Yesterday’s clampdown of the news media and worldwide outpouring of grief for a man whose narcissism was so complete he had himself buried in a 14-karat gold coffin like some demented, disfigured, predatory pharaoh was nauseating. Sure, celebrate the music, but defying explanation is the lamenting and hushed, effusive praise for the man, a man so indulgent he reportedly left behind $400 million in debt, a man who admitted sharing his bed with young boys, hired a gay porn producer as his personal videographer, dangled a newborn baby over a third-floor balcony and laid out millions for a settlement rather than clear his name of child molestation charges. But there you go. Such is life in Celebrityville where all is forgiven except attempting to hold yourself to a higher moral standing.

Remove that which has nothing to do with an individual’s character – talent and celebrity – and with Jackson you’re left with someone not a single one of those mourners (outside of family, of course) would stand living next door to. Which isn’t to say there isn’t a place for honoring those in the performing arts who bring joy into our lives. Hell, I’m still not over Jack Lemmon’s death and that was eight-years ago. I get all that. To a point.

This past week has been a troubling reminder of the power of pop culture and a leftist news media ready and eager to enable it. How did things get to a point where someone who lived such a grotesque life receives more favorable coverage than a devoted mother and self-made Governor of Alaska?