Michael Jackson won’t be really, truly dead in my mind until I fling a fleck of dirt upon the leviathan’s coffin in the form of a half-baked blog eulogy.
Last Thursday, I learned of Michael Jackson’s death in the locker room as I changed for my after-work yoga class. A nearby young woman was talking on her cell phone and eavesdropping was inevitable when I heard her say:
“Yeah, he’s dead… I know, I didn’t even know he was sick… Yeah I can’t believe it either… Okay, just wanted to tell you he died! Have fun tonight.”
From her cavalier tone of voice, I gathered that the deceased about whom she bantered was either a celebrity or the non-furry pet of an ill-regarded friend. As she interfaced with her cell phone to make another call, my ears perked:
“Hey it’s me, did you hear about Michael Jackson?”
Ah, of course. Michael Jackson. Which other celebrity’s death would be major enough to warrant calling all your friends and indulging in a moment of incredulousness before going to your power yoga class? No sadness, no regret, just a strange twisty emotion bordering on gossipy curiosity and distant nostalgia.
In the 1980s, I was a Michael Jackson fan. Not a mega-fan, but certainly the Michael Jackson mania that swept my peer group afflicted me as well. I remember going to a sleepover birthday party and jumping around to “Thriller” for literally hours with a dozen other sugar-hyped young girls who were equally desperate to achieve Thriller zombie dance perfection.
But I wasn’t hooked by Michael Jackson’s glove or leather jacket or dancing, for I was too young to comprehend coolness on that level. No, it was his voice and that music, that poppy happy soulful infectious music. After my Sesame Street songs, my Sunday school songs, and my lullabies, Michael Jackson was the first popular music act that I listened to (followed closely by Cyndi Lauper and Madonna). And he set the standard so high that no pure pop music act has come close to capturing my adoration the way Michael Jackson did.
But as time wore on, Michael Jackson just couldn’t keep pace with his own coolness. I believe my disillusionment started around the release of Dangerous with that video for “Black or White” where Michael smashed cars and grabbed his crotch. I mean, grabbing your crotch in public is never cool. Neither is excessive plastic surgery, child molestation allegations, or marrying Lisa Marie Presley. Just… not cool.
Okay, so Michael Jackson might have been tragically misunderstood. His father might have been a tyrant who prevented him from having a real childhood. His accusers might have been lying money grubbers. His public might have been disloyal. His handlers might have been manipulative and self-serving. He might have been died in debt, balding, terribly sick and terribly afraid of disappointing his fans. But he was Michael Jackson, and for a time he was undisputedly the coolest mother-effer in the whole world. End of story. Now beat it.
