Forget the emperor, the people have no clothes

It’s always been taboo to speak ill of the dead, but I say “Why not? What are they going to do, kick you?“

But rather than heap scorn on Michael Jackson, this week I’d rather pick a fight with the living, who have for some reason equated the death of a rather odd — and let’s face it, washed-up — singer with something important, like the election of a president, or the recession or the opening of a new ColdStone in town.

Don’t get me wrong. Michael Jackson’s death was a tragedy for many people, mostly comedy writers. After all, with his gloves and masks, his girly-man persona, and his bizarre behavior, Michael was the goose that laid golden eggs by the carton load for hack jokesters looking for a cheap shot.

But I mean seriously, people, everything after “Thriller” was crap, and that was more than 25 years ago. Are we going to make a similar hullabaloo when the lead singer of Journey croaks?

The national media, with their usual tact and grace, flailed desperately — like a single dad on the dating scene — to make any sort of connection between themselves and Jackson. Some even told stories about the time they almost interviewed Jackson. The stories sounded like old fishermen talking about the one that got away.

Reporter 1: Aye, I thought I had hooked the gloved one in aught-four when I spotted a guy in a mask and a glove at LAX. Turned out to be a leper, instead. Kept muttering something about Lord Foul and a ring. Poor mad fellow…

Reporter 2: I thought I had him at a massage parlor in San Francisco once. Saw someone working there who looked just like him. Figured he was doing an Andy Kaufmann thing, working some gritty real job to stay in touch with the common folk. Turned out it was just an Asian woman that bore a striking resemblance to him.

Reporter 1: What were you doing in a massage parlor?

Reporter 2: Investigative piece.

Reporter 1: Sure.

Reporter 2: Well, I certainly learned what $150 will get you.

And then there was the reaction of the general public. Folks were actually staying home from work to watch the funeral. I’m generally all for finding an excuse to leave work. Stomach cramps, sick cat, a good “Boston Legal” re-run on Ion, whatever. But leaving work to watch Michael Jackson’s funeral is stretching it a bit, even for a lazy sod like me.

However, I do have to say that the memorial services for Jackson were inspiring. I’m sure they gave hope and inspiration to legions of creepy guys who like to sit at the park and stare for just a second too long at the children that perhaps they too one day could be accepted by society if they got rich enough.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy, here. The fact that as a society, we’ll accept any otherwise unacceptable behavior so long as it’s done by someone who’s got money or fame. Even if the money was all frittered away on golden gew-gaws and legal settlements and the fame had two decades worth of dust on it.

Aggrieved fans of “HIStory” will be glad to know that Jim Cook is renaming his child “Pillow Sham” in honor of Michael’s son “Blanket.” To congratulate him, please e-mail