Michael Jackson was an icon and an artist that brought joy to the hearts of millions of people, but I can’t seem to muster much grief over his passing. The hagiographies clog the airways, and Twitter is on the verge of collapse, but this dad is mystified by the outpouring.
To be honest, I’ve always been mystified by Jackson’s appeal. Mostly as a matter of musical taste. Shuffle my iPod and you’ll come up with americana, roots rock and folk. Maybe even some country. The King of Pop? Puh-leese.
But as a father, there is one thing that I can’t get out of my head. And it’s not the allegations of molestation (numerous and all settled out of court), or the self-mutilations (that he died the same day as Farrah actually solved the mystery for me as to who he wanted to look like). What I can’t get out of my head is the image of a squirming, kicking baby, with a blanket draped over his head like a prisoner at Gitmo, being dangled off the balcony of some fancy Euro hotel.
What sort of father is capable of that? That action is so utterly incomprehensible to me that it carries the actor out of the realm of the human for me.
Which does bring up one sad aspect to the death of Michael Jackson. His three children. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that he left no will behind (his lawyers should be disbarred if this is actually the case), but the enormous financial clusterf*ck that is his legacy will certainly provide his kids with something to do for the rest of their lives. Those children are certainly grieving, and I do feel sorry for them, but other than when he was yo-yoing one of them over the pavement, are there any pictures of them together?
Is it possible that these kids are better off without him?
This pop thinks Michael Jackson was a royal wingnut.