Remembering Michael

Of course I had to weigh in on this...after I had completed my six stages of grief. RIP Michael!

Twenty five years ago, I came downstairs for breakfast and was met by the grim faces of my parents. “Kids, we have something to tell you,” my mother said as we took our seats around the table. A few moments later while my brothers and I ate our cereal, my father disclosed “Marvin Gaye died yesterday.” And although I am unsure that this is exactly what happened next, my father’s scratchy clock radio began playing a Marvin Gaye medley.

For my parents, news of Marvin Gaye’s death stirred up emotions that I, as a child, could not comprehend. He was a DC native whose rise and fall in the music business had been well-known among his fans, and because I was a faithful Jet magazine reader, I knew that he had been in the mist of a career comeback. However, I had no frame of reference for appreciating his earlier career, so Marvin Gaye was just another old R&B singer. While discussing his death among my friends at school that day, we naively disparaged our parents’ grief. As one friend put it, “It isn’t like he was Michael Jackson.”

Now that Michael Jackson has died, I can only imagine that if I had children, our dinner conversation about his death would have been eerily similar to that breakfast conversation my parents attempted with my brothers and me so many years ago. Although Michael had recently announced that he was embarking on a major comeback, my children probably would have shrugged and kept eating while the endless medley of Michael Jackson songs played on the radio (or the iPod). They would have dismissed the incessant news coverage of an old pop singer as misplaced; it isn’t like he was Miley Cyrus or one of the Jonas Brothers…

Michael Jackson. He is so important that my computer recognizes his name as a complete sentence. Michael Jackson. His success was so enormous that Dick Clark hailed him “Entertainer of the Millennium”, and that moniker is likely to endure unchallenged for the next thousand years. Michael Jackson. His talent and influence were so out of this world that if there is intelligent life anywhere else in the universe, there are aliens millions of light years away still dancing to his music right now (my apologies for the nerdy space-time continuum reference).

That only begins to explain the impact of Michael Jackson the Entertainment Phenomenon; alas, there is also the human tragedy of Michael Jackson the man—Wacko Jacko of Neverland, his alter ego. While Michael Jackson the Entertainer enthralled us, the self-indulgent Wacko Jacko repulsed us with an endless sideshow of bizarre behavior. If I had children, I could never begin to explain that.

In death, Michael Jackson joins Elvis Pressley, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon and maybe even Marvin Gaye in that exclusive club of gone-too-soon musical talents. Like much of the world, I am in shock, but I cannot say that I am totally surprised that he died young. Old age is the consolation prize granted to those of us who are lucky enough to be average. Michael Jackson the Phenomenon was nothing less than a musical genius—he was Off the Wall, a Thriller, Bad, Dangerous, and perhaps even Invincible. But genius operates on borrowed time, and Wacko Jacko was ultimately consumed by the demons that possessed him.

Wacko Jacko’s ignoble passing does not absolve any of his inexplicable actions in life, but perhaps the blessing in his death is the immortality it ensures to the persona that touched the world, Michael Jackson the child prodigy, humanitarian, musical trailblazer, and icon. Twenty five years from now, fans will make pilgrimages to the family homestead at 2300 Jackson Street in Gary, Indiana; the Apollo Theatre in New York City; and even to a reclaimed Neverland Museum and Ranch in California. They will gather to celebrate the music that enchanted us, not the sideshow that perplexed us…which perhaps is how it should be.

Back into Michael

It started last week at a crab feast. While we picked through mountains of Maryland Chesapeake Bay crabs, someone played the Michael Jackson "Best Of" CD. While sipping the cheap beer and watching the children dance around on stage, we discussed the joke Eddie Murphy told many years ago about the lyrics to "Billie Jean" and how Micheal must have thought he had fooled all of us because the video was about a mystery man who could light up the squares in the pavement of the sidewalk--nothing at all to do with a young man who might have gotten a girl pregnant.

