Ed McMahon was 86, so we kind of knew he was in the final stretch.

Farrah Fawcett openly shared her medical problems, and what she didn't give us, some sneaky UCLA employee stole. So we were all aware that she was ill, admired her courage, were sad to see her slip away by inches, but knew it was coming.

But Michael Jackson? That one came out of left field.

I vaguely remember Michael Jackson from when he was a little boy, part of the Jackson 5. I always liked his music fine, but I had great admiration for his performing skill. He could work an audience like nobody else, except maybe Mick Jagger. Michael Jackson didn't need to rip off parts of his clothing to get attention; he left that to his sister. His moves and charisma were enough to pull focus from anything else going on within 100 miles.

But he always seemed so sad and lonely, and his legal troubles seemed to bear that out. Guilty or innocent, he came across as a desperate, lost soul. Michael had so much of what most of us think we want in life — or at least an abundance of work, talent, creativity and money — and yet there was no perceptible joy. He tried to create a childlike Disneyland for himself, his own private Neverland, and even that ultimately brought him trouble.

Fifty years is a short life by today's standards. I can't help but think that he died of a broken heart. He was so talented, but so emotionally challenged, and it seems his fame was ultimately what killed him. It's strange how fame can take over and twist a life.

I never met Michael Jackson, but I'm going to miss him. I just never thought that he wouldn't be around forever.