Are you sick of all this? Since the demise of one-time pop music star and alleged child molestor, Michael Jackson, the airwaves, blogs, websites and street talk have been filled with syrupy salutes and eulogies to this media made, self-assumed legend’s life & times.
On the evening of his death, Larry King spent 2 hours interviewing a cast of characters who purportedly knew the King of Pop. Corey Feldman, resplendent in his Sgt. Pepper coat, waxed eloquently on the private, intelligent and caring person the Michael Jackson he knew. Corey Feldman?
Since his self-inflicted overdose of painkiller pharmaceuticals, the public has been numbed by gripping details of his death, his funeral plans and endless quotes from the well-knowns, the wanna-bes and used to be personalities who will collectively overuse the word genius when describing Jackson’s contributions to music.
Then there’s the circus atmosphere surrounding Whacko’s Memorial in LA.
Who are these people that can drop everything and head to Los Angeles for a Michael Jackson memorial? Don’t any of them have jobs to work or families to care for? I mean, sure Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton will show up for any spectacle that involves an African American celebrity. But what about these poor misquided fans who are crying real tears over the death of a personal idol?
And what’s with this international anguish over a one-time pop singer who’s given the world nothing but pedophile trials, paid off families of violated young boys, dangled his son from a balcony and surfaced with a comic book character face savaged by too many plastic surgeries?
Whacko Jacko went from a bright light in music to a visual freak whose fame had faded and fortune had gone. Here was a man - and let’s remember Jackson was 50 years old when he died - with obvious mental problems. A man desperate for public attention, even when his musical talent no longer held sway over millions.
While respecting the talent behind the incredible Thriller album, I had no use for Michael Jackson as an artist or especially as a person for the past 15 years. Over this time Whacko Jacko shammed a marriage to Elvis Presley’s daughter, had 2 kids by a surrogate mother and somehow finagled a 3rd kid, to be called “Blanket”. Blanket? Try going through the rest of your life with that moniker.
As I feel about heavily tattooed or pierced people, I could get by the plastic surgery, the skin bleaching and the goofy outfits Jackson sported in his last decade or so. But it was Jackson’s child molestation allegations that turned me forever against this freak whose talent had run out and chose to insulate himself in a child-like world…complete with live children doing the insulating. Sorry Jacko, but sleeping with young boys is not right and downright aberrant behavior.
But I do feel sorry for some involved in this circus funeral. Like his 3 young children. I wonder what they thought of having a father figure with no nose who was so drugged up he had to be locked away from them most of the time? I read where Jacko had over 200 songs in a vault that would be his legacy to them. Good.
Hopefully, after the last faux friend delivers a sterling eulogy and the last crying fan has left LA, the Michael Jackson is Dead caravan will fade from the headlines and the world can get back to mourning the loss of real heroes - like the 7 US soldiers who were killed yesterday in Afghanistan.
As for me, I see no reason to mourn the loss of Whacko Jacko any more than I would Farrah Fawcett or Billy Mayes. He was a media creation with a decade blip of popular songs. Today’s Michael Jackson was a pill-popping, young boy abusing, financial train wreck whose self-imposed fame ended up in an encore of self-inflicted death.