Oh, Michael! What the hell happened?

Who didn't love MJ as a child? He was the most fantabulous entertainer of all time. His music, his ground-breaking music videos, and his electric performances entranced us. We were not distracted by the fact that he looked weird and had a high pitched voice and wore sequins even in the daytime and wore high-water pants and white socks with penny loafers and colorful leather jackets in always hot and sunny California and had that drip-drippy jheri curl and travelled with small children who were unrelated to him and never seemed to have a girlfriend and lived in an amusement park and seemingly disappeared when his sister Janet released "Control" only to re-emerge a few years later looking even weirder and whiter. We still loved him. He was the greatest.

Even when we all moved onto to other musical interests, Michael still had the power to draw us back. We all thought "Bad" was a decent enough album in hig school and "Dangerous" was a big hit among my friends in college. I don't recall that I bought "HIStory" (as a matter of fact, I don't even remember when it came out), but I might go buy it today simply because Michael released it. And that last album with Chris Tucker in the video, if I knew what it was called, I would buy that one too.

No matter what Michael has done (or hasn't), I will always be a fan. Anything he puts out is infinitely better that the music most of the other popular artists have released. I just completed a music survey and I hated almost everything they had me evaluate. MJ is one of these rare artists that never go out of style.

My recent MJ rehabilitation has a lot to do with the fact that I never accepted the conventional wisdom that he was a unrepentant freak. He is crazy, but then again every child of Joe and Katherine Jackson seem to have inherited some level of insanity (has anyone else noticed how off the wall Janet has been since she hooked up with Jermaine Dupri?). I just don't believe that this is a man who would ever intentionally harm a child. I think he did some inappropriate things with children, but like other celebrities who behave badly, he just needs some therapy, a new agent and wait the obligatory five to ten years to make a come-back. By that point his own children will be old enough to sit next to him during the mandatory Oprah interview to insist that he was just misunderstood.

While I don't buy any of the conspiracy theories that there are people out there who are out to get Michael Jackson, I think it is time that we face facts so that he can finally do the same. MJ is a victim of his own self-inflicted excesses. His troubles are representative of the fact that he surrounded himself with unscrupulous people who used him. At some point, I hope that his real friends will step up and save him, not only from the bad people, but also from himself.

In the meantime, I plan to revisit the classic Michael Jackson. It is a lot easier to remember that he was once less strange than he is today, but it gives me hope that one day he will recover. It has been said that there is a very thin line between genuis and insanity, and he is probably the most tragic embodiment of that fact. Instead of treating his life and career like the proverbial car wreck on the freeway, maybe we all should just politely look away and keep going (all the while jamming to "Billie Jean").

Shameful Sighs of Relief

I am ashamed to admit that around 3:30 EDT, I sat glued to the TV in anticipation of the verdict in the Michael Jackson case. He was found not-guilty on all charges. What empty relief.

Of course, not too long ago in this very space, I declared that my childhood fascination with all things Michael Jackson had ended. I believed that his odd behavior, bizarre appearance, and apparent lack of boundaries were indicative of a man out of control--the complete opposite of the child-like image of innocence that he and his handlers had so carefully crafted all these years. Although I never believed that Mike had molested this kid, I did think that he was guilty of exercising extremely poor judgment.

So instead of occupying myself with something more worthy of my time, I sat worrying about the verdict and felt eternally sorry for the man who once was king of the world. Instead of the vibrant, electric entertainer I knew as a child, the man I saw ushered into the courtroom surrounded by bodyguards and family was barely able to walk on his own.

What a sad, pitiful, pathetic sight! I doubt that he would have been able to survive the initial impact of a guilty verdict. The minute that the bailiffs would have approached him with handcuffs to carry him off to jail, this Michael Jackson would have dropped dead on the spot. If he didn't die immediately of shock, he surely would have arranged to have one of his handlers slip him a belt or a bedsheet that would have done the deed later on.

