The ride home on the A train last night was symbolic of our modern media age: I sat next to my son, each of us plugged into an earpiece of his aqua “gummie” earphones (the latest rage, I’m told), watching a video on his Ipod. It was Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” As two generations of Michael Jackson fans, we were paying perhaps a final homage to his brilliance and magic—and sadness. We were, quite by accident, in Harlem last night as thousands of fans lined up for Michael’s tribute at the Apollo Theatre. Truth be told, we were there to bowl—a birthday celebration for my own Mike at the Harlem Lanes. But to get there we had to squeeze by the rain-soaked and teary-eyed, queued up 3 blocks away, determined to pay their last respects. The last time I’d done that was for Rosa Parks—seven hours in a slow-step towards the Capital Rotunda—getting in at the very last minute, past 2AM, to see her lying in state. And for many, Michael Jackson was as much a civil rights icon as a musician. Much of the talk in the days after his death spoke of his breaking down barriers in music, getting MTV to play his videos, the first for a black musician, promising in his lyrics, it didn’t matter if you were black or white. We forget, in the age of Obama, how segregated we were in our music before Michael Jackson. After our night of bowling, we walked up 125th towards the Apollo. Even though the program inside was over, hundreds kept vigil outside. A gigantic strip of white plastic had been erected against an adjacent wall of the theatre, and people were writing their good-byes: “Dear Michael, I came all the way from the Caribbean to bid you farewell. Like the rest of the world, I’ll miss you dearly.” The young woman who wrote that asked a stranger to take her picture next to her missive. Further down the wall another, less enchanted person had written: “Black is beautiful. You should not have changed your color.” My favorite was: “Peace, Moonwalker.” The only thing I could think to say, of the thousands of things that could be said, was: “God bless. “ I asked my son what he had written. His salute to a fallen music hero: “You’re still #1.” And, indeed, he is. Courtesy of the totally predictable madness in our media, a bereft following, and savvy investors, everything Michael Jackson shot up to the tops of all lists; specials devoted to his life and death carried networks to unprecedented ratings wins. Those of us who sighed privately, “Just leave him alone, now,“ had a moment of relief when some pundit finally said that no matter how much debt he’d been in, his estate will reap gazillions, his children won’t go hungry. I was happy we were in Harlem for the farewell: it is the place you want to be when something happens in the family. When Barack Obama won, for instance. That night I sat in my sister’s apartment watching the returns. Outside, horns were honking, people were cheering. Inside, my sister was sobbing. I’d be living there myself, except that when I moved back to New York at the top of the real estate market, I couldn’t afford it. As Mike and I moved west along 125th Street we ran into the eager small businessmen and women hawking Michael tee-shirts and posters, alongside leftover Obama inauguration merchandise. It seemed like perfect marketing. On the corner of 125th and 7th an impromptu photo-shoot had been set up: you could pose in front of a massive picture of MJ—and my son did. We got the $20 version because it’s a truly cool memento. It reminded me of a highlight of my daughter’s childhood. It had to have been over 25 years ago. Our friend Jayne bought tickets to take Elizabeth, a trueblue 8 year old Michael adorer, to the Jackson concert in the Meadowlands. Jayne hired a half-block long limousine for the two of them—and with much of the neighborhood (and this was Union Square, not the suburbs) waving—off they went. Elizabeth reported that as they drove up to the stadium the limousine got rushed, fans thinking she was a little Jackson. And in the photos of that night I can see the resemblance to the eight year old Michael, including that irresistible big smile. We all know there was tragedy, sadness, loneliness and strangeness. But I guess, as we’ve come to this sudden end, I’m with the person who wrote on the wall, “Peace, Moonwalker.”