I had just awakened from a lengthy nap on a hot summer day and turned on the tube to reconnect with the world.

       The usual afternoon fare was replaced by shots of a hospital and breathy reports about a star being rushed there, unconscious.

       A short time later would come word that the celebrity in question had, indeed, died.

      June 25, 2009 felt an awful lot like August 16, 1977.     

      Yesterday, it was Michael Jackson.     32 years ago, it was Elvis Presley.

      Both were megastars.    Both decided to make themselves prisoners of their own fame.    Each had professional ups and downs.      Personal choices and personality quirks fueled the tabloids between their musical accomplishments.    Both died way too young.

       Elvis was past his peak by the time I plugged into pop culture.     He was a Vegas fixture, bloated and forgetting the lyrics to his most popular songs.      When he died that hot August afternoon, I didn't quite fathom how  big his passing was.     I would get a crash course on just how large his contribution was to rock and roll in the days that followed.

       So it is with my son and Michael Jackson--as he watched Thursday's coverage he said the King of Pop was a past-prime punchline.    He wasn't around for the Jackson 5 on variety shows, or the first "moonwalk" or "Thriller" or the ornate music videos.       He only knew of the recent Michael Jackson--the one who morphed his appearance, who seemed to be in court more often than he was on stage.      The guy who seemed to be perennially on the comeback trail.       

       And so, the cycle repeats.    Big star.    Big career.    Big issues.    Premature death.    

       32 years.    The name changes.    The story arc doesn't.    

      Two different summer days.     The same very sad ending.