was too close.

I didn’t buy "Off The Wall".  "Thriller" neither.  I never purchased a single Michael Jackson record.  But in the wake of his death, I found out he lived in my house.  I couldn’t help but spin "Billie Jean" and "Thriller" endlessly, not only to remember him, but to comfort me.

And I’m not the only one.  Right now, MJ owns nine of the ten top tracks on iTunes.  And yesterday, he had nine of the top ten albums (as of this writing, he has seven).

How did this happen?  How is it we can’t truly appreciate someone until he’s gone?