seriously who gives an F– about this? One more weird collective psyche out I cannot relate to and can only explain the psychology of as some bizzare cosmic echoing of something or other…
never disliked mj I take that back, always mild resentment as he represented the 80’s to me and the as for the 80’s…. well, the term holocaust of the soul comes to mind… The 80’s… what would you compare that too? Truly hated it.
I think the thing I was most amazed at during his memorial was the amount of charity work Michael Jackson did that was not reported in the media that loved to vilify him and caricature him.
I never knew he went to Walter Reed Army Hospital and talked to wounded Iraq war vets.
I never knew he paid for a burn unit.
I never knew he paid for beds in an African hospital.
I never knew he spoke in congress about HIV in Africa.
There was a lot more he did that many people never knew about because in the “front page” of the news was all about his skin color change, his plastic surgeries, his dealings with children, his trial and subsequent exile, his marriages, his dangling of “Blanket” out the window, and Neverland. The charity work he did was relegated to the snippets of “back end” news; not tawdry enough to please the American public that was and still is always slavering for the next bit of dirt on any public person. We seem to want to hear everything bad about people in the limelight in order to elevate our own inept, pathetic lives. When did we stop respecting people’s privacy? When did we delight in shredding people just to make ourselves feel good? How did we come to this way of living?
Shame on us that we so wanted to hear the worst kind of news instead of the decent, good, kindnesses he did in his life. We ravenously drooled over every juicy word of negativity. We didn’t seem to care to know how many human lives he touched for the better by giving his money and more importantly, his time.
No matter what Michael Jackson was or was not, he was a human being that lived and helped many, many, many people; sometimes in large groups and sometimes just one person at a time. He helped people despite his tortured childhood, or maybe because of it. To be so hounded while doing such good is egregious. He had his faults, but he did a lot of good. As I watched and listened, I felt a shame in me for what our society has become.
I’ve never been a huge Michael Jackson fan, and since I don’t watch a whole lot of television I only saw bits and pieces of his public tragedies….you know, the “wierd stuff” that the media fixated on. But since I was born in the mid ’60s, his earlier music and public persona are a natural part of my growing-up back ground images.
Therefore, I was really taken a back at how often waves of compassion would well up within me since his death, and I would take a moment to direct these feelings towards him. Several times over the weekend I had the desire to hold him, naked, and kiss and caress him much as I would one of my biological children.
I watched the last bit of the memorial service this afternoon (the cynic me half expected the King of Pop to rise out of his casket and proclaim this was the start of his tour). Wouldn’t it be a good thing if people like me, who never thought they would be affected by Michael Jackson’s death, would take whatever feelings of love that they’re experiencing and share them with others?
I do find it wonderfully “odd” that so many people seem to be feeling it…
Closing words from the same tribute in LA Weekly by Hardy:
Many of the tributes being written, especially by Negro males, think they’re bestowing the ultimate praise on him by positioning him alongside conventional, traditional soul men or icons of Negro male cool. Make that unquestionable hetero Negro male cool. But the thing about Michael was that he resonated so powerfully precisely because he upended and shimmered beyond gender convention. It seems especially noteworthy that he cemented his solo superstar status during the gender-bending/gender-fuck era of the early ’80s, alongside Boy George, Annie Lennox, Prince, a funkily reinvigorated Grace Jones — though he was a seasoned old pro in comparison to all of them. (It was his second start at a solo career.)
Because his gender tweak was subtle relative to those artists, it doesn’t really get commented upon. But Michael evolved from childhood mimicry of the masculinity of soul titans to something more complex and more layered. And it eventually housed a much more problematic sexuality. It’s difficult to know the ways in which his abusive childhood, the adult responsibilities carried on his childhood shoulders, and the paradoxically sheltered and wide-open pop-star lifestyle he had at an early age all contoured his sexuality, and to then fully know what inclinations and fetishes might have been innate and which were externally shaped.
Curiously absent from the praise and aesthetic roll-call being put forth for Michael is one name: Diana Ross. It’s a glaring and telling omission that has much to do with the low critical regard in which Ross is held, and the reluctance of critics to own up to not just the deep influence that diva Ross had on boy wonder Jackson, but on the ways in which her persona and performing style play out in him.
