Gone too soon?

The events of last week had a bunch of the talking heads running at the mouth more than usual this Sunday morning.

One of them, almost dismissively, pointed out that the American public has been "stunned" by the premature death of some pop culture icon every decade, then cited a litany of examples.

The 50s had James Dean.

The 60s had Marilyn Monroe.

The 70s had Elvis Presley.

The 80s had Natalie Wood.

The 90s had Princess Diana.

And, now the first decade of the 21st Century has Michael Jackson.

That list left me pondering, and not so much by the seemingly arbitrary representative selected for each decade. Rather, I spotted a pattern. Do ye socks see it?

It's more obvious if you include the icons' vital dates:
* James Dean (1931-1955), age 24.
* Marilyn Monroe (1926-1962), age 36.
* Elvis Presley (1935-1977), age 42.
* Natalie Wood (1938-1981), age 43.
* Princess Diana (1961-1997), age 46.
* Michael Jackson (1958-2009), age 50.

See it, now?

Collectively, we seem to be pushing that "too young" or "too soon" bar increasingly higher. Maybe, we should be contemplating what *that* says about our culture and us as individuals . . .

RIP Michael Jackson (1958-2009)

For this child of the 80s, Michael Jackson was the Thriller, not the freak show that emerged over the last few decades.

His sudden death yesterday brought to mind a personal encounter with the King of Pop.

Ye socks will have to flash back to the summer of 1991, when yours truly was interning with the Walt Disney World College Program and working at the Kodak camera shop on Main Street in the Magic Kingdom.

This was in the pre-digital era, so park goers would drop off their rolls of film to be developed, and I would hand them a little claim ticket with their name written on it.

Anyway, the encounter occurred one rainy afternoon about 3 o'clock. The daily parade was making its way down Main Street, which meant our store was completely empty of guests. That's when a figure clad in a yellow hooded rain slicker approached my counter to claim his photos, and the name on his claim ticket said "Michael Jackson."

I made some sort of remark at that, "Oh, like the Thriller?"

"JUST like that," he replied as he pulled the hood away from his face.

Yep, that's right. It was Jacko!

I didn't know what to do or say as he perused his snapshots. For once in my life, I was completely speechless.

Anyway, one of his "handlers" paid me for the photos, and he turned to go back to the parade with a wave of his (ungloved) hand and the admonition, "Have a magical day!"

When I looked down at the counter, Michael had left one of the photos. It was a shot of him with McCauley Culkin and Mickey Mouse, almost a foreshadowing of all the crap that would come in the not so distant future.

When I flipped over the picture, I saw MJ had autographed it for me as a memento of our brief encounter.

I ran across that photo last year while I was packing up to move from Apopka to College Park. So, I know it's around my house somewhere. I'm gonna have to do some searching for it over the weekend . . .