Does anyone else feel like Michael Jackson's whole life is flashing before their eyes?
Today, all over the Web and in the streets of every city, on every channel and every front page, on the playlist of every radio station, dive bar and dance club, it seems like everyone — everyone — is mourning Michael Jackson's sudden death. Much like the performance that was his life, his curtain call is a global event. Regardless of race, creed, color, language, or station, the King of Pop was one cool thing we all had in common, whether enjoying his music or lamenting his tragic later years. In dying, he leaves a galactic hole in the pop cultural universe, that not even a thousand Susan Boyles and Adam Lamberts multiplied by Justin to a factor of Beyonce could fill.
Michael Jackson's life was the greatest show on Earth. You know it, I know it, even the trees and rocks knew it. He leaves behind a legacy so massive that, like the face that never stayed one way for long, it can only continue to grow in the wake of his passing. I can't wait for the "Michael Jackson is alive!" stories to start circulating. For all we know, a thousand years from now, Michael's shapeshifting legend will evolve him into a moonwalking man-child deity worshipped by a great messianic cult with choirs of "Man in the Mirror."
Bigger than Jesus? You bet he is. Even Muslims and Jews can agree on the toe-tapping perfection of Thriller. And on the eighth day, God laid down "Billie Jean."
My own memories of Michael Jackson start from the crib. My Aunt Rene, only a teenager at the time, was babysitting me and I wouldn't stop crying. Perhaps she put the Thriller record on to drown me out, but whatever reason she had, it stopped me crying.
From then on it was Michael Jackson everything. I had dozens of VHS tapes of shows, live appearances, full concerts, the music videos. I had records and cassette tapes, and my parents gave me my first CD player so I could play the double-disc HIStory in all its hi-fi, remastered glory. I practiced dance moves and performed for neighbors at block parties, sometimes I would even sing "The Way You Make Me Feel" to girls on the Karigon Elementary playground, which never worked out for me the way it seemed to for Michael. The "Thriller" video was on constantly, I taught the moves to my babysitters and 18 years later I danced with a gang of other zombies for a Thrill the World event in Tompkins Square Park on Halloween. "Thriller" made me want be a special-effects makeup artist like Rick Baker, made me want to get into the entertainment industry, made me want to make something that good. I drew pictures of Michael Jackson fighting the Joker or Michael Jackson as Superman, pictures which I remembered a few months ago when I was going through the Neverland Ranch auction books and found that Michael owned a statue of himself wearing a Batman costume. I grabbed my crotch and kicked my leg and yelled "shamone!" and fell in love with girls and shed tears for starving children and it was all to the tune of Michael Jackson albums.
I was a bigger fan than most kids, but I was definitely not the biggest fan in the world, and I never got to meet him and have my picture taken like my buddy Roger did, though I'll admit that I've driven back and forth past it several times during my adventures in California.
When Andy Futterer and I lived in Los Angeles six years ago, the second time that molestation charges were charged against Michael, we both agreed that there was a chance he could, in fact, be a pedophile. But we didn't blame him, his life was just too weird, his childhood too notoriously messed up to blame him for being crazy. We contemplated driving down to the Santa Maria Courthouse to join the throngs of fans there to support him, but decided against it. Later that night, watching the local news, we thought it was awesome when he stood on top of a car and dropped some signature moves before leaving. Even on what had to be one of the worst days of his life, Michael never stopped working for us.
As it stands, having reviewed all the information I could find, I don't think he ever did anything inappropriate to the kids, and neither did the court. It looks to me that Michael was exploited by some very nasty, desperate people who were also willing to exploit their own children for the money — not unlike Michael's father himself, Joe Jackson.
It's easy to blame Joe Jackson for beating Michael into a wacko, but the rest of the Jackson kids got beat too, and they never got as weird as Michael. Of course, they never got as rich and famous as he got either, so other people like to blame the fame. I've heard the argument that we — the fans — are somehow to blame, for not buying the later albums, or for buying into the pedophile stories. Then there's the "Wacko Jacko did it to himself" folks, who just write Michael off as a tortured, confused genius who thrived on being weird and lonely.
I don't really care about any of that. There is no one reason why Michael Jackson was the way he was, and there's no one reason why we liked him, why we secretly hoped for his London comeback to be a stunning swan song success. We just wanted to see him moonwalk one more time. From the different eras to the different noses, from the fans to the hit songs to the videos to the urban legends, there is only one unique, constant factor in the MJ phenomenon and that is the worldly existence of Michael Jackson the man. I don't think we're making too big of a deal to mourn him like we are. It's a rare person in history who can make the whole world stop. Michael was an idol even in isolated Iran, and while I'm sure the Iranian people are more concerned with the fate of their nation, perhaps even the mullahs paused when they heard the news.
I never knew Michael Jackson and maybe nobody did. I suppose I can't mourn the man, but I can mourn the passing of my own youth, and we should all mourn the loss of an artist who we shared so universally. I don't think Michael Jackson's legacy is over. If there's one thing I know about stories, it's that burying a man doesn't bury his legend — it only makes it more magnificent and, at the same time, more precious.
CORRECTION: I originally wrote that my buddy Roger had had his picture taken with Michael as a boy at Neverland, but it turns out the picture was taken in the Bahamas. That doesn't make me any less jealous.
