I don’t know about you but I feel pretty empty and burnt-out. I’m glad that Michael Jackson has finally been buried, that the messy and super-hokey and surprisingly moving tribute service at the Staples Center in L.A. went off without any Soy Bombs (or worse). But the bit at the end of the service, where his daughter spoke? Holy frijole. I cried like a baby at her few, succinct words; the poor girl has lost her father at a young age.

I have this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, though, right now. Because I know at some point we’re going to find out something close to the truth about what his life’s been like the last twenty years, from what seems like extreme and eccentric loneliness to the abuse allegations. I mean, surely people who worked for him are not going to keep silent? I don’t really want to know about this stuff but I’ll of course have to find out — read the books, watch the specials.

Right now, no matter how many times I listen to “ABC” or “I Want You Back” — songs where a child brilliantly mimicked the vagaries of adulthood — I still am left just with this weird feeling, nothing more.

—DJ Yeti