that mean mannish boy

27Jun09

Less than 24 hours into the story, I was completely sick and tired of hearing about Michael Jackson, and I barely even watched any of the amazing television coverage. What an incredible media circus.

What am I saying? It was way before the 24 hour mark.

There are a million things to say about MJ, and none of them are particularly original. You’d have to be Helen Keller to not recognize the man’s formidable talent. Words extolling his impressive body of work are unnecessary. Dude had cuts like nobody’s business.

There’s not a DJ I know, myself included, that hasn’t reached for a slab of Jackson wax. He is a dancefloor’s best friend.

There are just as many things to say about his descent into madness. I can’t think of any modern day cultural figure that comes close to Michael’s eccentricities, whack job ideas, and bizarre behavior. The shortest checklist on the fly sounds like a fucking joke. Pet monkey? Yes. Hyperbaric chamber? Of course. Gruesome surgeries, outlandish outfits, and a private fantasy land?

Yes, sure, and why the hell not?

This is a human being that purchased the bones of the Elephant Man, and dangled a real live baby off a hotel room balcony. A baby named Blanket. Jesus Christ.

And then there’s all of his deviant sexual behavior. I know, I know — MJ had a rough childhood. Didn’t like his daddy, thrust into the spotlight at an early age, freakishly genius. I get it.

But, here is the deal: he used children for sexual gratification. Little boys, all hyped up and super psyched because they just roller skated with a monkey wearing clothes at the Neverland Ranch.

Fucking inexcusable. I don’t care how bad ass Thriller is. Dude was a pedophile, the lowest of the low. That is fact.

Everyone already knows all this stuff. I am not saying anything new. That is the deal, if you are a personality as recognizable as Michael Jackson. Everyone knows everything about you, except for all the tremendously creepy shit you’ve managed to keep under wraps for the last couple of decades.

Man, the floodgates are gonna bust right open. The levee always breaks when someone dies, famous or not. You learn a lot of secrets about folks when they leave this mortal coil. I can’t even imagine how insane Michael Jackson’s must be.

I flipped around the major networks and cable news outlets the other night, jumping from morbid curiosity to sorrow to pity to disgust with each change of the channel. MTV was losing its mind, MSNBC told me that Madonna couldn’t stop crying, and FOX pulled out all the truly crazy footage.

After 15 minutes, I couldn’t take any more. My circuits had already been blown by the internet. Cry all you want, Madonna. Nice exclamation usage. Are we really in an age where statements to the press come in the form of 140 character Twitter feeds?

I will always love the Jackson 5. Off The Wall? Genius. I’ve got a reel of good times set to MJ soundtracks, from teenage make-out sessions to late night dance parties. My most famous DJ story involves a Michael Jackson record.

You know, when it flew off the turntable at the Gorge mainstage. While it was playing. I tell it all the time. It’s a good one.

Red vinyl seven inch, Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’, from a super cool multi-single reissue pack, given to me as a birthday gift from Ruben and Lacey. I got the record back. It is barely scratched.

The big story for me this week is the way this major pop culture event unfolded. TMZ changed the game on Thursday. Michael Jackson almost broke the internet. I already talked about it, with the Stranger. So did a bunch of other Northwest yahoos. It’s not all that interesting any more, but you can read it here.

Rest in Peace, you talented freak. I don’t want to hear any more about your weird and sad life, Michael Jackson, and I really don’t want to talk about you any more. Sorry.

To quote the great Silvio Dante, I said my piece, Chrissy.

Filed under: Uncategorized   |  6 Comments