When Michael Jackson was accused of pedophilia for the second time, I donated my copies of Thriller and Bad to the Friends of the Library. I removed him from our family playlists and changed the radio stations on the first beat of his songs. I do not watch Roman Polanski's movies and my husband has a firm stand against anything by Woody Allen. When I turned 30 and realized I was the same age as Sylvia Plath was when she abandoned her children, I stopped re-reading her work and started reading Ted Hughes. She was the better poet, but he was the better parent. Child abandonment through suicide is tragic, not artful or romantic. Plath’s crime is not necessarily her suicide, but instead her confessional poetry that dwells in depression, self-loathing, blame, and anger. These are not places that I want to visit anymore, so her art no longer captures me.
Plath as well as her contemporaries Anne Sexton and John Berryman, who all committed suicide, are great examples of how artists aren’t known for their stability. Substance abuse problems, divorce, adultery, spousal abuse, child neglect, mental illness and suicide run rampant in the art community. Unfortunately, the more tragic an artist’s life is the more appealing he or she becomes to the masses. There has been a longstanding belief that good art can only be born out of great tragedy, simply not true. But, are there tragedies so sad and crimes so awful that the artist’s work should not be separated from the artist’s life? Is there a point that you should say, “You are not a good person and I will no longer support your art,” or does art always supersede life?
Showing posts with label Michael Jackson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael Jackson. Show all posts
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I Like the Way You Hold Your Sign
Dear Mr. Dancing Sign Holder on College and Harmony:
Thank you for bringing a touch of happiness to my day with your phenomenal dancing. Unlike the damn sign holding fools with spastic, convulsion-like moves in front of Ultimate Electronics (who I fear would bite me if I got out of my car), you actually know how to dance although you are not very mindful of your sign. Upside down, sideways, backwards, above your head, below your feet. I have been watching you for over a year, and I don't know if you are peddling plumbing, painting, electronics, or furniture. Really doesn't matter to you or your audience, who sit in their cars for many minutes at the busiest intersection in town that happens to be benefiting from impeccable planning on the part of city, county, and transportation officials. Smart move to tear up both the busiest street and second busiest street in the city, right at point where they intersect. This way, there are now double the amount of the construction workers to stand around and give instructions to the one man who is actually working -- the non-sunscreen wearing worker with the yellow hard hat, orange vest and severe limp.
Mr. Sign Holding Dancer, you are far more entertaining to watch than a few hot, taut construction workers. Once you get past the muscles, nice tan, and occasional gesture of extraordinary strength, what's there to watch? You, on the other hand, give a show with your nice tan, athletic legs, mysterious eyes and boyish smile that illuminates every time you do a four step moonwalk or a fancy knee lift-ankle turn that is reminiscent of Michael Jackson. When I first saw you last April, I said in a conversation with myself: "It is like he is channeling Michael Jackson. No. That makes no sense since you can't channel living people." Then, two months later, MJ was dead. At that moment, I think your dancing got better, and you added the black hat, bunched up socks and loafers to your attire. However, the hat really interferes with your sign holding. You should consider ditching the sign. Your loyal fans won't tell your employer.
Or, should I say, loyal fan. I might be the only one in town who notices you. Or, maybe I am the only one you notice, noticing you. I am the frazzled mom (perhaps a cougar of the librarian variety) in the red mini-van, who ignores her four children and listens to Prince at a volume that makes her children scream in agony, forcing me to turn it up even louder to drown them out. I can tell by the way your moves don't match my tunes that you don't have any Prince on your play-list that only you can hear. Sometimes you smile and wave at me. I smile and wave back. Damn. Am I really becoming the "bored, lonely, horny-for-college-boys housewife" that my husband excuses me of being every day? No. I don't think so. Well, maybe. But, not in this case.
You, my favorite sign holding dancer, bring a little art to my daily life. You remind that you don't have to be on a stage or a contrived reality show to be a dancer. You are dancer in every sense of the word, even if your paycheck comes from sign holding, not dancing. Your art on the corner of College and Harmony, right in front of the McDonald's, inspires me. You are fearless, artistic and confident. Thank you for adding a little joy to my day and giving me a jolt of much needed motivation.
