A death today.
As I type we are less than an hour away from the announcement that Michael Jackson, the songwriter and performer and not the radio host, has died. First of all, I never quite got it. I was in the midst of my teenage years when Thriller hit like Thor’s hammer. The relatively clever album dominated pop culture for two years after languishing on record-store shelves through the previous year.
I know the video clips had something to do with it, but that cannot be the whole story.
We get story after story about show-business parents letting their progeny associate with him and later attempting to bring charges for improper behavior. I maintain, this is all so much crapola. Jackson was opposed to adulthood and every other aspect of his life reflected this. He was in a financial position to get away with such things.
Soon, we will know. Not by direct evidence, but by stories and the nature of what shall be found in his homes now that it may unravel. As far as the least pleasant accusations are concerned, he shall be vindicated. Jackson was a chronically disturbed individual, who wanted to remain a child and wanted to associate in a child’s world for reasons which may never be understood. Sexuality is not part of a stereotypical child’s world. It was an easy explanation for his peculiar behavior and manner, but reality is seldom so simple.