a thousand words

Thursday, August 6, 2009


He’s gone.

And it hurts, I know

But all in our society have to accept our part in the death of this iconic man.

Who killed Michael?

Greedy, inept doctors? A savage media that will put it’s own children on blast for a dollar? A family shrouded by secrets that seems to be inordinately dysfunctional? Evil lying opportunists like Evan Chandler who now admits he lied about Michael molesting him and paying $22 million for him to go away?

The truth is, Michael Jackson has died many times and there are many killers.

The first time he died he was just a kid and someone, not caring about him allowed his innocence to be stolen and his self-esteem to be irreparably damaged.

The murderer has been speculated about for years and no culprit has ever been uncovered.

The second death occurred as a young man as he struggled to create a second act as a performer. Michael sought a new sound and look then slowly destroyed the person he used to be literally and figuratively.

This killer seems to be Michael himself but upon closer inspection it was us again, a society that worships a beauty standard that he could never be a part of and allows anything to be purchased with money, even white skin and silky hair.

The little dark boy we loved was burned away and the tall thin, pale god that Michael saw in
himself, protector of children, champion of the oppressed, the man he wanted to save him as a child, emerged and he was an international star.

And then Michael was killed again, this time by unscrupulous associates, a predatory media and scheming parents. Embroiled by scandal, Michael began using painkillers and anti-depressants on a daily basis as he ran from the media, so-called friends and even family. And we laughed at Eddie, Chris and Jay Leno as they made fun of him and his world. We indicted him, allowing the very accusations to serve as verdicts on his guilt.

But he wasn’t guilty. He was a kid struggling to be a man and a man struggling to stay a kid.

In the end, we all killed him, like the passengers on the train in Murder On The Orient Express, or the senators in ancient Rome, we all took our turn to plunge a dagger into the heart of the King.

So now he’s gone and whether you saw yourself as the little brown boy with the big Afro and the radiant smile or the gravity-defying dervish who claimed the world, surely part of us all died on Thursday, too.

And so I have imposed my punishment for my part in this crime. I am sentenced as follows:

-To only remember the music and not the scandal.
-To never enrich those who will try to exploit him in his death.
-To demand excellence from my entertainers and
-To ignore all those who attempt to do this to any celebrity again.

So help me God.