If you’re interested, the entire 911 call has been released, in which an unknown caller indicates that Jackson’s private doctor was in the room when he collapsed and may have seen what happened.
Meanwhile, fans have gathered outside Michael Jackson’s parents’ home in L.A., the L.A. coroner’s office, Jackson’s star on the walk of fame, Jackson’s Beverly Hills home, and the Apollo theater in New York to pay homage to the “King of Pop” in ways both big, and small… and strange.
The dancing impersonators, “Honk if you love Michael Jackson” signs, and middle aged women doing cutesy poses with their cardboard and glitter posters make the whole thing feel like a middle school pep rally. For death.
I have a feeling that MJ is going to evolve (or already has evolved) into an American pop culture mythology– much in the vein of Elvis or Marilyn Monroe– where devoted fans hang velvet paintings of him in their entry ways, make pilgrimages to his home on the anniversaries of his birth and death, and get him tattooed on their forearms. There you go, Megan Fox. You still have one perfectly good forearm that is not yet tattooed with something ridiculous.
In fact, there are already whack-a-doos who are claiming that he faked his own death to escape his crippling debt and to gain the kind of celebrity notoriety that goes along with a mysterious, pill-fed death alone in your bedroom.