Peter Pan is Dead – All Hail the King!

I don’t want to pour cold water (given that it’s Winter and it’s cold already) over the recent euphoria surrounding the death of pop musician Michael Jackson by making jokes about the deceased. Yeah, for real, Michael is dead and his bigger-than-life gimmicks are gone with him. Never again shall he need to put on funny masks and hats at a time when Swine Flu is not yet an epidemic; never again shall he need to throw a peace sign everytime a camera clicks as if he was a Golani Bridage corporal as his tank passes a UN monitored check-point in Southern Lebanon.

Michael, it is understood that as a kid aspiring to be Peter Pan who never really went to school like all of us always thought genetics worked along his narrow interpretation of biotic understanding– as if suppose I marry the daughter of Larry King me and her stand a big chance of producing a hotshot media personality. Nobody told Michael that genes don’t function according to our whim – you have more odds stacked against you to inherit cancer and diabetes from your mother than her guitar playing skills.

And poor Michael went ahead and married Lisa-Marie Presley only to bore her with his untold bedroom antics; somebody please leak Michael’s Sex Tape to Vivid!

Sometimes I wonder where was Motown’s Barry Gordy through this entire morass? Okay, it’s Gordy we talking about who was there even when Marvin Gaye bled through his nostrils.

Yeah, the ‘King of Pop’ who aspired to dance on the moon since his Thriller days finally has an opportunity to be a King for real. Where he’s at there’s no work so his credentials alone guarantee that Michael finally became king, at death – on our side. Funny.

So, we’ll never know if Michael did it but since dead people can not sue or be sued we can start to speculate why he would always love walking around with burly Marine-type men holding umbrellas for him and sitting on wheelchairs? For the life of me I am scared of wheelchairs even when it means they are just the means to being admitted to hospital. Something says to me if I acquaint myself with the machine I might be inviting some handicap. I know this sound cheap but not cheaper than Michael’s gimmicks which are snapped for free.

Whatever emerges and what can be observed out of the life and times of Michael is that he was a very sad and broken man. He never really had friends apart from his legion of publicists, biographers, fans, Nelson Mandela, personal photographers, PAs, brothers, sisters, mother and father. He never trusted people enough to get close to them since he always thought they wanted something from him. He was never a 50-Deep type. Who the fuck did he think he was – some drug that everyone wanted to get high on?

There’s not much science involved in analysing heart attacks; if your heart is overloaded with all the carbon dioxide it beats very fast, which means more blood or rather oxygen released into the system, which means you sweat, which means you become dehydrated and the blood becomes thicker and has more difficulty traveling through your arteries, which means if at that time you are incapacitated by another drug your heart gets clogged and you suffer cardiac failure and die.

I saw people on television crying as if they have just lost their balls. They cried the same way when Jimi Hendrix died. I saw them crying when Janis Joplin passed on. I swear I heard them crying fifteen years ago when Kurt Cobain spilled his own brains.

I ask people who trusted Michael with all their heart to tell me, ‘if you could unscrew your dick and leave it with someone for five days while you went somewhere, would you trust yours in the hands of Michael, do you think your pussy or dick will still be in a state you left it in with Michael if you did so? The question is largely that do you think the dude could be trusted?

I don’t know. But truly on June 25 – indeed the music died.

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