People begin to mass around the hospital, reporters flash cameras in a desperate attempt to one up each other on feeding the ever-hungry celebrity-obsessed masses something new. Rush to the ambulance, get a shot of the body and they’ll eat it up. We do eat it up and so they come like flies to shit. Then the tributes start from every corner of the media globe. Radio stations use their dying hands to cobble together a musical retrospective, news channels try and recycle helicopter footage and shots of the ambulance pulling away in order to stay on the air hours longer than they need to “covering” the story and finally MTV proves to us what it takes for them to show videos on the channel.
Somebody has to die.
So Michael Jackson has passed on and the world trembles like children in cold rain, exchanging stories, telling tales and trying to attach all of Jackson’s songs to some poignant and important time in their lives. As the parade passes me by I can only sit there with a shocked look on my face, watching the plumes of hypocrisy flood the skies with their black smoke. A month ago Jackson was “Wacko Jacko”, a punch line to untold amounts of jokes and somebody everybody smirked about when his name was brought up.
From his bleached skin to his obsession with a monkey to his pedophilia issues we all stood around and laughed out loud at this person we considered freakish and grotesque. I doubt anyone can honestly say they’ve brought up Michael Jackson in the last ten years to talk about his “genius” or his “musical gifts”. Sure they can lie about it but honestly; we all brought him up to enjoy a belly laugh.
Now the man is dead and suddenly we care? Suddenly we’re filled with loss and grief over what he meant to us and how his music pierced the very fabric of our soul elevating a world mired in sadness to new levels of happiness. What a crock of shit. His music had long taken a back seat to his medical masks, calling his kid Prince Michael 1 and his ever-changing appearance.
Before people start slinging spears and arrows at me about my harsh cruelty in the face of tragedy try and actually think about what I’m saying. My point is not that his death isn’t a tragedy, of course it is. I’m also not interested in all the people who seem geared to celebrate his death because of Jackson’s various legal problems. The honest truth there is that nobody knows what actually went on. The problem I have is this entire about face the world has attempted in one afternoon.
In the time it takes to watch a movie or finish laundry Jackson has gone from somebody we wouldn’t leave our kids alone with to Princess Diana with a microphone. The news outlets that always described him as freaky or bizarre now call him a “tortured artist” or a “tragic genius”. If hypocrisy were measured in drops of water we’d all be drowning right now.
That first roar from the belly of hypocrisy wasn’t the only warning we’d receive that Jackson’s death would enter a new and vile arena. Almost as soon as his death was announced those who live in loathing for the anonymous mediocrity of their own lives were filled with the hope that they could cash in on this twisted circus.
This was their time; all they needed were crocodile tears and some self-help style grand statement of who Michael Jackson was to them. Add a dash of reverence for his music and media coverage would be guaranteed. In a cliché comparison to the animal world there was blood in the water and the sharks were circling.
The first of these was, naturally, an attorney. His name was Brian Oxman and less than two hours after Jackson was wheeled out, this pariah was lending his voice to anybody with a camera. Tear filled stories of hugging the family in the hospital, of being so stricken with grief he couldn’t speak dripped from his mouth like poison honey. Apparently his inability to speak didn’t extend to TV, print and radio. Grief has a funny way of dissipating when you’re fixing your tie or clearing your throat to be on air.
The most douche chilling part was that Oxman isn’t Michael Jackson’s attorney but an attorney for the Jackson Family. Jackson himself had fired Oxman and said repeatedly the attorney didn’t speak for him. It’s interesting this parasite was the mouthpiece for the Jackson Family who has long treated the sinner as though he was the family mule pulling them into town to buy groceries.
Corey Feldman, the once beloved child star of eighties films like The Goonies, Lost Boys and Dream A Little Dream was out before the cameras looking as though the excitement of some air time had zapped his ability to dress himself. Dancing as fast he could Feldman regaled the world with stories of how much Michael Jackson had meant to him and how the friendship had been such an inspiration to him.
Soon cracks begin to show in Feldman’s celluloid armor. Actually he and Jackson hadn’t spoken in years, they weren’t really friends and he’d made no real effort to change all that. Feldman was like everybody else, standing an arms length away from Jackson in order to snicker and, in his case, not really be associated with the pop star. Now he was out there talking about Jackson forever being close to his heart. I watched his interview sure that demons would rise from the Earth and carry Feldman’s black soul into Hell. That didn’t happen, but I’ve always been a dreamer.
