Yes, even here in on this far edge of the Arabian peninsula, we're sitting in front of the box, watching. It turns out that the great triumvirate of mourners I had hoped for won't come together; no Diana, no Elizabeth, and, so far, no sign of Liza.
The nattering commentary is, as usually on these occasions, inane to a head-exploding degree - greatest, historic, most, total...
Well. He was, in fact, a great dancer, of a kind; he was an enormous star; he was a dynamically effective presence. Any further judgments - of the songwriter, the phenomenon, the pioneer in shape-shifting (and, yes, the predator, the addict, the profound mess) - will have to wait for time and cooler heads.
What we have, now, undoubtedly, is a deeply troubled man at rest, a mother bereaved, children bereft of, whatever else it was, the familiarity of the only life they have ever known - and profligate expressions of what might be for some grief, for others hysteria, for most a curious wonder at how we get caught up in these little madnesses.