Fame and Fortune are Bad for You

At this point, and to judge by the turf wars provoked in facebook by the commemoration of Michael Jackson's death, it is safe to say that the world can be divided into two camps and a distant third: Those who think Michael is a pervert, a creep and a criminal who didn't serve time because of his celebrity and his millions; and those who think he is the closest thing to the Messiah.
In the third camp are those of us who look at the entire spectacle in bewilderment and annoyance.
Nowhere in the world is the tradition of Celebrity Fuck Up more bizarre than in America. People here indeed have the possibility to hail from poverty and obscurity and catapult into humongous stardom (Elvis, MJ). But then, the dissolution of their dream once they reach the pinnacle of fame is usually grotesque, bizarre and terribly sad.
Before Michael dethroned him, Elvis was king. But Elvis came from another era. He was much more humble, much less affected by delusions of grandeur. Yet it seems that at the end of his life he was very unhappy, fat (favorite treat: a full loaf of unsliced white bread, stuffed with peanut butter and jelly and then deep fried), and addled by booze and by drugs. A bloated version of his younger self, playing the crowds in Vegas.
By the way, I saw ELVIS. I was like 10 years old. He would throw his sweaty, makeup stained handkerchiefs to hysterical women in the audience who would throw their underwear at him. He was wearing the white, sequined, flared bottom jumpsuit and he was definitely chubby. The way he sang "Fever" remains in my memory to this day. I suddenly understood why all the flying bras and panties. I think I got a fever from listening to him singing that song.
Why are the spoils of fame and fortune so bitter for some people?
In the case of Michael Jackson, the story is complicated by race and child abuse, and perhaps closeted homosexuality and self-hatred and by the fact that he made more money than God.
Compared to Neverland, Graceland is a bungalow. Just think about it: Graceland -- there is something of hope and faith and humility in the name. Neverland -- at best it's escapist fantasy, at worse it's self-destructive nihilism. It's not fit for an adult man either way.
But the worst part is the public's reaction. The adoring public is part of the reason why these people lose their marbles in the first place. Their every move is scrutinized, people treat them like gods.
They die and everybody decides to become cheesy and maudlin and shed crocodile tears.
This is when everybody all of a sudden forgets that Nixon was a prick and a crook, and that Lady Diana was a pathological narcissist and world class manipulator, and that they used to call him Jacko because he engaged in inappropriate behavior with minors. That he hated his black looks so much he bleached himself and changed his face and his hair and made sure he had white children (I find this almost as offensive as his warped sexuality, but everybody right now is totally looking the other way).
There is no doubt he was a great artist. But he was never the second coming of Christ.
Get a hold of yourselves and your easy tears, people. I cannot bear the spectacle. Why are the masses not equally outraged and passionately motivated to speak out against the war, or torture or the fact that we are all being bamboozled by insurance companies and banks?
Because everybody in this country would rather live in Neverland.

Gotta Be Starting Something

Without the permission of my friend Conchita, I am reposting an interesting exchange we had in facebook about the public memorial for Michael Jackson.

My status update: "What, no hysterical public memorials for Robert McNamara?"

Conchita:
Always so wry. Still, don't think it's hysterical to show this emotion. Whether it is Diana, Celia, Kennedy, MLK, or someone who did touch a lot of people. Personally, I believe most are honest in their expression of true admiration and sorrow. I'm just sayin'...
Me:
I respect emotion: I hate sentimentality.
Conchita:
sooooo subjective anyway. i thought most were pretty restrained, actually.
Me:
What I find most appalling, Conchi, apart from Brooke Shields' intervention, is the lopsidedness of the priorities. I like some of MJ's music as much as the next guy, but from there to making him into some kind of world savior seems to me at the very least to be in bad taste. He was a great entertainer. And a seriously disturbed individual. He was no Martin Luther King. Period.
If we could get that same kind of public enthusiasm to bring the soldiers home from Iraq, I wouldn't be so wry about it.
The one moment where I felt the deepest sense of loss, was when they showed him as a child singing "Who's loving you". Smokey said it: he had to have "know" to sing that song like that at that age. And that is truly sad.
In short, am not a monster. ;-)

(But do not get me started on Lady Diana).

My New Tia Clara

My dear aunt Clara, God bless her memory, was notorious for always getting names mixed up.
Connie Chung she called Chonnie Cung. She said she went to see the movie Henry V, but she called it Carlos V (a Mexican chocolate bar). She went to see a play called "A Rose of Two Aromas" and she called it "Aroma of Two Roses".
I used to kid her that it seemed more difficult to make that shit up than to remember it as it is.
Here are snippets of dialog I recently had with someone who will remain nameless, but who has usurped Tia Clara's penchant for cultural confusion.
1.
Me: That's Roger Daltrey from The Who.
New Tía Clara: Don't know him.
Me: He's rock and roll royalty. From The Who! One of Rock's most important bands ever.
New Tía Clara: What's the big deal? They only had a one hit wonder.
Me: What are you talking about?
New Tía Clara: That song "Take on me, take on me, take me on..."
Me: That's AHA. Not The Who.
2.
New Tia Clara: Michael Jackson is dead.
Me: Wow.
New Tía Clara: Wasn't he married to Liv Taylor?
Me: There is no Liv Taylor. Liz Taylor was his friend and she is like 85 years old.
New Tía Clara: The daughter of Elvis Presley, Liv Taylor. She is an actress and a model.
Me: That is Liv Tyler, the daughter of Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith. Michael Jackson was married for about two minutes to Lisa Marie Presley, the daughter of Elvis Presley.
New Tía Clara: I'm not sure you are right.

Tía Clara, reincarnated.

Why Am I Not So Sad...

... about Michael Jackson? I really like his music up to Thriller. I think he was enormously talented and sadly exploited as a child. Some of his songs, pretty much everything from Off The Wall, are the best dance songs ever. Thriller is a fantastic record. As a child, he was amazing. Before he became a wax dummy out of a Vincent Price movie, he was a handsome, glorious young man.
What the hell happened?
Why the irrational need to erase traces of his blackness, something he should be proud of?
I can understand the fear and loathing of the homosexuality, but not of the blackness that gave him his soul.
What horrifying reserves of self-hatred did this guy have to want to change himself into Mr. Bizarro? Lighten the skin and straighten the hair and narrow the nose...
When I heard the news at Cannes, at the terrace bar at the Carlton, I felt nothing. I thought that maybe his creepiness and bizarreness upstaged his talent, which is very sad.
I also knew it was going to be a free for all a la Princess Di (except in this case there was something worth mourning). And these things disgust me. Like Magnificent Arepa said, most people spent years mocking him and now that he's gone everyone is bawling.
I'm not looking forward to the sad state of affairs in which he left his finances. I am not looking forward to the circus that's gonna be whatever is left of his staggering amount of money, still generating revenue every time one of his songs is played.
He seems to have been left to his own devices, which apart from his artistry, were not very sharp.
It's truly sad, but I feel nothing.