Day six and we’re all still feeding on Michael Jackson. The more we feast, the hungrier we get. I don’t know how much more I can take. But I don’t know how I’ll handle the end of it, if an end is possible.

Have we been here before? What a sense of déjà vu! Even so, this is different because it’s bigger. It’s so big, it’s exploding everything else in its path. Iran, who gives a shit. Health care, just shut up, we need to hear more about Michael Jackson!

Now that he’s dead, he’s more alive than ever. He’s a symbol of everything terrible and tragic. Child abuse, self loathing, exploitation, loneliness, greed, the cult of celebrity, voyeurism, what am I leaving out? The more he’s dead, the more we need to pick at his carcass. There is no stadium large enough to contain all the pathology his death has triggered.

I remember being angry during his trial for child molestation. I was angry at Micheal Jackson, his legal team, the boy who accused him and the boy’s family. That’s all water under the bridge now. Now that he’s dead, who can blame him for anything? He died for our sins. His father beat him into a superstar, and super-stardom turned him into a reverse-Pinocchio whose nose grew shorter until it was gone.

Michael Jackson thrilled us alright. We are more thrilled than he could possibly have imagined. Custody, money, drugs, conspiracies, and the marketing of the marketing. The craziness and the craziness behind the craziness.

I’m sorry, Michael! I don’t want to grow up, either. I wish I could turn away from the spectacle but I need it too much, evidently.