I was just beginning to appreciate Michael Jackson: his music, his genius, his vision.
I went along with the crowd all too often when I was young. There’s no way, at mostly-white, very conservative, Notre Dame, in the early 1980s, that I would have really, really listened to Michael Jackson.
I just started listening to Michael Jackson at a gym I belong to. Before he died.
Before he was killed. Murdered.
Not only are things looking very menacing for Michael Jackson’s doctor, Conrad Murray, I’ve learned the expected indictment of the King of Pop’s personal physician is causing quite the stir within the Jackson family.
‘‘There’s a lot of finger-pointing,’’ said a longtime family associate Monday. ‘‘Everyone from Jermaine to Joe to Katherine Jackson herself are blaming all kinds of people — including each other — for not stepping in earlier, when it was obvious Michael was being overmedicated, even more than usual.’’
After reports surfaced Monday that the Los Angeles County coroner had ruled Jackson’s death a homicide, ‘‘you could almost hear the squeak of the rope in the noose tightening around Murray’s neck,’’ said the Jackson source.
The metaphor seemed apt, as the coroner’s long-awaited forensic tests determined a fatal combination of drugs given to the music superstar hours before he died included the powerful anesthetic propofol, along with two other sedatives Murray has admitted administering to Jackson.
Michael, I’m sorry. With all the family members pointing fingers at each other, let me be the one to say, “Michael, I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry I let my opinion of you be defined by the irresponsible members of the media, always looking for their next lynching victim.