I’VE DONE NOTHING OF NOTE SINCE COMING HOME TODAY, except watch hours of Michael Jackson interviews.
I originally felt little grief towards hearing about his death, because I have this sort of “thing” with men who act inappropriately towards children in that I don’t really care about them at all.
In any case, it’s incredibly sad to see a grown man walking around speaking several octaves higher than his normal speaking voice, incredibly sad for a man to admit that he has spent his whole adult life trying to create a childhood he never had and it’s incredibly sad that he actually thinks we believe him when he says he had sex with Debbie Rowe because COME ON. THAT DID NOT HAPPEN. YOU DID NOT STICK YOUR PENIS IN HER.
I was too young to appreciate him in his glory and will not pretend I’ve lost a musician I hold dear to my ear (holy shit! is that a good phrase or will I be embarrassed about that later?!), but I’m just now realizing how this is all… incredibly sad.
John Mayer:
Michael Jackson proves, in a really sort of perverse way, that maybe we’re not as offended by behavior as we are entranced by music. And think about that. Think about what level of quality you must have to attain to have somebody say, “I know that you’re accused of having molested children, but I can’t hate you for that as much as I love you for your music.” I’m not saying that’s right or wrong; I’m saying that it’s fascinating. That somebody could be that great. That somebody could have that much of a marriage with your emotions just through music.
There’s just one Michael Jackson now. We don’t have to reconcile the Michael Jackson we love with another Michael Jackson. In a way, he has returned to pristine condition in death. We can be free now for the rest of our lives to love the Michael Jackson we used to love.
