I'm not sure what I'm more sick of, the rainy weather or the extreme coverage the death of Michael Jackson is getting. In both cases I say enough already; I don't really care.

I was never a big Michael Jackson fan. Even when he was a small child, I thought him to be a novelty act as singing children are considered. Then, he got weird. In fact, Michael got too weird even for me, and I'm a guy who likes women's feet.

The whole, "Ooh, I've never had a childhood so I'm going to have a monkey" left me cold. Danny Bonaduce from the Partridge Family never had a childhood either, but even he looks sane in comparison.

What no one is saying about Michael Jackson is that he was a freaking train wreck. If you can make a guy like me look stable, sexually sane and normal -- and lacking a detachable nose -- then you have lived a life that can only be compared with the "Wreck of old 97."

And it was all by his choice. No one believed his skin was lightening because of some terrible illness. We all knew he was bleaching it, by choice. His hair was a stringy mess, similar to the straw wig he wore in "The Wiz." And if I was going give myself a new nose, I wouldn't have chosen one that made me look as if the doctor had pulled me out of my mother by pinching it.

Michael Jackson should have been voted off the island the first time he had a pajama party with Macaulay Culkin. I'm into some weird stuff -- and why shouldn't I be? I'm a grown adult male. I'm all boy, unless

Advertisement
of course, you are among the selected few who have pictures that would indicate otherwise. But everything that butters my bread is legal in 49 of the 50 states. (I have a little trouble in Utah, but since Marie Osmond didn't respond to the homemade videos I sent her, I should be all set).

I have heard some people during the death coverage refer to Wacko Jacko's sleepovers with the members of Cub Scout Pack 765 of Santa Barbara as being peculiar. Peculiar? That's like saying slavery was the South's peculiar practice.

And what's wrong with the parents of the poor kids who watched the Power Rangers TV show at the Neverland ranch? As soon as some PR man called me and said Michael Jackson wants my 11-year-old son to sleep over, I would have responded with the gentle, click-clack of a shotgun shell being placed into its chamber. I wouldn't have considered it cool or taken it as a compliment, as some parents seem to have. We would have had this round-the-clock coverage sooner because, unlike some parents, I'm peculiar.

Sure, you can argue that I should have more respect for the dead. But it's a safe bet that most, normal Middle Americans are saying oops, better watch out what you inject into your system in an attempt to get a good night's sleep. I sleep as if I'm on death row awaiting execution of my sentence, and God knows some of the sentences I write should be executed, but give me a break. Sleep deprivation is a common problem we all have from time to time, and we don't ask to be put down like a rabid dog just to cop a few winks of sleep.

Michael Jackson's music was nothing I was into. I liked some of his stuff if it came on the radio, but I wasn't going out buying a red space-coat wearing one white glove. By the way, I did hear a rumor that the other white glove was found during the autopsy. Thank God! One of life's great mysteries solved. Now if we could do something about the weather.

And that's the difference. I can stop watching the Michael Jackson coverage by turning off CNN and putting on the Gilligan's Island Channel. I have the power to put in a Ken Burns DVD about the Civil War in an attempt to get away from the Jackson family's fight over the will. And the fight over what neighborhood will allow Michael to be buried there. Most communities don't want that much plastic buried near ground water, so we then have another problem that I'll miss by choosing to watch something else.

The weather I can't switch off. I can't stop the downpour of rain that has wreaked havoc with my fishing trips and summertime fun. I have to deal with it as if I were held captive in my living room, slowing losing my mind. Doing things I've never done before.

Hey, this one white glove thing is actually pretty comfortable. Now if I could get my old knees working, I would Moonwalk through the rain.

Johnnie Carrier is a freelance writer who knows he's being disrespectful, but he doesn't care because he's waterlogged -- both from the rain and from the Michael Jackson coverage.