He is, as he always was, the main event, the tantalizing spectacle. It is Michael Jackson who is under the microscope as we pry, one more time, through his home, his medical records, his body.
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All of us were his enablers, chalking up his grotesque physiognomy to the eccentricities of celebrity or excusing his predatory pedophilic sexual behavior by referring to the brutality of his childhood.
You'd have to make a desperate effort not to know that Jackson had died, and you'd have to make a similarly desperate effort to know that we've bombed multiple wedding parties in Afghanistan.
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