Michael Jackson was layered metaphor and walking commentary/cautionary tale, so the bifurcated coverage of his death leaves both sides with an incomplete picture. The sensationalists ignore the power and beauty of his work while wallowing in the sordid. Michael tapped into something transcendent that reached from Gary, Indiana, to Selma, Alabama, to Moscow to Paris to Hong Kong. His soulful, heartfelt music and poetic athleticism were otherworldly, resonating with all kinds of people. They soothed and inspired. At the same time, he was a man who had an obsession with childhood and his idealized notion of its trappings of innocence and playfulness, extending all the way to his hosting sleepovers with young boys that were, at a minimum, creepy as hell. He was damaged, thwarted in crucial ways.
It seems to me that the same impulses that manifested in his divine art also manifested as questionable (to put it mildly) predilections for companionship. It should all be put on the table at once. That’s the only way to get a truly complete picture of the man, to glean something of both the sublime and the darker elements of his life and work, and to make sense of the fact that a wealthy, immeasurably influential, unfathomably talented global icon was seemingly so unhappy, so pained, and so unable to combat it.
An excerpt from Ernest Hardy’s article in the LA Weekly:
“Michael was blackness and maleness, soul music and pop culture, all forged pre-hip-hop, pre-Reagan, pre-crack, pre the implosion of short-lived civil rights–era idealism and hope. That’s an important point to help understand the thick strands of optimism, possibility, aesthetic and political vision that ran through his work. And that makes the darkness and paranoia that marbled so much of his later music all the more heartbreaking, especially as it roughly paralleled the shifting tenor of the times. He never lost his humanitarian streak or his belief in the overall goodness of humanity, but the evolution of his own relationship to the world and his feelings about how he was treated darkened noticeably.
The beauty and power of Michael Jackson, particularly in the first 30 or so years of his life, was that he was black. It’s important to stress and explain that because in this “post-race/post-black” moment, it’s become obvious that a lot of Negroes rushing to free themselves from the so-called shackles of blackness, aided by “colorblind” and “progressive” non-Negroes, don’t even know what blackness is: Working like a dog while mired in poverty in Gary, Indiana — endless rehearsals, mastering backbreaking craftsmanship, sweltering under the heat of a father’s dream deferred — all while aiming for a big time mapped out by sweat, hope and faith; that’s black. Not letting your lack of material comforts impede your forward motion; that’s black. Being rooted in the working-class/struggling-class vortex of innovation, perseverance and resilience that has birthed all the Negro musical r/evolutions in this country; that’s black. Building effortlessly on the past and setting a whole new bar for the future; blacker than black.
Exercising the prerogative of organic genius by laying claim to shit that already exists and just making it your own; B-l-a-c-k. Mapping the template and setting the pace that will govern the globe; b-b-b-b-black. Coming of age amid proud shouts of “Black is beautiful” and effortlessly embodying the adage, but somehow getting infected with the centuries-old disease of white supremacy and internalized racism that will have you repeatedly take a knife to your natural-born beauty . that’s so very black. Being universal in your struggles and triumphs just by being you: black.”
The computer network in my office slowed to a crawl, so many were there watching the streaming video of the funeral. i could hear deep sobs and sniffles over the cubicles – enough to choke me up vicariously. Ostensibily, i’m the in-house IT guy but (since i am not in management) i held my tongue and stayed my hand so that those mourning could have closure. Luckily the big bosses were away – or maybe it was not luck. i’m in awe of the emotional display i have witnessed today. Puffy eyes looking at me, full of surprise at the depth of their own reactions. Voices and hands shaking while trying to make excuses or explainations to anyone who will listen. An Aries Point phenomenon in word and indeed. Eclipse in word and indeed. i will not soon stop thinking about this day. i will not soon forget what i saw and heard, not on the broadcast, but right here among the real live people in my workplace.
Reporting from Wage Slave Central,
Len Wallick
Just finished watching the Memorial service and am feeling the collective surge of emotions and affection for whatever it is Michael Jackson triggered in each of us.
Feels like a big World Sized Class of Spirituality 101-if one chooses to “hate” him and focuses on his supposed crimes and misdemeanors, there is a separation going on within you. If you see what you had in common with him and can “feel” the joy and pain, you are connected to the Whole.
