Because I can't NOT talk about it...

Disclaimer: There are no baked goods in this article. I have a recipe all lined up, and you will have it soon, but sometimes there are current events too big to ignore just because they don't have anything to do with baking.

Well friends, for those of you who haven't yet heard, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Michael Jackson has died. I know, I know, it comes as a shock, especially since the event has received very little press and one is extremely hard pressed to find mention of it anywhere on the internet. But it's true.

I have mixed feelings. A very close friend of mine was damn near inconsolable yesterday. She has been a devoted MJ fan for decades, and his death hit her hard, as I know it did many others across the country and around the world. I do not wish to belittle or undermine their very genuine grief in any way...but I just don't feel it myself.

Like every child of my generation, I spent many an evening practicing my moonwalk across the kitchen floor, watching the reflection of my feet in the oven (never did I advance far beyond walking backwards, though, despite my best efforts); I can still tell you the exact circumstances under which I first saw the Thriller video; and I still know all the words to You Are Not Alone from the mid-nineties resurgence of Jackson popularity in the wake of the HIStory album. But that's about where it ends. I was never a die-hard Michael Jackson fan. If anything, Janet was my Jackson of choice. I don't even think I ever owned one of Michael's albums, and, even as a young child, I found all the crotch-grabbing vulgar and disconcerting (what can I say? I was born a bit of a prude...but in a 3rd wave-feminist kind of way (i.e. rock on if it works for you; I just choose to keep my hands away from my crotch in public, thanks)).

And then there were the allegations of molestation. I'm a social worker, folks, and I have been an elementary teacher and a rape crisis counselor. Rule 1 of all three of those professions is that children don't lie about molestation. Now, is it conceivable that parents may wish to exploit the wealth of someone like Jackson by making false allegations? Of course. But, in the words of my friend Jill, "While it was never proven in court that he actually molested anyone, even from his own testimony it was clear that his relationships with children were inappropriate at best."

Now, I've seen Jacksons: An American Dream like everyone else who's ever spent more than five minutes watching VH1, and I can appreciate both the cultural impact and the personal hardship and tragedy that made Jackson who he was, but I do not believe that any amount of personal struggle EVER excuses harming a child. Nor does any amount of fame or fortune negate the commission of such a crime. Try as I might, I cannot separate my appreciation for Jackson's talent from my suspicion of his guilt.

And yet, when a celebrity as iconic as Michael Jackson dies, it tends to make people mourn, not so much for the individual who has passed, but more for what the death represents in terms of one's own lost youth, imminent mortality, bygone eras, etc. In the southern humor classic, Elvis is Dead and I Don't Feel So Good Myself, author and comedic genius Lewis Grizzard recounts his experience of Presley's death, noting that he was shocked to realize that the women who mourned the King's passing were not young teeny boppers, but middle aged women, who were not mourning Elvis nearly so much as they were mourning the loss of the bygone days of rolled-down bobby socks, saddle shoes, and poodle skirts. And in making this realization, Grizzard himself came to understand that if the great Elvis were so mortal as to die of a heart attack, then he too would someday die, and the carefree glory of immortal youth was, in fact, gone forever.

I think it is fair to say that Jackson's passing has had a very similar effect on our culture, and especially on people like me who have never known a world in which Jackson was not the King of Pop, in which Thriller was not the best-selling album of all time, in which Billie Jean is not our lover. For all the weirdness, the scandal, the suspicion, and the tragedy, Jackson defined a decade, a generation, an era, and with his passing comes an uninvited reminder of the impermanence of everything we know, including ourselves.

And yet, I've had a medley of Michael Jackson songs stuck in my head all day. The tide of YouTube tribute videos has not yet stemmed, and I would venture to guess that iTunes is ablaze with Jackson downloads as I type. Suddenly, it's like 1984 all over again. And it gives me great pleasure to think that, even with all the sadness and musings on death and mortality that Jackson's passing has brought, somewhere, right now, a new generation of children are practicing their moonwalk in front of the oven.