I see that singer Michael Bublé has decided to quit singing and the limelight. I can quite understand why. At a time when his beloved son was close to death from cancer, Bublé found himself in a blizzard of “well-meaning” Press attention, with articles sensitively entitled “Michael’s Torment“, “Michael Looks Depressed As He Leaves Hospital” and the always-popular “Will Michael Bublé Ever Be Able To Sing Again?” (“No” being the eventual answer to this question, as it happens.)
Under those circumstances, Bublé discovered that while his fame sold albums and made him rich, the price he had to pay was the complete loss of privacy and even dignity. For attention-whores like the Kardashians and their ilk, this celebrity and attention might have been accepted, even welcomed; for him, facing that most awful and personal of tragedies, the scouring of his anguish and its parade in the tabloids must have been torture — and his desire to quit the spotlight both literally and figuratively is both understandable and even laudable.
And good for him, say I. His wealth is secure, his family likewise; but should his young son ever get nailed by cancer again — a horrible possibility — I can only hope that he and his wife can deal with whatever happens in solitude and isolation. I don’t even want to hear about it, for that matter. Whatever happens, Michael Bublé deserves his privacy, and I can only hope that the Media Vultures leave him alone from now on.
I for one will refuse to read anything about him and his family ever again. I can’t escape the future headlines, should they occur, but I don’t have to reward the Jackals Of The Press by reading about the details. He deserves the anonymity he craves, and I’m happy to grant it to him.
Michael, I wish lasting happiness, health and peace to you and your family; and thank you for sharing your magnificent talent with us while you did.