This morning's papers were awash with news about Michael Jackson in the wake of his unexpected death yesterday afternoon at the UCLA Medical facility in Westwood (CA).
Many of the insightful detailed reports echoed each other.
There were eye-witness accounts of mourning fans, thoughts on what amounts to a colossal loss to the creative end of the music industry, reports on weepy candle-light vigils, and up-close and personal interviews with contemporaries who sang the Pop Icon's praises now that he has departed from this mortal coil and passed into spirit.
From where I stood, however, the overwhelming news event smacked more of a celebration of Michael's life & music.
A "wake", if you like.
Indeed, in a mass turn-out in front of the UCLA Medical facility late yesterday afternoon and early into the evening, fans demonstrated their love for a performer who was many things to many different people.
Yes, Jackson was a musical genius, an original given to unexplained excesses, a talented artist prone to self-destruct at any moment, you name it.
Once the news swept out from the inner recesses of the UCLA medical facility that doctors were desperately trying to work their magic to restore life to a frail shell of a human being that was fast expiring - fans descended on the well-manicured courtyard outside the hospital - and began their vigil.
But, what I beheld before me was not a teary-eyed assembly of mourners, grief-stricken beyond comprehension - but rather - a joyous throng of devoted fans who chose to celebrate his life and music the best way they fathomed they could.
The spirited music-lovers mimicked his style (many turned out with gloved hand, signature Fedora-style hat, outfitted in eye-catching outerwear festooned with sequins that glittered like stardust in the mid-afternoon sun), as they sang out the catchy - at times tricky - arrangement of notes and words of a dozen or so of his memorable hits.
Occasionally, emotions took hold - at which point a handful of high-spirited fans - broke into a contagious dance that continued on into dusk.
When the familiar strains of "Thriller" hit the air, the mood shifted gear and the fans went into a wild frenzy.
Young tots, hip teens - even older snazzily-dressed Jackson fans - let loose and danced individually and in pairs (even trios, at times) - inside a "magic circle" like moths drawn to a flame.
At one point, a beaming Afro-American male spied my own lithe bod gyrating to the unique beat of the mega hit from yesteryear and was inclined to give me a nudge.
"Go on, man. Get in there. It's your turn."
Hesitant, but willing nonetheless (dancing is my first love), I stepped into the glare of the spotlight at the heart of the hypnotic beat of the pop hit and danced up a storm.
A roar went up from the crowd.
"That was the beauty of it," I thought to myself.
This "wake" was all inclusive.
At this point, for me anyway, the lines blurred somewhat.
One moment, I was logging the "historical event" from a reporter's point of view for posterity; in the next, I was swept up, across a great divide.
All the walls came tumbling down as I relaxed into the warm and fuzzy moment.
The world shifted.
I was transformed from an unbiased commentator on the sidelines into a bona fide fan capable of appreciating the remarkable compositions of a uniquely gifted musician who had just passed into spirit before his time.
Even still, Michael Jackson's rich legacy of sound - pure in it's creative genius - shall march on.
Such was the potent power of the Prince of Pop's musical gifts.
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