Maybe Michael is at peace now ...

Like most 50-plus-year-olds, I remember Michael Jackson long before the days of "Thriller."

In my adolescence, there was "I Want You Back," ABC," and "Ben," the latter of which always seemed a little creepy to me. After all, Ben was a rat, if I recall.

While the Jackson 5 was way too bubble gum for me in 1969 to the early 1970s, Michael and his family always seemed harmless enough. Their music was a strain of pop along the lines of The Archies, The Cowsills and 1910 Fruitgum Company.

Still, you have to wonder how stardom affects a 10-year-old boy -- particularly in USAmerica where we treat pop stars like little gods. On the other hand, we know how it affects the little gods we make in celebrity culture. Wipe the cobwebs from your mind and the names surface like so many ghosts in a Smoky Mountains cemetery: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Keith Moon. And you don't have to look very far to see the ones that are still alive, but are bent on self-destruction.

I read somewhere that the average lifespan of a rock musician is about 37 years. If true, I guess Michael Jackson beat the system in that regard; however, as he became more and more of a caricature of his own character, I found myself often pitying him. As I watched his physical transformation and obviously troubled soul, I would often wonder what it was that drove him to such bizarre behavior.

I'm not a psychiatrist -- I don't even play one on TV -- but it seemed obvious that there was some sort of self-loathing going on inside his head.

I was washing our cars and thinking about him, which was strange since I never really cared for his music. Then again, it wasn't the music, or the talent, or even the bizarre antics for which many people will remember Michael that was crossing my mind as I wiped the grime away. I was thinking -- no, praying -- that Michael finally found the One who accepted and loved him just as he was, not as he wished himself to be.

Rest in peace, Michael.