We’ve now been one week without Michael Jackson.

I loved the guy’s music. I’m aware that he had some personal problems.

There was the whole plastic surgery thing. You can’t look at a picture of him as a kid, or at the shot of him reclining on the cover of the “Thriller” album (for my money still one of the best of all-time), and wonder how he managed to morph into the odd, almost plastic appearance he took on as an adult.

If there is one thing I have always wanted to do, it’s blow up the huge, reddish blog of a nose that sits square in the middle of my face and have someone build me a new one. But if the alternative is winding up looking the way Jackson did as an adult, I’ll take a pass.

Then there’s his bizarre personal life, including the allegations of child abuse.

Know what? All that should die along with him. What remains is his music.

And the guy undoubtedly was a genius. Find me an album with as many classic songs on it as “Thriller.” Oddly enough, I still find myself singing along to some of those songs on the radio. They are timeless, and will be played along with Sinatra, Elvis, the Beatles and The Boss forever.

Unfortunately, here’s what also likely will go on forever – the ugly, vulture-like obsession with him and his death.

He’s gone. Let it go.

What do you think the chances are of that happening? Thought so.

That’s the glory of 24-hour cable news shows. You soon realize that you need something to fill those 24 hours. So we get all-O.J. all the time.
Followed by all-Chandry Levy all the time. Followed by all-Natalee Holloway all the time.

Now it’s Jackson’s turn. Don’t expect the spotlight to shine anywhere else for months.

Just try to remember the music.