Thursday, June 25, 2009

Now that I've gotten my kicks in, I can reflect more soberly on Michael Jackson. For me, he existed as a musical genius for precisely one album: Thriller. I remember my older sister offering to buy it for me (hey, whatever happened to that offer? No album was forthcoming. I got back at her a few years later by trading her copy for Van Halen's first record). And I was not impressed with Bad.

But along with John Belushi, Michael Jackson formed my first image of the superstar. Certainly, he was one of the first I heard urban legends about. My aforementioned sister was appalled by one rumor I ran past her, that Jackson had cut off his penis to accommodate being fucked by Paul McCartney.

In seventh grade music class I recorded a song called "Werewolf by Night" inspired by "Thriller" and the eponymous Marvel comic.

I remember when Jackos played the 1993 Superbowl, one of my roommates was convinced he made multiple appearance through the use of underground tunnels. Such was the mythology.

I disagree with Andrew Sullivan here that the abuse Jackson suffered wasn't sexual. It's long been my theory that Jackson lost his virginity before the age of ten, and that's what turned him into such a... you know, a freak. I have no doubt in my mind that groupies would be predatory enough to deflower a kindergartner.

By the way, Jackson's death doesn't end things. It's unfair to expect more from a man who has already given us so much, but more is gonna get got. Just like James Brown's passing led to riots and revelations of a transsexual common-law "wife," Michael is undoubtedly going to inspire no shortage of craziness from beyond the grave. Call it an encore.

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