THE MICHAEL JACKSONS

I first heard Michael Jackson on the radio in the early 60s in San Francisco and later in Los Angeles. He was erudite, sophisticated and verbally skilled. Not unusual for one born in the United Kingdom. But what made this Brit unusual was that he was a first generation "talk radio" host.

Jackson began broadcasting when Rush Limbaugh was barely out of diapers (if indeed the man has ever stopped wearing them). In 1972 the fat and fatuous Limbaugh was a Top 40 deejay hiding behind the air name of "Jeff Christie." That same year Jackson was riding high on top-rated KABC, Los Angeles. This lead to national syndication and critical accolades.

It took 15 years of kicking around--in and out of radio--for jumpin' "Jeff" to become raucous, rowdy Rush. Meanwhile mellow Michael Jackson's philosophy of, "You do not have to be rude to be successful," was validated by rising ratings and revenue.

My career intersected with Michael Jackson's in early 1965. Since then much has been said and written about KHJ's "Boss Radio" format, which we launched in the spring of '65.

Few facts remain of what was on-air, kicked off by our new crew of Boss Jocks. Dig it: The Real Don Steele replaced Michael Jackson. Robert W. Morgan took over mornings, displacing a breakfast show broadcast live from Mr. and Mrs. Steve Allen's breakfast nook in Beverly Hills.

Those days radio comprised a large, lexical, living landscape. There was space enough for all ... and the bigger and better things yet ahead for Jackson, Steele, Morgan, and the Allens. All of them would be honored with "stars" on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Michael Jackson's cement tribute is at 1541 Vine Street between Selma and Sunset.

There are some who would say that Rush Limbaugh deserves to be walked, or even spit, on. To those who oppose his views, saliva is insufficient street scum to suit his sensibilities.

In candor, Morgan and Steele were not saints. They could be kicked around for some of their stunts--the behind the scenes kind. Alas, there is no Limbaugh to stomp on along these Show Biz Boulevards. You see, one must be judged big enough in Hollywood to be awarded a piece of such prestigious pavement.

Of the 2400-plus such honorees, Rush would be listed between Liberace and Linkletter. But Limbaugh appears to have fallen between the cracks (which is not to equate rock cocaine with Oxycontin for those keeping, uh, score).

If one reads the tabloids, watches Entertainment Tonight or is a TMZ blogee, there is no lack of connection between some stars embedded in the sidewalk and those indicted for walking on the wild side of the law. To have one's fame celebrated on a slab fronting a bar is one thing. Spending life behind bars in not nearly as glamorous.

This brings us to that other Michael Jackson. You know, the singer/dancer from the Neverlands. He died Thursday ... along with Farrah Fawcett (of the Angels) and Sky Saxon (of the Seeds).

Fitting. There were things both angelic and seedy about the late, lamented Michael Jackson. He of the white glove and reconfigured face earned not one but two Hollywood stars. Being a member of the Jackson Five qualified him for this double dip. Sorry, but being Elvis Presley's son-in-law didn't earn him a third.

The Walk of Fame star saluting the Michael Jackson who has hijacked all media news for days is located in the pedestrian path fronting "World Famous" Grauman's Chinese Theater, which was prepping for a flashy opening on Friday night, June 26, 2007.

The flick, "Bruno," had a scene in which the lead character conducts a mock interview with Michael Jackson's sister, La Toya. An attempt to obtain Mr. Jackson's cell phone number brought things to a halt when an upset Ms. Jackson up and walked off the set. By late Thursday these events were deemed not fitting. The offensive section was cut out. The splashy opening was delayed. So all day the moon walking Michael's star was covered by scaffolding placed there for the premier.

Thus, a throng of stunned, shocked, grieving fans were left to beat it about Hollywood looking for a spot to place their flowers, cards, candles and other mementos of mourning. I wasn't there. But it must have been a thriller: Tearful fans, held hands on Vine Street, looked to heaven and sang "We Are The World." Only problem is that it was the right song ... for the wrong Mike.

Mega-ditto that!

Michael Jackson, two years older than I, is alive ... alive!

Hoo-ray for Hollywood!