Jackson's sad odyssey at an end

I never really got Michael Jackson.

I wasn't that big a fan of his music, except for some of the early stuff with the Jackson Five. I was sort of repelled by his apparent obsession with plastic surgery, and I figured he was guilty at the very least of some incredibly inappropriate behavior with young boys.

My favorite story about him -- the one I thought really said a lot -- was the time he invited Elizabeth Taylor to dinner. The table was set for four and the guests were Jackson, Taylor and two chimpanzees.

Jackson himself didn't come to dinner, leaving Taylor to eat dinner with the two chimps.

I felt like the last significant contribution he made to music was at least 20 years ago, yet millions of people have been mourning his death for more than a week now. His greatest album, "Thriller," does nothing for me. I don't think it measures up against albums like "Born to Run," "Sergeant Pepper" or "Tommy," to name a few.

It isn't a black-white thing, either. I think Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" is one of the greatest albums ever, and Stevie Wonder has made much better music than Jackson over a longer period of time.

Jackson was always a little too androgynous for me, and even though he was never convicted of pedophilia, he bought off at least one accuser with an eight-figure settlement.

I even thought his title -- King of Pop -- was sort of a left-handed compliment. "Pop" music was the stuff that wasn't quite rock 'n' roll or rhythm and blues. Pop music was Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow, Celine Dion and Mariah Carey.

Sort of like being the King of Marvin Gardens.

People are comparing Jackson to Elvis Presley, who died 32 years ago this summer, but anyone who thinks there is a serious comparison wasn't around when Presley was in his heyday. Elvis not only ruled the music charts, he made about two dozen movies whose only purpose was to get Elvis out there in front of his fans.

No, Jackson was no Elvis Presley.

He may have been the perfect symbol of our graceless age, a talented misfit who made hundreds of millions of dollars and spent most of it. A musical prodigy who was mostly spent by his 30th birthday. A man who never really related to women, whose arrested development left him comfortable only with prepubescent boys.

His choice of name for his home said it all.

Elvis had Graceland.

Michael had Neverland.

That says a lot.