Like we said yesterday, we’re alive and Michael Jackson is dead. Still dead, despite the continued almost predatory media coverage, the necrophiliac-themed news, the morbid attempts to turn him into… what? Elvis? Hey, nobody wants to die on a toilet (JFK must hate that he had to).

CNN may as well be renamed MJNN. Though I’m not going to spend too much time decrying the sensationalistic nature of the media. In too many ways, it’s just a reflection of ourselves.

All of the fanfare about Michael Jackson – mostly positive looking back on his life, but a lot of it not so much – makes me think: Is this really just practice for Patrick Swayze?

Also, as i was touching the very touching memorial to Michael Jackson the other day, the morbid side of me did have to wonder who would be the next celebrity death that would raise the bar of mourning and passing on? The only one I can think of off the top of my head is Paul McCartney.

Conrad Noir tells me that Michael Jackson is – in death – black again. The reclaiming started at the BET awards last week and concluded at the memorial. It’s the opposite of Obama coming into office, he tells me, but just as cathartic.

Will little Paris become the next John John?

Part of me hopes not. Let’s face it, this girl will never have what we all call “an ordinary life,” because she comes too extraordinary of circumstances. Hopefully history will give her a breather, let her and her siblings have some peace and grow up in private. We already have enough daughters of dead rock stars. Let’s get back to talking about Iran and the economy and important things, like looking at pictures of Lindsay Lohan getting out of cars.

And let’s the good and the bad of Michael Jackson’s legacy be swept away into it’s place in history, another song on the radio, one last memory of something gone by set to music, but with a good beat that you can dance to.