This Michael Jackson can't even make friends his own age, so he cavorts with children. He is so fragile that he needs to be protected from the sun and can't even manage to hold his own umbrella. He is so blase that he appears not capable of thinking for himself and has handlers to manage every move that he makes. He is so gullible that he gets used over and over again by opportunists who think nothing of pimping their own children. Finally, he is so stupid because it was by his own admission of inappropriate behavior with young boys that got him into this mess in the first place.

What a loser.

I am ashamed because there are more important things happening in the world other than the Michael Jackson trial. Unfortunately, in our celebrity obsessed culture, the trials and tribulations of the rich and famous are more important and newsworthy than stopping terrorists or finding weapons of mass destruction.

I am ashamed because this type of diversion is the type of crap that shifts attention away from real tragedies. As we awaited the verdict in this case, a plane crashed in Florida, yet I bet we won't know if anyone survived until 11 after all of the analysis, critiques and endless commentary. I wish more people had been this focused on the election in 2004, which would have averted another real tragedy.

I am ashamed because the discussion on Oprah concerning sexual abuse and child molestation caused me to feel nervous and a little nausea, not because I was sickened by what happened to her guests, but because it indicated a bad omen for the verdict.

I am ashamed that I reacted to this verdict like a star-struck California juror. Clearly, these people are incapable of convicting celebrities, no matter how heinous their crimes. These are the same people who elected an over-rated actor as their governor, so why is this a surprise? Is it any wonder why Robert Blake and OJ got off too?

Finally, I am ashamed of my own sordid fascination with this case. As soon as it was announced, I called my parents, my husband and my best friend to share the 'good' news. I'm devoting all of this time to write about it...

What a loser.

Mad at Mike!

Last night I caught a glimpse of the TV interview with Corey Feldman. He and Martin Bashir sat down to talk about Feldman's previous relationship with Michael Jackson. Last night, I was angry with Corey for trying to re-start his career at Michael's expense, but as of this morning, I've re-directed my fury at Mike for being so stupid.

This is hard for me to say, but I cannot believe that Michael Jackson is as innocent as he claims. I don't know what happened between him and these boys, but now, I can no longer go along with the idea that Mike is being set up. If anything, Michael did this to himself, and this is why I am so upset.

Years ago, I was such a huge fan. I collected the buttons for my jacket, had several posters on my bedroom wall, and I begged my mother to let me go to the concert here at RFK stadium in 1984. I had "Off the Wall" and "Thriller" which played everyday until I wore out the needle on the record player. I even tried to dress the part--white glove, high-water pants and white socks (hey, it was the 80s).

But, I got older and by the time I got to high school and discovered boys my own age, Michael diminished as an object of my affection and simply became apart of the clutter on my bedroom wall of hip-hop stars and teen angst poetry.

As I grew up, Michael continued to act like a person stuck in perpetual childhood. We all felt so sorry for this man who was forced into stardom by the adults in his life, and we excused his odd behavior as his attempts to relive his youth. But I am no longer convinced that it ever made sense to give Mike a pass for acting stupid. Other child stars had crappy childhoods (just ask Gary Coleman) and there are plenty of children who suffer through worse.

So, I'm sorry Mike. Just because you were exploited as a child, it doesn't give you the right to exploit other children, including your own. As much as I hate to do this, I'm going to have to let my affection for you go until you grow up and start acting like a man. No more excuses about your abusive father, your fading complexion and grotesque plastic surgeries, and your seductions of vulnerable children and their greedy families. Its all an illusion that you created.
Yes, I believe that you are a victim, but you are more a victim of your own indulgences.

Now, I am not condemning you as guilty in this recent case. I strongly believe in your right to a fair trial, and I am pissed by all of the news coverage which have been overly prejudicial and more likely to result in mistrial. In my heart, there is a glimmer of hope that you are not guilty in this case, because my childhood fantasies of you would be ruined. But neither of us are children anymore, are we?