And for a morning, at least, MTV went back to showing music videos.
Infinity is a difficult concept to wrap one's head around, but the swell of responses to Michael Jackson's death -- by the hour, minute, Tweet, etc. -- almost illustrates it. The tributes will not end anytime soon. It has been classy and respectful; it has been nasty and excessive; it has reminded us of our common humanity; it transports us back to first loves and first encounters with racial hierarchy; it's time to return to the real news of the day -- turmoil in Iran, carnage in Afghanistan, gridlock in Washington -- but only after this block of classic Michael.
But Americans also gave up on Michael many versions ago, jettisoning him sometime in the 1990s. The absorption of Nirvana and Dr. Dre into American pop instilled a chauvinism against anything that seemed overproduced or choreographed. As Michael's own scandals ensnared him, he began to seem like a castoff, a former icon best remembered as part of the past. This is when he became the property of the rest of the world, where the winds of fashion weren't quite so finicky, where he was everywhere yet nowhere, a ubiquitous cipher. "You are not alone," he told everyone, at the same time.
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