Best Wishes,
Garbageman's Daughter
Thursday, June 24, 2010
A Comeback Through Death
Dying was his only option. His only option for peace and some form of redemption. The only option to be a successful, lucrative, performer again. His only method for a comeback of sorts.
Death was Michael Jackson’s salvation.
Prior to his passing on June 25, 2010, Michael Jackson was a ruined man professionally, physically, financially and, some might say, morally too. Years of indulgent overspending, left the real life Peter Pan, mired in debt, and numerous plastic surgeries transformed the once spunky all-American, black phenom from Gary, Indiana into a frightening and unrecognizable version of his younger self. Then, there were all the molestation charges, which ultimately destroyed his career and public image. His legal troubles distracted from his recording and touring; devoured his bank account; and devastated the image of the King of Pop. Although never convicted, Jackson could never get past the stigma of being an accused pedophile, leaving him a broke recluse with no hopes of a complete and successful comeback.
A year after his death, Jackson is back. Most of his troubles have died with him and he has regained the status of icon. A renewed interest in his music has put him back on the charts and a movie that chronicles his last performance has made millions. New projects are in the works, as the Michael Jackson estate continues to negotiate lucrative deals that have been putting his finances back in the black and re-setting his public image back to the wholesome and shy twenty-something with his one glove, flood pants, sparkling socks, and black loafers that magnified that magnificent moon walk that forever changed the entertainment world.
With Michael Jackson now gone, his music can be celebrated and separated from his tragic image. It is time to lift your Michael Jackson music moratorium and put some "Beat It" back on family play list and let a little "Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)" blast from your car stereos.
Death was Michael Jackson’s salvation.
Prior to his passing on June 25, 2010, Michael Jackson was a ruined man professionally, physically, financially and, some might say, morally too. Years of indulgent overspending, left the real life Peter Pan, mired in debt, and numerous plastic surgeries transformed the once spunky all-American, black phenom from Gary, Indiana into a frightening and unrecognizable version of his younger self. Then, there were all the molestation charges, which ultimately destroyed his career and public image. His legal troubles distracted from his recording and touring; devoured his bank account; and devastated the image of the King of Pop. Although never convicted, Jackson could never get past the stigma of being an accused pedophile, leaving him a broke recluse with no hopes of a complete and successful comeback.
A year after his death, Jackson is back. Most of his troubles have died with him and he has regained the status of icon. A renewed interest in his music has put him back on the charts and a movie that chronicles his last performance has made millions. New projects are in the works, as the Michael Jackson estate continues to negotiate lucrative deals that have been putting his finances back in the black and re-setting his public image back to the wholesome and shy twenty-something with his one glove, flood pants, sparkling socks, and black loafers that magnified that magnificent moon walk that forever changed the entertainment world.
With Michael Jackson now gone, his music can be celebrated and separated from his tragic image. It is time to lift your Michael Jackson music moratorium and put some "Beat It" back on family play list and let a little "Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)" blast from your car stereos.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
An Open Letter to Prince: Advice You Must Take Before You Drop Dead
Michael Jackson is dead. Now about 750,000 fans who spent roughly 85 million dollars for tickets to his "This Is It Tour" have refunds in their hands, grief in their hearts and no freak to see.
Prince, you must take advantage of their grief. You can be the replacement freak for all those Wacko Jacko admirers, and all that money could be yours if you do the “See Me before I Drop Dead Tour.” (You could do this tour every year until you finally drop dead.)
Sure, Wacko Jacko fans are lunatics, but does it matter? It is not like you particularly care about your fanbase. I am sure at least a few of them have managed to breed and have dancing babies you can sue. Really instead of suing babies, you should be begging hospitals to give out your music instead of those tired old Mozart CDs. Probably about your only hope to get anyone under the age of 35 to listen to you again.
If the "Drop Dead Tour" and the hospital CD do not bring you the money and fame you still crave, you still can always get hip surgery and do the “Hump the Piano Tour” for all the fans who were in elementary school and too young to see you slithering your tight little ass across that piano and tantalizing us with “Do you want him? Or do you want me?” Hump that piano, baby!
