I thought I should probably write something about yesterday's Michael Jackson memorial "show", but I don't think I've quite recovered from it yet.
I watched it online via a live feed from the Washington Post website while, in another window, tweeting about it along with practically every other Twitter user (or so it seemed).
I found the whole thing sad, fascinating, and utterly disturbing. I guess that's kind of an appropriate send-off, since I'd say the same about the way Michael Jackson lived his life, particularly in later years.
But it was uncomfortable viewing. I couldn't help wondering when many of the people giving tearful eulogies last saw him. I suspected that some saw it as an opportunity to further their careers. I thought it was completely wrong that his children were there, their faces uncovered, when he'd gone to such lengths to protect their privacy while he was alive (and, yes, I appreciate this may have been their decision). I resented it every single time anyone gave their condolences to Michael's gum-chewing father, Joseph, who was sitting on the front row with the rest of the family. I wasn't wild-about the Christ imagery of many of the photographs shown on the big screen and everyone getting up on stage to sing We Are the World was just so wrong. As author Jojo Moyes said on Twitter, "Please, Lord, tell me who thought it would be a good idea to make Jackson's children sing and dance in front of his casket."
And then, of course, there was poor Paris's tribute to her father. I hope she wanted to do it and she wasn't pushed into it by the family, but it broke my heart.
