You know you’ve got it bad for Pop Culture when you hear about a celebrity death and you act like it’s someone you know.
That was my reaction yesterday evening when I heard that Michael Jackson, The King of Pop, was dead.
I went into Ukrop’s to pick up salads for dinner and everything was OK in the world of pop music. I came out and it wasn’t. "Guess what, Michael Jackson died," my boyfriend told me.
What! No … How? How old was he? When? How? Was he on drugs? I bet he was having some weird plastic surgery. They don’t know how? Oh my god, he has kids, right? Well maybe that mom will get those kids back now.
That was basically my reaction.
Of course I wanted to know more. And by more, I mean the gory details. I don’t care what time he arrived at the hospital or who pronounced him dead. What I want to know is, did they (or will they) find a dungeon at Neverland Ranch (or wherever he lived) filled with skin bleaching cream, jars of nose cartilage and 12-year-old boys. And if so, can they please release the pictures.
I know, I’m awful.
My reaction quickly turned from shock and fascination to outrage. I played back the nightly news to see if, maybe, Brian Williams had a chance to squeeze in a blurb or two about the death (read: potential Neverland Ranch findings). And boy did he.
NBC Nightly News led with the death, downsizing Farrah Fawcett to an, oh yeah and this happened too note. Farrah Fawcett, who was the lead story all day and had, you know, struggled, got an honorable mention. NBC tucked it in there, behind the Jackson news, complete with commentary and live reporting from L.A. Then it was back to Jackson, followed by a brief update that, yes, we’re still at war and Iran is falling apart and we’ll probably be at war with them soon too. Then back to Jackson.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for celebrity news. I just expect to find it in an Entertainment Newscast, not wall-to-wall coverage during the nightly news.
And still, where were the details? Who gets the kids? Will paternity tests be done? Does this mean, at long last, I can get Beatles songs on iTunes? Will Paul McCartney get the rights to his music back?
Of course, I know Michael Jackson’s death is a tragedy. Anyone’s death is. But as my outrage turned to cynicism, I couldn’t help but focus on the last decade or so of Jackson’s public life. Sure, he was a pop icon, but in recent years he was better known for being a freak show than a musician. I’m speaking, of course, of the delicious spectacle as-seen-on-TV: the pedophilia charges; babies dangling out of windows; showing up to court in pajamas; veiling one’s children; and telling reporters that it’s OK for a 40-something man to have a slumber party with young boys.
Perhaps once this man was an icon, but most recently he was an embarrassment, was my thought.
Then, on my way to work this morning, I tuned in to 98.9 Liberty. They were knee-deep in a Michael Jackson music marathon. It had been years since I listened to a Jackson song. It was my silent protest in support of young boys, I think. I rocked out to "Beat It," "Man in the Mirror," and part of "PYT" and by the time I got into work, I was remembering the good times with Jackson.
"Thriller" was the first album I ever owned (yes, album, as in record, on vinyl). I spent hours playing it again and again, staring at the album art: Jackson sprawled out in a white suit, holding a baby tiger, with a weird vein sticking out of his arm. I moon walked, I bought and wore one, shiny glove. I camped out at friends’ houses that had MTV, hoping to catch one of his videos. When "Bad" came out, I bought it, on tape, and loved it almost as much as "Thriller."
So now my cynicism has melted into nostalgia … and a little bit of sadness. Sure, Michael Jackson was a little eccentric, but he was our eccentric. And damn, that man could write and perform the heck out of a song. He will be missed.
Karri Peifer is a Richmond.com staff writer. The opinions she expresses so freely are hers, not those of Richmond.com or anyone affiliated with it. Or, really, of anyone who knows her.
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