By Alan Caruba
We shall now be regaled with over-heated reporting about the life and death of Michael Jackson. The media will have a field day because he was always good for circulation and ratings.
When I think of Michael Jackson, I think of a grown man who, though born black, had a metamorphosis that left him with ghostly white skin. He also had a straight nose thanks obviously to plastic surgery, the long hair of a woman, and he appeared to wear lipstick and other makeup. Normal people do not do these kinds of thing.
He never dressed like ordinary people, not even very famous, but otherwise ordinary people.
In his later years, he always carried an umbrella or someone carried it for him to shield him from the sun.
The revelations of the trial for child molestation were fairly appalling even if he beat the rap. The circus and zoo he maintained on his estate in order to be able to surround himself with children was, shall we say, odd.
His voice was odd. Childlike barely begins to describe it. It did, of course, make him one of the most famous singers on planet Earth since Elvis Presley. I liked Presley. I didn’t like Michael Jackson.
His dancing influenced a whole generation of wannabes, but I always found it spastic and frequently obscene, particularly because he was always reaching for or touching his privates. Normal people don’t do that in public, even if or particularly when performing on stage.
The various show business experts will tell you that all this was the result of his enormous fame, but many performers enjoy such fame without turning into complete freaks though frequently they also abused drugs or alcohol or anything else they can sniff, snort, inject, drink, or ingest by any and all means possible.
Michael Jackson was a very weird person.
Kinky doesn’t even begin to describe him. You won’t hear too many show business reporters or news professionals say that. So I will.
He was one of a kind and for that we can all be grateful.
His death will spawn a dozen books, but I doubt any of them will ever explain why Michael Jackson was such a freak. Frankly, I don’t really care.
Let all the usual show business suck-ups, groupies, hangers-on and---yes, fans---mourn his death. He was, musically, a great talent.
His life, however, was a tragedy and I will not miss his androgeny, the clear evidence of his drug addiction, or the stench of his behavior around children. Everything about Jackson screamed deviation and excess. He was no one's role model.