So the man who sang and wore a cape is dead.

Are we destined to chew on that one for a decade? And trot it out annually and have celebratory fountains in parks and have concerts featuring creepy old pop stars?

Are we destined to see the old guy on magazine covers as we re-ponder all of the assorted scandals and highlights of his life?

Ah, no. That is all reserved for the other one. The one whose fine ass he grabbed one time, and got slammed in the press. All because no doubt, there were plenty of editors who would've loved to have copped a feel. But never got the chance to hug the little hoochy mama.

All this death worship- maybe we are indeed Egyptians at heart still.