If Michael Jackson had lived to 90

It’s a good thing that Michael Jackson didn’t live to be 90.

The year is 2049.

Michael’s fan base, those who have survived, are in their 80s and 90s and 100s.

Yes, the hundreds are the new 70s.

Whole retirement colonies are on the Moon — moon dancing. Indeed, until recently, Michael himself had been moon dancing on the Moon. At Craterland, his moon mansion, he had devised some clever, if slow, moves with his walker.

In 2049, the people who run the Super-Ultra-New Media have zero recall of one Michael Jackson or the Jackson Five or, for that matter, Farrah Fawcett, a forgotten “poster queen” who died 4o years ago.

On the day of Michael’s death, a Super-Ultra-New Media baroness (or baron, knight, matron or whatever) receives a Neural Glitter, Zap or Jolt from a lunar senior complex. The cerebral surge translates into “Hey, check out this guy Jackson who just died up here.”

Checking out Jackson means locking into the baroness’s little used “music memory cortex.” “Hmmmm,” thinks the baroness, “this Jackson might be worth downloading to micro senior demographic consciousness modules.”

Music, per se, no longer exists for the baroness or anyone else under 50. What old-timers call “music” is at best quaint, at worst, passé.

“Noise,” something like loud tinnitus, is "in" and, like tinnitus, can't be turned off.

For the baroness, “experiencing” the archived quick-stepping Jackson is best compared to listening to madrigals or Gregorian chants in, say, 2009.

No, Michael Jackson’s departure happened during its last economically viable window of opportunity — mus/biz wise.

As we’ve seen, endlessly, he still had caché,

Had his death come much later, we wouldn’t find ourselves in this bizarre “Michael Jackson is dead; Long live Michael Jackson!” moment.

As they say, timing is everything.