Devotion, grief, and fallen idols

"I don't get it," he said.

I do. I didn't like Michael Jackson -- his music or his lifestyle -- and I'm sure not going to start claiming I do now just because his death has elevated him to rock'n'roll sainthood. I never understood the whole glove thing, or the face sculpting. Half the time, I didn't even understand the lyrics.

But I can understand the grief of those who did like him. I can understand those who still make the pilgrimage to Graceland every August, and I can understand the person who left a red rose on Valentino's grave for decades after his death. I can even understand the obsession with Dale Earnhardt, and I don't understand anything about NASCAR.

Oddly enough, I think this kind of fan adoration is one of the rarest and purest forms of love there is. It is unconditional love, the kind everyone wants to receive, but everyone finds so hard to give. The MJ fans loved him despite the rumors, the oddities, the accusations. His music gave them something that so filled their lives and hearts, they were willing to forgive, forget, overlook, or outright deny that Michael wasn't exactly a saint.

Saints are easy to love. Loving a human hero, clay feet and all, is a lot harder.

In my case, it was John Lennon. If I'd had my way, I would have been at the vigil in Central Park after he was murdered. I would have dropped flowers on the doorstep of the Dakota -- in fact, I did so, four years later, on a trip to Manhattan. Lennon's music helped me define myself as a teenager and gave me a new perspective on my world as an adult. No, it didn't have a good beat and you couldn't really dance to it, not the later stuff, the good stuff. But it spoke to my heart and soul and I felt connected to the odd, quirky Liverpudlian with the terrible taste in women. His sly but sweet grin made my heart flip-flop and his voice, a little reedy, not a great opera tenor here, soothed me. His lyrics expressed the things I was feeling better than I ever could and I was grateful for that.

I remember the day Lennon died, gunned down by a pig in human clothing, and the grief is still real. One particularly redneck and nasty teacher made snide comments about him, the ways some folks are making snide comments about the Michael Jackson fans now, and I was offended and enraged.

So yeah, when it comes to the grief and adoration of MJ's fans, I do understand. When we become fans, we ally ourselves with this person, we invest a bit of our own soul into his, and when that soul leaves, it takes part of ours with it. It doesn't matter if others saw him as a pot-smoking hippie, an alleged child molester with a Peter Pan complex, a tubby rock'n'roller with a penchant for fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, or a rough and ready redneck NASCAR driver -- he was ours and now he's gone, and something in our heart is missing.

Even when the celebrity who dies isn't a personal hero, there can be a sense of personal loss. Ed McMahon was as much a staple in our household when I was growing up as Captain Kangaroo. I had a massive crush on David Carradine in his Kung Fu character, and even though I made fun of early Farrah, I came to respect and admire her work. I remember when "The Burning Bed" came out and the uproar it caused. It probably did more to raise awareness of spousal abuse than any public service announcement ever -- not a bad legacy to leave.

Of course, I wasn't a teenage boy, who might recall the poster and the hair before any public service...

I even feel bad about the loss of Billy Mays, and not just because he was my favorite TV spokesman to ridicule. Why? Because like John, Michael, Ed, Farrah, Dale, Elvis and any celebrity who has died, he was human. He had family.

Whether you liked them or not, whether you approved of their lifestyles or not, they had fans and families who are grieving now. That, I can understand.

--Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer and can be reached at mreeves@t-g.com.