Michael Jackson died at least 12 years ago. The bizzare, Dorian Gray-like decay we’ve been observing for the last dozen or more years has all been post-mortem.

Like Bill Clinton and the Lewinski sordidness (where he believed that oral sex was not sex), Jacko was likely convinced that he was not a pedophile because he probably never had outright sex (as in sodomy) with his little friends. I’m sure he felt he deserved a pass for the occasional fondling in the shower (or taking a shower with litttle boys to begin with), and the “sweet,” “innocent” sleepovers in the same bed between a grown, unrelated man and small boys. Why pretend? He was a pathetic, repugnant degenerate, and never talented enough, or truly important enough for that stain to be forgiven.

Even so — even so, I feel the tragedy of how he turned out when I listen to a little-heard a capella song of his, “She’s Out of My Life,” which belongs in the same class as McCartney’s “Yesterday.” Short, succinct and sad, and completely different from the frenetic glitz of his big hits we’re supposed to “celebrate,” and be in awe of.