Hollywood
The news cycle of a dead celebrity is a curious thing. One minute I am calmly watching Kelvin Mackenzie laying into Julia Goldsworthy about a rocking chair on Question Time, the next minute Michael Jackson is dead and I’m on a plane to LA. Los Angeles is a terrible place for a celebrity to die. It is an 11-hour flight and an eight-hour time difference, which naturally runs the risk of the celebrity being too dead by the time you land. Locked in airspace — in ignorance — you never really know how a story is playing out on the ground.
12 hours later
We arrive to find the OMG! (ohmygod) text-speak of shock already gone, but the fans are out in full force. We head to Hollywood Boulevard where they cluster around his star on the walk of fame. They are a happy bunch, actually; his music is everywhere and his sudden death has liberated people to embrace the 1980s with a benevolent buzz of nostalgia.
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