Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson.
Michael Jackson, Michael Jackson, Michael Jackson.
"I can't believe this," grumbles my husband, the boomer curmudgeon. "It's not like he was John Lennon."
Well no, but MJ did have the best-selling album of all time. He danced with astounding elasticity and grace. He invented the expensive music video. His music is an instant flashback to the lost youth of GenXers everywhere. He broke the color barrier.
"What are these people talking about?" The curmudgeon growls." What about Motown? What about Marvin Gaye, or Stevie Wonder?"
But they weren't played on the same stations, I explain. Michael crossed over. Although I have to admit, the frenzy is starting to get on my nerves - especially when I get to yoga class and find out we are dedicating the entire class to the memory of "the King of Pop". The yoga teacher recalls how, in her early twenties, she traveled to North Africa alone. Not a good idea for a young female, even now. Hailing a cab at the Tunis airport, she asked to be taken to Carthage. As the car headed into the desert, paranoia set in. Where were they really going? Was she about to be traded for a pair of camels? Would she ever see her mother again? Peering from his rear-view mirror, the cabbie bared his tobacco-stained teeth. "So," he began,"Tell me about this Billie Jean. Is she really his lover?"
It's a great story. Michael Jackson's music creating a connection between a middle aged Tunisian cabbie and a scared little hippy chick. But the curmudgeon isn't having any of it. Instead, he presents me with a recap of Michael's greatest tabloid hits.
Jackson squandered his incredible talent. He grossly mismanaged his money. He wallowed in crass, over-the-top materialism. He was a black man so self-hating, he whittled his nose down to Phantom of the Opera proportions and somehow managed to have white babies, probably with the aid of a turkey baster and a wad of caucasian sperm. He was a publicity hound who married Elvis' daughter, hung with Liz and Liza and paid Marlon Brando a million bucks to come to a party. MJ spent his adulthood trying to make up for the childhood he never had, building his own amusement park and private zoo, traveling with a chimp, playing video games and of course, playing with children. He was a probable child molester so tone-deaf, he gave an interview in which he described sharing his bed with a thirteen year old boy as perfectly natural. Now, we are learning about anorexia, drug addiction and a live-in Dr. Feel-Good who literally anesthetized Michael on a nightly basis.
Let's face it, people. The curmudgeon is correct. The gloved one was not an innocent, or a sprite, or a manchild, whatever that is. You could say Michael was victimized by an abusive father, by fame, by blackmailers, drug dealers, sycophants, hangers-on, and so-called plastic surgeons. But ultimately, we are talking about a talented, deeply flawed middle-aged man with some serious character issues.The grooves were infectious, and the showmanship, beyond compare. But the songs sound dated and strangely sexless. When Michael Jackson grabs his crotch, it's just choreography, and it's about as hot as watching a four year old who really, really has to pee. Just try and imagine the guy crooning "Baaaaby, I'm hot just like an oven, I need your lovin'" and you'll see what I mean. Give me Marvin and some of that old-time testosterone.
Now, Los Angeles is preparing for a funeral the likes of which we haven't seen since Lady Di was put to rest. As the curmudgeon grimly points out, it's going to cost a fortune for the city to take on all that traffic and crowd control, and LA, like the rest of California, is tapped out. But it's all a welcome distraction from the ruined economy and the fans need to mourn. As for Michael, he's finally getting what he wanted for so long. Unconditional love and a nice, long sleep.