I am in one of the most isolated places on Earth right now, Hawaii, and I can feel the waves of emotion around me as if they were within me.
seriously who gives an F– about this? One more weird collective psyche out I cannot relate to and can only explain the psychology of as some bizzare cosmic echoing of something or other…
never disliked mj I take that back, always mild resentment as he represented the 80’s to me and the as for the 80’s…. well, the term holocaust of the soul comes to mind… The 80’s… what would you compare that too? Truly hated it.
I think the thing I was most amazed at during his memorial was the amount of charity work Michael Jackson did that was not reported in the media that loved to vilify him and caricature him.
I never knew he went to Walter Reed Army Hospital and talked to wounded Iraq war vets.
I never knew he paid for a burn unit.
I never knew he paid for beds in an African hospital.
I never knew he spoke in congress about HIV in Africa.
There was a lot more he did that many people never knew about because in the “front page” of the news was all about his skin color change, his plastic surgeries, his dealings with children, his trial and subsequent exile, his marriages, his dangling of “Blanket” out the window, and Neverland. The charity work he did was relegated to the snippets of “back end” news; not tawdry enough to please the American public that was and still is always slavering for the next bit of dirt on any public person. We seem to want to hear everything bad about people in the limelight in order to elevate our own inept, pathetic lives. When did we stop respecting people’s privacy? When did we delight in shredding people just to make ourselves feel good? How did we come to this way of living?
Shame on us that we so wanted to hear the worst kind of news instead of the decent, good, kindnesses he did in his life. We ravenously drooled over every juicy word of negativity. We didn’t seem to care to know how many human lives he touched for the better by giving his money and more importantly, his time.
No matter what Michael Jackson was or was not, he was a human being that lived and helped many, many, many people; sometimes in large groups and sometimes just one person at a time. He helped people despite his tortured childhood, or maybe because of it. To be so hounded while doing such good is egregious. He had his faults, but he did a lot of good. As I watched and listened, I felt a shame in me for what our society has become.
I’ve never been a huge Michael Jackson fan, and since I don’t watch a whole lot of television I only saw bits and pieces of his public tragedies….you know, the “wierd stuff” that the media fixated on. But since I was born in the mid ’60s, his earlier music and public persona are a natural part of my growing-up back ground images.
Therefore, I was really taken a back at how often waves of compassion would well up within me since his death, and I would take a moment to direct these feelings towards him. Several times over the weekend I had the desire to hold him, naked, and kiss and caress him much as I would one of my biological children.
I watched the last bit of the memorial service this afternoon (the cynic me half expected the King of Pop to rise out of his casket and proclaim this was the start of his tour). Wouldn’t it be a good thing if people like me, who never thought they would be affected by Michael Jackson’s death, would take whatever feelings of love that they’re experiencing and share them with others?
I do find it wonderfully “odd” that so many people seem to be feeling it…
Closing words from the same tribute in LA Weekly by Hardy:
Many of the tributes being written, especially by Negro males, think they’re bestowing the ultimate praise on him by positioning him alongside conventional, traditional soul men or icons of Negro male cool. Make that unquestionable hetero Negro male cool. But the thing about Michael was that he resonated so powerfully precisely because he upended and shimmered beyond gender convention. It seems especially noteworthy that he cemented his solo superstar status during the gender-bending/gender-fuck era of the early ’80s, alongside Boy George, Annie Lennox, Prince, a funkily reinvigorated Grace Jones — though he was a seasoned old pro in comparison to all of them. (It was his second start at a solo career.)
Because his gender tweak was subtle relative to those artists, it doesn’t really get commented upon. But Michael evolved from childhood mimicry of the masculinity of soul titans to something more complex and more layered. And it eventually housed a much more problematic sexuality. It’s difficult to know the ways in which his abusive childhood, the adult responsibilities carried on his childhood shoulders, and the paradoxically sheltered and wide-open pop-star lifestyle he had at an early age all contoured his sexuality, and to then fully know what inclinations and fetishes might have been innate and which were externally shaped.
Curiously absent from the praise and aesthetic roll-call being put forth for Michael is one name: Diana Ross. It’s a glaring and telling omission that has much to do with the low critical regard in which Ross is held, and the reluctance of critics to own up to not just the deep influence that diva Ross had on boy wonder Jackson, but on the ways in which her persona and performing style play out in him.
