Mr. Jackson certainly was a uniquely talented individual, but he chose to surround himself with sycophants who didn't dare tell him when his lifestyle choices crossed major lines with society. As such, and with the equally untimely death of Ms. Fawcett, we get a fascinating contrast:

Mr. Jackson, collapsing and dying at home, alone but for the coterie of paid staff with which he surrounded himself.

Ms. Fawcett, having spent the last several weeks with loved ones and old friend [[including at least one of her "Charlie's Angels" costars, with whom she hadn't worked for 30-odd years), and dying in the arms of her long-time love and nearly husband.

People are remembering Ms. Fawcett for her body of work, and the news reports mostly ignored the few truly bizarre incidents in her life [[such as the Letterman appeaerance). People are remembering Mr. Jackson, at least newspeople, about half for his music and half for the bizarre lifestyle: the alleged child molestation, the uber-weird interview piece about what a great thing it is to share a bed with a child, dangling the baby off the balcony, and on and on.

Unfortunately for Mr. Jackson, since he chose to live a pop-star version of the life of Michael Corleone, he ended up like Michael Corleone, essentially alone and miserable. At least that's how it appears to this untrained observer.