The Emperor’s Glove

So, the King of Pop is dead.  The news wires, entertainment rags, Facebook, Twitter… all major orifices of social and mass media are spewing surreal and awkward praise for Michael Jackson as his borderline Gacy meets Hughes lifestyle is ignored for fear of admitting that, we, as a culture, worshiped a pedophile.

I’m sorry, but making music, or any art, for that matter, does not excuse one’s behavior, especially when that involves sex with children.  Twitter celebs have all but ditched the Iranian revolt and will.I.am’s beatdown of Perez Hilton to make room for 140 character obits.  The running tagline encourages us to remember Michael for his music, and not for his life, as if the two were ever mutually exclusive.

Michael Jackson built his empire on the foundation provided by an overbearing, abusive father and an oppressive pre-adolescent career with the Jackson 5, before an awesome string of solo hits in the 80’s.  And when he began to fade (literally) into the winter of his career – after the allegations, setting himself on fire, Jacko on his backo, Lisa Marie Presley – it appeared as though he had abandoned that foundation to simply rule his own odd little world, reveling in a rebellion he never had as a child.  This was a world where kids never grew up, and, one where, unfortunately, he perceived himself as each child’s lover.  I mean, I love kids, we all love kids, but this guy… he loved kids.  It was a  dangerously comfortable illusion for Jackson, as J.M. Barrie never makes mention of age-of-consent laws in his original work.  If only the poet had included a stanza on ‘jail bait’.

And what of respect to the dead?  In my mind, anyone who excuses himself from the standard social practice of , oh, I dunno, not having sex with children deserves as little respect as can be offered.  Am I suggesting we all run around wishing ill on the man’s soul?  No, but I don’t see anything terribly wrong with it if we did.  The difference between Michael Jackson and your average sex offender is the latter is typically caught and tried for his crimes.  Jackson, if you remember, was simply caught.  And like other celebrities who manage to wiggle out of the system to return to a life of whatever-the-hell-they-want-to-do, Jackson got away.

The hard proof will be discarded by his estate, I’m sure, but in the meantime, enough is suggested by Jackson’s aggressively little-boy-biased art collection, which was placed for auction late last year, and is still listed around the web.  The collection, which included nude paintings of children and a gaggle of sex toys, was to be auctioned, until Jackson fought to get it back.  Because we don’t want to let the cat out of the bag, do we?

In the end, no one needs to remind me that we should remember him for the music, as that was his legacy.  Just like people forget that Sinatra was a womanizing thug and Dean Martin spent his life drinking Ireland’s GNP, music has an odd ability to cover the flaws of its messenger.  Apparently, if you ever want to get away from the fact that you’re an awful person, sing a song.  People love music.  Music could never come from a bad person.  Music makes bad turn to good.  Music = Good, not Bad!  Urrrgh.  Good. I can hear a nation of millions breathing through their mouths as the Michael Jackson tributes play out on the radio.  Now that I think of it, I bet Hitler’s kicking himself somewhere in the bowels of Hell.  “Eef only I had written ze pop musik!  Zen zey vould drop zat silly holocaust sing!”

Please don’t ask me to like Michael Jackson or remember him for the music.  Because no matter how many times you tell me Bad was his Abbey Road, or that he revolutionized popular music more than any one musician in his generation, he’ll always be just a freaky, kid f***ing clown to me.  That’s right.  Kid f***ing .