They aren’t mourning the man. Not really. How could they? Mourners are gathering in Los Angeles and New York and elsewhere, weeping over the death of a man they never met, never spoke with, never had any intimate connection to. Yet in the end we knew very little about Jackson, and what we knew was dark and troubling. Hell, what we knew of him is damn right horrifying. You couldn’t love Michael Jackson–not the man.
I came home on a recent summer evening; not to the small row house in Northwest Washington I’ve lived in since moving from New York, but to a downtown bar called the Bottom Line. It’s here that I’ve spent the majority of my Sunday afternoons, sharing time with friends whose last names I will probably never know, individuals who got me through a broken engagement and the implosion of an industry to which I’d dedicated my adult life
There’s little that can rattle those of us who’ve extended our childhood into our adult lives through reading comics. We’ve seen the death and resurrection of Superman and Green Lantern and soon Captain America and Batman. A mysterious group known as “The Illuminati,” led by Iron Man, Dr. Strange and Mr. Fantastic, jettisoned the Hulk into outer space