Rather than receive the therapy he so desperately needed, he projected

his needs onto real children and apparently sought to repair himself through them. His sometimes odd relationships with children -- including his defense of sleeping with little boys -- will always be a postscript on any appraisals of his immense talent.

Whether Jackson's good works -- not just his artistry but his charity -- outweighed his peculiarities will be measured elsewhere. Meanwhile, his life -- more than his death -- is a wake-up call, but not about prescription drug abuse.

Whatever killed Michael Jackson was merely an instrument of self-destruction. The real disease was his own wracked soul that pivoted between a drive to push himself to preternatural levels and an almost fetal recoil from the demands of adoration.

The message I suspect even Jackson would hope we get is that children need a childhood, not fame. They need two loving parents, not material things.

Jackson's life is a testament to genius, yes, but also to a culture best characterized by misplaced priorities. The loss of innocence and our obsession with fame and celebrity are the real plagues, for which drug abuse and other pathologies are but symptoms.

By all accounts, Jackson was painfully empathic toward children's suffering and, apparently, sought his own relief in their company. Unfortunately, there was no shortage of peers. Millions of lost boys and girls are wandering in the neverland of instant gratification unbuffered by responsible adults. Most won't meet such dramatic ends. Few can afford to indulge their inner child for long or to subsidize the extreme expressions that Jackson underwrote.

But the afflictions of loneliness and delayed maturity born of inadequate nurturing are the same for many. Until we cure those, prescription drug abuse is the least of our problems.