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Annie, are you okay?
Jun. 29th, 2009 09:26 pmI was at Origins and without internet access when I heard that Michael Jackson had died; this is my first chance to put down my reactions, but despite having days to get my thoughts in order I'm having trouble figuring out what to say. I'm old enough to remember when Thriller came out; I watched that VHS so many times it eventually wore out. I loved the zombie parts but the werewolf prologue scared me silly, and even watching it now that transformation scene still gives me a jolt. I had a sparkly glove and coveted that red jacket and tried my best to moonwalk although I never quite got it right. I even had the Michael Jackson doll; it lived in the backseat of my grandfather's car and the first memory I call up when I heard about his death was playing with that doll while my grandfather drove. He died earlier this year and I have no idea where that doll is now. I wish I did.
Michael Jackson was my generation's Elvis Presley: a game-changing artist and brilliant showman who was so talented, so effortless talented, that the rest of the music industry could only try to catch up but whose personal demons slowly hobbled him until they were all that was left. I don't know if he was actually guilty of any crimes; I like to think he wasn't, but we'll probably never know for sure. He spent his whole life as contradiction: be began public life as a chubby-cheeked little boy singing the happiest, frothiest songs imaginable while undergoing horrific torture at the hands of a man who was supposed to be protecting him. He grew into a isolated, lonely man who was idolized by millions but who took a knife to his face thirteen times trying to find something he could love. That's the saddest part of all of this for me, that someone who had countless numbers of strangers who would probably take a bullet for him hated what he saw in the mirror. There was a dark thread through many of his songs but so many of them were about hope and love that I always hoped he would be able to find that in his own life.
Maybe he has. Michael, thank you for the music and the memories. I hope that wherever you are, you're whole and free.
***
And man, while I'm at it, rest in peace, Billy Mays. I hope you're shouting your way through heaven, you brilliant snake oil salesman. Late night TV will be a far more boring place.
Michael Jackson was my generation's Elvis Presley: a game-changing artist and brilliant showman who was so talented, so effortless talented, that the rest of the music industry could only try to catch up but whose personal demons slowly hobbled him until they were all that was left. I don't know if he was actually guilty of any crimes; I like to think he wasn't, but we'll probably never know for sure. He spent his whole life as contradiction: be began public life as a chubby-cheeked little boy singing the happiest, frothiest songs imaginable while undergoing horrific torture at the hands of a man who was supposed to be protecting him. He grew into a isolated, lonely man who was idolized by millions but who took a knife to his face thirteen times trying to find something he could love. That's the saddest part of all of this for me, that someone who had countless numbers of strangers who would probably take a bullet for him hated what he saw in the mirror. There was a dark thread through many of his songs but so many of them were about hope and love that I always hoped he would be able to find that in his own life.
Maybe he has. Michael, thank you for the music and the memories. I hope that wherever you are, you're whole and free.
***
And man, while I'm at it, rest in peace, Billy Mays. I hope you're shouting your way through heaven, you brilliant snake oil salesman. Late night TV will be a far more boring place.
