Michael Jackson -- dear media masters -- give us a F#&%ing break!
The closest they came to NEWS was to report on the emails from people who said "ENOUGH!"
They pick apart the pieces, but can't see it was a total package -- his talent, his drive, his perfectionism, his self-destructive dysmorphia, his addiction to surgery, his hatred of his family, of his own image in the mirror, his pathological infantilization -- all inseperable parts of the same dynamic -- or syndrome, if you will.
In other words, it all came from the same place of desperate need that forced him to Peter Pan himself.
When one has enough money, indulging one's pathologies is almost a given.
And no -- I, who am willing to believe the worst about most of the people who force themselves into the public's face, I do NOT believe he ever molested a child. But, still being a child in his mind, I have no doubt a lot of innocent play took place, including skinny-dipping and grab-ass and general nudity -- kids at play.
I think that what went on at Neverland was more or less some of the same thing that went on every summer at Bohemian Grove in California among the financial and political power-players of the world. People who blow off steam (and some say, each other) running around naked, screaming, laughing, manic, crazed -- and unlike Neverland -- also drunk and stoned and playing vicious pecking-order dominance games.
Yeah, I know -- the people who serve food and drink and clean up the messes made by the big boys at play are sworn to never talk about what goes one there, but they do.
Watching the interminable retrospective of Michael Jackson's life is like watching The Picture of Dorian Grey, but from the other side. In this re-telling, there was a portrait of a handsome young man up in the attic and what we saw in public was a hideously disintegrating face, intent on the the progress of his own self-destruction. Realizing that makes seeing the old photos and re-hearing his old songs almost as depressing as a memorial trip through Dachau.
Ed McMahon and Farah Fawcett -- wow -- the people who pass themselves off as journalists were like puppies, rolling on the ground and peeing all over themselves in delight.
We've all heard their creed:
"If it bleeds, it leads... If it dies, it flies."
And then -- wow -- Michael Jackson kakks -- and to the slavering press, his frail dead body was the whipped cream and the cherry on top of the carnage ... Oboy, eh?
"OK, I've had enough -- what else can you show me?"**
*And can we also accept the fact that the words ICON and ICONIC have been used, overused, and done to death? Especially, in the meaning of an image to be worshipped, thinking of Michael Jackson's face as THAT image is right up there with opening the front door and standing there, the young man who is dating your daughter is Freddy Kruger.
**From It's alright Ma
Ted Kane tells me Sky Saxon died on Thursday -- he was a good showman (The Seeds, The Sky Saxon Blues Band) but not a world-famous freakshow, so not much to cover.
Sky Saxon (Richard Marsh) -- Dead at age 63 on June 25, 2009 in Austin Texas.