Ola Gray who hasn’t been a blip on the radar since she strutted down the street with Jackson in the Thriller video was out in force. Gray brought with her an armada of flowing tears, a quivering voice and near hysterical gaps in what she was saying. Clearly the acting lessons had paid off and this was her moment. My personal favorite was some scumbag who began telling the press how Michael Jackson had wanted him to take care of his kids. Jackson’s white carcass wasn’t even cold yet and already the siege on his money and assets had begun.
You have to understand that the news doesn’t hunt down the forgotten to get statements from them. Sure they may want to know how the artist du-jour feels but not these folks. Their representation called media outlets and said they’d be willing to talk. Mix that into the recipe and see how bitter the whole thing tastes. I was also particularly fond of how all these celebrities who were “devastated beyond words” told the world this via Twitter. We really are close to the end of humanity.
Getting back to Michael Jackson himself you can spare me the laughable idea that Jackson somehow revolutionized the music world. The Jackson 5 was not only Michael Jackson and he didn’t write that music locked alone in a room. In his solo career he had two brilliant albums: Off The Wall and Thriller. Anybody who says his stuff after that mattered beyond pop candy for radio hits is fooling themselves.
Think back to the world’s reaction to “Bad”. It was an endless parade of jokes about Michael Jackson trying to put across a tough image. Jackson didn’t set the bar any higher than James Brown, Marvin Gaye, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Prince or any number of gifted musician, he just made more money.
Why do we do as a culture, think it’s ok to ridicule until tragedy strikes and then we join together in some kind of demonic Hands Across America chanting how we were true fans, we never believed the hype. It’s not only despicable it’s also a huge middle finger to the man himself. We love to do it though we just can’t get enough and Jackson is far from the only celebrity we’ve done this to.
The death of actor David Carradine is another perfect example. If I was forced to hear again how his passing robbed us of one of America’s truly great talents I was going to shove an umbrella up my ass and open it. David Carradine was a weirdo that half the world didn’t even know existed. He was the star of Kung Fu everybody, so let’s get a grip. Not to mention we all seemed to forget that he stole that part from Bruce Lee.
After Kung Fu, Carradine became a B movie laughing stock. The world at large volleyed between “Hahaha he’s so bad” and “I have no idea who you’re talking ‘bout” Then he dies and suddenly Kung Fu Guy is Laurence Olivier? Humanity has no shame or ability to understand our actions. We’re like monkeys jumping from thing to thing whenever we want to without thinking. What did TV tell us this week? Oh, then forget everything I’ve ever said I believe this now.
Tupac was a rapper and a pretty average one at that. He talked volumes of shit and created a persona for himself that wasn’t exactly on the level. Tupac’s death not only absolved him of his sins (much like Jackson) but also somehow elevated him to Prophet. I’ve spent the last ten years or so watching the Hip Hop world run around like chickens with their heads cut off creating the largest circle jerk in the world with Tupac as the biscuit.
When Tupac was alive the music world was constantly pointing at his “increasingly erratic” behavior. I remember volumes of articles about how his sudden need to dust up the sands of controversy had gotten in the way of his music and so on. Like Jackson towards the end of his life Tupac was known more for his bizarre behavior than his talent. Once he died everybody forgot all that and he became a Prophet. He went from a decent rapper to a messiah that had carried Hip Hop to the Promised Land. I guess I was napping when that happened because I sure don’t remember the man being any more talented than Notorious BIG, Wu- Tang or other rappers of his time.
The list for this bizarre turn in people’s attention is never ending. Elvis, Nixon, Reagan, all of these people were mocked and laughed at in the last years of their lives and then exalted in death. I suppose the optimist in me would like to think that tragedy makes people realize how much an artist or person actually means to them but then the cynic in me crushes the optimist with the steel pipe of reality. This leaves me back where I started marveling at the lecherous hypocrisy that we’re all capable of. Some call me a cynic and to that I simply challenge that I’d rather be a cynic than an opportunist.
At least with cynicism I can look at the “Man In The Mirror” without throwing up.
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