There is one thing missing from endless coverage of the life and death of Michael Jackson. In the millions of words that have been written so far and the millions of photographs ricocheting around the world, where is “Wacko Jacko”? That nickname became a tabloid favorite in the late 1980s when MJ was busy making great records, influencing untold numbers of young artist and, oh yeah, sleeping in hyerbariatic chambers and playing house with Bubbles the Chimp. Since that time, no matter what Jackson did, good or bad, you couldn’t walk by a newsstand or click on a news website without WACKO JACKO burning up your corneas.

Now he is gone and all of a sudden the media wants to play nice. Nothing in the last few weeks has been written that doesn’t include reference to his well-known bizarre behavior and disturbing interest in young boys, but mostly it’s all been about his tremendous talent, his impact on music, his lost childhood. Where are the jokes about parenting choices, skin tone and interchangeable noses? Heaping accolades on the dead doesn’t give you a free pass or excuse the culture of garbage that lifted him to the heavens and then with sharpened claws and a wide smirk, dragged him back down. To be clear, Michael Jackson courted much of his press, at least at the beginning. The story about buying the remains of the Elephant Man and that famous photo of him sleeping in the oxygen chamber were fed to the media by his own staff. But what began as a playful, albeit strange, way of keeping relevant and in the public eye quickly turned ugly and personal. No wonder he retreated to Neverland.

Considering his abusive upbringing and history of parasitic relationships, it’s almost ironic that he could be surprised by the absolute betrayal by those he trusted. Beginning with his father, Jackson was surrounded by people more motivated by money than his best interests. No one truly knows what went on in Gary, Indiana, during Michael Jackson’s early years, but that Joe Jackson was an abusive bastard is a safe bet. He recognized talent in his older sons, but when Michael sang and did those James Brown moves, and the money started flowing, there was no going back. There are rumors that Joe would sit in a chair during rehearsals with a belt across his knees promising a beating if the boys did something wrong. One can only wonder what a calm hand and loving support would have created.

So never having the opportunity to flourish emotionally, Michael spent much of his adult life trying to get his childhood back. He named his home Neverland because to a man trapped in a boy’s psyche, Peter Pan is a hero, not a flawed character. He produced the greatest-selling record of all time, changed the way we consume music and we loved him, mostly, but, drunk with celebrity worship as we are, being great isn’t nearly as fun as being odd, and his personal pain, that we would have recognized in any guy on the street, became a gag reel.

So now he’s gone, and the mainstream media is weeping and writing tributes.

But how does one eulogize someone as complicated as Michael Jackson? First, I would point out that no matter what Reader’s Digest would have us believe, ordinary Joes don’t change the world. Albert Einstein, Leonardo Da Vinci and Wright Brothers, all oddballs. And second, if you really want to know the man, ignore everything but the music.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Leah James is a special contributor to Clear Channel Radio Fairbanks. Write to her at 101magic@clearchannel.com.