Once you start humping that piano, why don’t you just break out all your filthy ditties and make it the “Dirty Forever Tour.” Bring all those freaky hits on the road Head, Jack U Off , and Let’s Pretend We’re Married. Of course, you must perform Erotic City, not the instrumental version that you have been teasing fans with for 10 years but the full vocal, “We can fuck until the dawn, making love 'til cherry's gone” rendition. On a similar note, stop changing “Sexuality” to “Spiritually.”
Congratulations on finding your religion and being a devoted Jehovah Witness. You are entitled to your religion and personal quest, but don't burden your fans with your crappy God is Great music. You owe it to your fans to give them the salaciousness that they desire. Actually, you owe it to the one fan who finally got out from under her parents' control, moved near a big city, and got enough money for a ticket, the year that you stopped saying “fuck.”
It's time to bring back the panty dropping songs, so you must make a deal with the JW church. You need to make a donation to the church that is so large that the Catholics will be jealous and the elders in the Watch Tower Society will be helping you sing Hide the Bone. You can have it all: your religion (keep private and out of your music), lots of money (isn't that want the whole Warner Bros. cheated and mistreated me pity party is really about?) and your artistic freedom. You can still write and sing your mature, politically aware songs like Colonized Mind, but please give us your Dirty Mind back before you drop dead.
Sincerely,
Garbageman's Daughter
Prince, you must take advantage of their grief. You can be the replacement freak for all those Wacko Jacko admirers, and all that money could be yours if you do the “See Me before I Drop Dead Tour.” (You could do this tour every year until you finally drop dead.)
Sure, Wacko Jacko fans are lunatics, but does it matter? It is not like you particularly care about your fanbase. I am sure at least a few of them have managed to breed and have dancing babies you can sue. Really instead of suing babies, you should be begging hospitals to give out your music instead of those tired old Mozart CDs. Probably about your only hope to get anyone under the age of 35 to listen to you again.
If the "Drop Dead Tour" and the hospital CD do not bring you the money and fame you still crave, you still can always get hip surgery and do the “Hump the Piano Tour” for all the fans who were in elementary school and too young to see you slithering your tight little ass across that piano and tantalizing us with “Do you want him? Or do you want me?” Hump that piano, baby!
Once you start humping that piano, why don’t you just break out all your filthy ditties and make it the “Dirty Forever Tour.” Bring all those freaky hits on the road Head, Jack U Off , and Let’s Pretend We’re Married. Of course, you must perform Erotic City, not the instrumental version that you have been teasing fans with for 10 years but the full vocal, “We can fuck until the dawn, making love 'til cherry's gone” rendition. On a similar note, stop changing “Sexuality” to “Spiritually.”
Congratulations on finding your religion and being a devoted Jehovah Witness. You are entitled to your religion and personal quest, but don't burden your fans with your crappy God is Great music. You owe it to your fans to give them the salaciousness that they desire. Actually, you owe it to the one fan who finally got out from under her parents' control, moved near a big city, and got enough money for a ticket, the year that you stopped saying “fuck.”
It's time to bring back the panty dropping songs, so you must make a deal with the JW church. You need to make a donation to the church that is so large that the Catholics will be jealous and the elders in the Watch Tower Society will be helping you sing Hide the Bone. You can have it all: your religion (keep private and out of your music), lots of money (isn't that want the whole Warner Bros. cheated and mistreated me pity party is really about?) and your artistic freedom. You can still write and sing your mature, politically aware songs like Colonized Mind, but please give us your Dirty Mind back before you drop dead.
Sincerely,
Garbageman's Daughter
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Grieving on a Fallen Star, or Not
Michael Jackson died today.
I want to be sad, maybe even shed tear or two. To stimulate my grief, I listen to Thriller. Nothing. I stare at the original Thriller cover for awhile, which I had as a wall-size poster back in 1982 when I was nine. I look at it a long time. So that is what he looked like before all the surgeries and the loss of pigmentation, I guess I have forgotten. Still feeling nothing.
I remember staying up late to see the premier of Beat it on Friday Night Videos on NBC because I was only a part of the MTV generation in theory. I suddenly get the urge to email my friend Tracey who stayed over that night to watch it with me. But still nothing.
Although I should I have stopped, I guess I couldn’t get enough. So, I forced myself to try to remember if Thriller or 1999 was my first cassette. Prince’s breakthrough album came out only one month before Thriller. I can’t remember which I got first. Feeling the urge to turn off Thriller and switch to 1999. I still feel nothing for MJ.
