A moment of silence please, for the passing of the King of the Island of Misfit Stars. Michael’s gone. Mike had a long run, fending off strong competition from the likes of Anna Nicole, Robert Downey, and Anne Heche. After a suitable period of mourning, of course, Britney and Amy Winehouse will get in a cage for a no holds barred grudge match to replace him as Chief Freak. Ordinarily I’d pick Britney, based on her residual athletic ability and innate trailer park toughness. But I see Amy as a possible biter and able to fight dirty due to chemical enhancement.
If I told you that coming to your neighborhood was an unnamed wealthy, reclusive middle aged man, with a plastic surgery addiction, who had been tried for pedophilia, paid a large private settlement in another pedophilia suit, had children to his house for sleep-over parties, and maintained a full amusement park on the grounds of his last house, you might have some concerns.
Sort of like if I asked you to give me a reaction to whether you’d like to get to know the following:
A former federal official with a law degree, who was disbarred for committing perjury, had sex with a subordinate for whom he used his office to obtain a lucrative job outside of government
A federal official who had diverted millions in illegally obtained funds towards paying for acts of violence in another country;
A man who taped himself having sex with an underaged woman;
A man who had multiple jail stints for spousal abuse and narcotics possession;
A woman who repeatedly endangers her children and who lost custody of them and control over her estate due to substance abuse problems;
A repeat drunk driving offender; or
A convicted tax cheat.
Chances are, you probably wouldn’t think too much of those people. You sure wouldn’t invite any of them to your wife’s Christmas pot luck (you know, the one she makes you have every year so she can flaunt her pasta salad royale recipe to those holier-than-thou dames up the street). You’d probably think that whatever punishment these people got was too light, or that we should throw the book at them.
But if I asked for your opinion of Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton, Oliver North, Rob Lowe, James Brown, Britney Spears, Kiefer Sutherland, or Wesley Snipes, you probably would have a very different reaction, at least to some of them. Based on some of the comments I’ve heard the last couple of weeks, you might say they’re misunderstood, that everyone’s made mistakes, who hasn’t messed up, that we’re bigger than our problems, or who hasn’t made a few mistakes, or who got hurt really?
This is the Barry Bonds syndrome (in Dallas, its called the Michael Irvin syndrome). When someone screws up we condemn them, unless its “your guy.” When its your guy, however, then your unyielding insistence that everyone follows the same rules you have to goes out the window. If you’re a Giants fan and you hear that Rafael Palmeiro gets busted for steroids, you want to throw the book at him. But when “your guy” Barry Bonds is revealed to have admitted to a grand jury that he took steroids but made a demonstrably preposterous claim he did not know he was taking an illegal substance, despite the fact his trainer refused to testify and went to jail instead, it takes you about five seconds to get past that. “He’s never failed a drug test.” “There’s no proof.” How about the fact that his head is the size of my car and has its own gravitational field? Giants fan had absolutely no problem cheering on a felon, as long as he was hitting home runs out to McCovey Cove. Cowboys fan had no trouble cheering for coke head Michael Irvin, as long as he was scoring touchdowns.
The same thing has happened with Michael, in death, and unbelievably so. You know, there’s a reason the only news about this guy for about a 15 year run was bad (no pun intended). From dangling his children over hotel balconies, to paying off child molestation suits, to selling his assets to avoid foreclosure brought about by bizarre shopping sprees, to accusing Sony of racism when his last albums tanked, Mike had nothing but bad news for years. I don’t remember of lot of celebrities rushing to the media to extol Michael’s genius during those years.
But you didn’t see much mention of this “unpleasant” side of Michael’s life in most of the mainstream media reporting of his passing, or in the celebrity reactions either. One caller to a talk show literally dismissed all of Michael’s problems with the phrase “who hasn’t made some mistakes.” While we were reminded every 15 seconds of Michael Jackson’s worldwide fame, of his musical genius, of his iconic status, and treated to scenes of a gold casket of all things, there was nary a word about the things for which Michael had become nearly as famous-world-class freakery.
When someone famous dies, there’s no question that’s not the time to pile on. Make no mistake, Michael Jackson was an enormously talented musician, dancer, and choreographer, and he contributed to the public good through philanthropy and in other ways. But its also the time to give a balanced and complete account of his life. Some mention of, not a morbid or vulgar obsession but at least a passing reference to, his various flaws and mistakes was in order. Repeated accused acts of pedophilia is not the kind of mistake we all make and which can be dismissed when one’s life story is told.
In failing to balance out the hosannas to his genius with a discussion of how he lived his life, the media missed the real Michael Jackson story. His life was a classic tragedy. Simply put, his profound flaws ruined his spectacular career. This was a man who had everything, and was in the slow process of losing everything due to his tragic flaws. This was a modern Gatsby. Or Sal Mineo.
This curious silence about Michael’s track record also minimizes the gravity of the acts he allegedly, and let’s face it, most probably committed. He was acquitted of criminal charges, but keep in mind that he paid a multi-million dollar settlement to the alleged victims. When that, and all the other facts like the sleepovers and the interior room in his home with the “adult alarm” are factored in, there can be little reasonable doubt that he got off for his celebrity. Acting like none of this ever happened and deifying Michael Jackson in death can only reinforce the perception that child abuse should not be reported because the abuser will never face punishment and the victim will simply expose his personal life to scrutiny.
It also promotes the view that if you’re rich and famous enough, you can get away with anything and people will still love you. If you’re honest, you know that if it was Michael Smith, he’d have been locked up long ago. Michael Jackson just happened to be “your guy,” whom you were willing to cut slack because you liked his music, and in some cases liked his personality. Or as a caller to a sports radio show put it a couple of weeks ago, if you’re going to be a pedophile, you better learn to sing and dance.
Ultimately, there’s an even deeper truth at work here, which is love the song, not the singer. We have no idea who these people are. They live different lives than we do, and carefully control access to their real personalities. Just because a person can sing a song, write a book, play a role, or paint a canvas, or catch or throw a ball in a way that moves us and which we admire doesn’t mean that person is admirable, or even tolerable. Bing Crosby-great singer, not so great dad. Joan Crawford-great actress, not so great mother. Dr. J-great basketball player, not so great dad. Michael Vick-great football player, not as good of a pet owner. The list goes on. Just because someone can write or sing an incredible song doesn’t make them an admirable person. What did we really know about Michael Jackson, other than we liked a lot of his music? Are we really sad that he died, or are we sad that there won’t be any more of those songs? But there haven’t been any of those songs for many years. Enjoy Michael Jackson’s music, but keep in mind, he wasn’t your friend. Admire his musical skills, but don’t confuse those for worth as a person. Don’t believe me? I have two words for you: Steve McNair.
Next-my psychedelic mix tape.
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