The day after Michael Jackson’s death, a local radio deejay made this observation, “In less than a month, we’ve lost David Carradine, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. The seventies are officially dead.” The statement struck a chord with me.

Despite his age, I was surprised to hear of Carradine’s passing. His appropriately thin, zen-inspiring image almost seemed capable of transcending death. It saddened me to learn that Farrah had finally succumbed to the cancer she’d been fighting, valiantly, for years. She seemed to have felt joy in life.

Michael Jackson’s death made me angry.

I watch very little television, and have made no exception for the smothering blanket of press coverage foisted upon us by all the major news organizations. It boggles the mind that CNN devoted nearly two entire days to Michael Jackson, as North Korea perfects its nuclear aim and Iranians continue to die while their president attempts to bully Americans with sophomoric word games. But, I haven’t been able to avoid the travesty entirely.

My son just discovered Michael Jackson’s music last year, when “Fall Out Boy” did a cover of “Beat It”. He asked to hear the original version, deemed it superior, and ended up downloading the entire “Thriller” album onto his IPOD. Thursday evening, while returning home from dinner out with a friend and his mother, Shane heard the news of Jackson’s death on the car radio. He was bursting with the announcement when he came home, and seeing he was affected, we watched some of the news coverage together.

The piece was a retrospective, and when Joe Jackson’s seemingly perpetually angry visage filled the screen, I identified the emotion I’d been carrying for most of the day.

Over the last twenty years, much as been written about Joe Jackson’s alleged maltreatment of his children. And, the maladjustment and/or mental illness apparent in many of their lives appear to bear out the accusations. Michael Jackson’s life, as told by the media, and often in his own words, seems a portrait of tortured misery that began when childish joy urged his feet to dance.

Nothing angers me more, or saddens me more deeply than hearing of violence perpetrated on children by the people they love most in the world, and are most dependant upon. This is one reason I avoid local newscasts. Unfortunately, the stories are common. It is also one reason I struggle with religion and the belief in a benevolent God. I’ve never been able to understand why a child would be born, only to die at the hands of his own parents.

Recently, I discussed this with a very wise woman who put things into perspective. As she explained it, God created man, initially. But man, and the choices he makes through the gift of free will, sometimes creates monsters.

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