I can’t make myself feel sad. Indifference keeps surfacing.
I mourned the loss of Jackson in 2005 when he faced accusations of child molestation for the second time. I stopped listening to him entirely. When his songs came on the radio, I turned the dial immediately, no matter how catchy the chorus or funky the beat.
He was acquitted of all charges against him, but that just means reasonable doubt existed. Innocent and not guilty are not the same. Michael Jackson had three things going for him during that trial: he had some of the best lawyers on the planet; his star power; and, the mother of the allegedly abused child was a money-seeking, star-obsessed, fame-hungry compulsive liar who was enough to cast an enormous shadow of reasonable doubt despite other witness testimony. So, Jackson walked out of the court room and withdrew from society.
Great performers don’t have to be flawless. But at the same time, having exceedingly amazing ability and talent doesn’t excuse inappropriate and harmful behavior. Jackson admitted to allowing young boys to sleep in his bed, and more than one child claimed to be abused.
Something was wrong at Neverland Ranch. Something was wrong within Michael Jackson. This is why I can’t grieve, perhaps.
I want to be sad, maybe even shed tear or two. To stimulate my grief, I listen to Thriller. Nothing. I stare at the original Thriller cover for awhile, which I had as a wall-size poster back in 1982 when I was nine. I look at it a long time. So that is what he looked like before all the surgeries and the loss of pigmentation, I guess I have forgotten. Still feeling nothing.
I remember staying up late to see the premier of Beat it on Friday Night Videos on NBC because I was only a part of the MTV generation in theory. I suddenly get the urge to email my friend Tracey who stayed over that night to watch it with me. But still nothing.
Although I should I have stopped, I guess I couldn’t get enough. So, I forced myself to try to remember if Thriller or 1999 was my first cassette. Prince’s breakthrough album came out only one month before Thriller. I can’t remember which I got first. Feeling the urge to turn off Thriller and switch to 1999. I still feel nothing for MJ.
I can’t make myself feel sad. Indifference keeps surfacing.
I mourned the loss of Jackson in 2005 when he faced accusations of child molestation for the second time. I stopped listening to him entirely. When his songs came on the radio, I turned the dial immediately, no matter how catchy the chorus or funky the beat.
He was acquitted of all charges against him, but that just means reasonable doubt existed. Innocent and not guilty are not the same. Michael Jackson had three things going for him during that trial: he had some of the best lawyers on the planet; his star power; and, the mother of the allegedly abused child was a money-seeking, star-obsessed, fame-hungry compulsive liar who was enough to cast an enormous shadow of reasonable doubt despite other witness testimony. So, Jackson walked out of the court room and withdrew from society.
Great performers don’t have to be flawless. But at the same time, having exceedingly amazing ability and talent doesn’t excuse inappropriate and harmful behavior. Jackson admitted to allowing young boys to sleep in his bed, and more than one child claimed to be abused.
Something was wrong at Neverland Ranch. Something was wrong within Michael Jackson. This is why I can’t grieve, perhaps.
A Message to Michael Jackson Fans from a Prince Fan
Dear Michael Jackson Fans:
Please accept my sincere condolences. I am sorry for your loss.
Truthfully, I am not feeling much grief for the King of Pop. It could be because he was an accused child molester. Or maybe I am just irritated that his two sons are both named Prince; he had the nerve to die on the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain; and, now all the Wacko Jacko crazies will flood the Prince boards.
Please don’t take this personally, but we don’t want you. We have enough of our own nutballs, so go check out the Madonna boards.
I bid you good luck in your search to find a new freak to idolize.
Sincerely,
A Prince Fan
Please accept my sincere condolences. I am sorry for your loss.
Truthfully, I am not feeling much grief for the King of Pop. It could be because he was an accused child molester. Or maybe I am just irritated that his two sons are both named Prince; he had the nerve to die on the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain; and, now all the Wacko Jacko crazies will flood the Prince boards.
Please don’t take this personally, but we don’t want you. We have enough of our own nutballs, so go check out the Madonna boards.
I bid you good luck in your search to find a new freak to idolize.
Sincerely,
A Prince Fan
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