Michael Jackson was layered metaphor and walking commentary/cautionary tale, so the bifurcated coverage of his death leaves both sides with an incomplete picture. The sensationalists ignore the power and beauty of his work while wallowing in the sordid. Michael tapped into something transcendent that reached from Gary, Indiana, to Selma, Alabama, to Moscow to Paris to Hong Kong. His soulful, heartfelt music and poetic athleticism were otherworldly, resonating with all kinds of people. They soothed and inspired. At the same time, he was a man who had an obsession with childhood and his idealized notion of its trappings of innocence and playfulness, extending all the way to his hosting sleepovers with young boys that were, at a minimum, creepy as hell. He was damaged, thwarted in crucial ways.
It seems to me that the same impulses that manifested in his divine art also manifested as questionable (to put it mildly) predilections for companionship. It should all be put on the table at once. That’s the only way to get a truly complete picture of the man, to glean something of both the sublime and the darker elements of his life and work, and to make sense of the fact that a wealthy, immeasurably influential, unfathomably talented global icon was seemingly so unhappy, so pained, and so unable to combat it.
An excerpt from Ernest Hardy’s article in the LA Weekly:
“Michael was blackness and maleness, soul music and pop culture, all forged pre-hip-hop, pre-Reagan, pre-crack, pre the implosion of short-lived civil rights–era idealism and hope. That’s an important point to help understand the thick strands of optimism, possibility, aesthetic and political vision that ran through his work. And that makes the darkness and paranoia that marbled so much of his later music all the more heartbreaking, especially as it roughly paralleled the shifting tenor of the times. He never lost his humanitarian streak or his belief in the overall goodness of humanity, but the evolution of his own relationship to the world and his feelings about how he was treated darkened noticeably.
The beauty and power of Michael Jackson, particularly in the first 30 or so years of his life, was that he was black. It’s important to stress and explain that because in this “post-race/post-black” moment, it’s become obvious that a lot of Negroes rushing to free themselves from the so-called shackles of blackness, aided by “colorblind” and “progressive” non-Negroes, don’t even know what blackness is: Working like a dog while mired in poverty in Gary, Indiana — endless rehearsals, mastering backbreaking craftsmanship, sweltering under the heat of a father’s dream deferred — all while aiming for a big time mapped out by sweat, hope and faith; that’s black. Not letting your lack of material comforts impede your forward motion; that’s black. Being rooted in the working-class/struggling-class vortex of innovation, perseverance and resilience that has birthed all the Negro musical r/evolutions in this country; that’s black. Building effortlessly on the past and setting a whole new bar for the future; blacker than black.
Exercising the prerogative of organic genius by laying claim to shit that already exists and just making it your own; B-l-a-c-k. Mapping the template and setting the pace that will govern the globe; b-b-b-b-black. Coming of age amid proud shouts of “Black is beautiful” and effortlessly embodying the adage, but somehow getting infected with the centuries-old disease of white supremacy and internalized racism that will have you repeatedly take a knife to your natural-born beauty . that’s so very black. Being universal in your struggles and triumphs just by being you: black.”
The computer network in my office slowed to a crawl, so many were there watching the streaming video of the funeral. i could hear deep sobs and sniffles over the cubicles – enough to choke me up vicariously. Ostensibily, i’m the in-house IT guy but (since i am not in management) i held my tongue and stayed my hand so that those mourning could have closure. Luckily the big bosses were away – or maybe it was not luck. i’m in awe of the emotional display i have witnessed today. Puffy eyes looking at me, full of surprise at the depth of their own reactions. Voices and hands shaking while trying to make excuses or explainations to anyone who will listen. An Aries Point phenomenon in word and indeed. Eclipse in word and indeed. i will not soon stop thinking about this day. i will not soon forget what i saw and heard, not on the broadcast, but right here among the real live people in my workplace.
Reporting from Wage Slave Central,
Len Wallick
Just finished watching the Memorial service and am feeling the collective surge of emotions and affection for whatever it is Michael Jackson triggered in each of us.
Feels like a big World Sized Class of Spirituality 101-if one chooses to “hate” him and focuses on his supposed crimes and misdemeanors, there is a separation going on within you. If you see what you had in common with him and can “feel” the joy and pain, you are connected to the Whole.
I am in one of the most isolated places on Earth right now, Hawaii, and I can feel the waves of emotion around me as if they were within me.
Peace to All-aloha!