Slice of Laodicea

There have been a lot of commentaries written in the past few days about the public grief-a-thon for the man one British columnist called, “The Little Weirdo,” Michael Jackson.

The commentaries consistently point out the idiocy, not to mention tragedy, of the world’s empty shells erected as gods. Only a short time ago, the tabloids that are now edged in black crepe were running headlines like, “Wacko Jacko Dangles Baby From Balcony” or “Michael Jackson’s Nose Completely Collapsing!” Now he belongs to the ages, and that’s all part of the mystique.

Here’s one such commentary on the obsession with celebrity that has produced the unprecedented media coverage on every aspect of Michael Jackson’s death and funeral. Crotch grabbing and slithering across the floor set the public imagination on fire and now that the crotch grabber is dead, the world “mourns.” Needless to say, we’re a little short on Churchills these days.

Here’s a UK columnist’s take on the pursuit of fame by so many, even as the human train wrecks of the famous litter the landscape.