Michael, Part Two

I’m desperately trying not to write about this anymore. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m livid. I’m trying to stay away from all the media circus surrounding Michael’s death; it’s been only a week, and I never thought it could be worse than when he was alive. But I live in Hollywood, and even if I stay offline, I cannot buy a piece of godamn bread without my eyeballs being assaulted in the cashier line.

We get it, press, Michael Jackson was weird. Got it! You showed it down our throats for decades, can you give it a fucking rest?

And the media isn’t even the end of my fury. Hearing his friends, acquaintances, family members, doctors, gurus, rabbis, and numerous other idiots in his close circle talk so much nonsense for this past week, it makes you wonder — how did this guy even live to be 50?

How normal could he be with that kind of surroundings? It’s astonishing what’s going on in the aftermath of his death. I’m unable to work, how disturbing it all is. I’m trying to round up his life and legacy, write a decent piece about his art, do this man some justice — but no, you simply cannot catch a fucking breath here, in this town.

The level of rumors and headlines, the audacity of these journalists doing everything but their job of investigating and REPORTING is just grotesque. This is storytelling, this isn’t even journalism anymore.

I’m trying to find some sense. It’s not just that he died, it’s HOW he died. How can his ending not make you furious?! Everyone just keeps repeating how sad and tragic his life was — how could it not be, with everybody around him constantly taking stabs at him?

And he just took it, and took it, and took it.

Now that he died, isn’t there one godamn person in his circle who can step up, truly STEP UP and do him some justice?

Everybody just keeps going along with the same rhythm as when he was alive; shitting, trashing, manipulating — instead of calling out those who took part in his demise. Why would we call anyone out, right? Why would we know the truth, right? It’s easier than ever now that he’s dead; we can just conclude he was weird, that he died because he was a freak, and close up shop?

There are people who, with their DIRECT actions, helped destroy the life of such an extraordinary human being and a talent. And we’ll just let somebody cover it all up?

I understand scandal sells more than humanity, but beyond media — someone’s reaaaaally hard at work trying to cover all this up. Who is covering all this up? What happened here?

And why are we as a public so complacent about this? Why are we not raging? Why are we not investigating? This man was practically an invalid by the time he died; the incredible physical demands on his body since he was 5 years old, to preform FOR US, left him with so many ailments. We enjoyed his music, his performances — couldn’t we at least do him some justice and dig into what happened here?

The man has three small children; it makes absolutely NO SENSE that he would be reckless with asking to be put under with propofol, however sleep-deprived he might have been. It. Makes. No. Sense.

We keep reading how “tragic his life was.” What the fuck do you mean, his life was larger than life itself, and his humanity even larger; tragic were all the leeches around him, and what’s deplorable is that those who contributed to his demise can’t even step forward to do him some justice in death.

I blame them all.

Idiotic “friends” around him that did nothing to protect him.

Some members of his family who can‘t even shed one tear for the son and brother who’s been feeding them all their lives.

The media that deliberately destroyed him because he dared to give them just his art, and not his private life. Because scandals, lies, and smears sell better than achievements and charity.

Random useless strangers that ruined his life, his reputation, and crushed his soul by taking advantage of his kindness.

“Business partners” who used his kindness to feed off of him. You name it, they took a bite.

Executives who feared him having more control than they did.

Can we at least, as the public and as fans, have the decency not to judge, but to try to understand, question what’s been served to us, and demand the truth?

It seems to me that we aren’t supposed to get the truth.

Does this man, who never complained and just kept taking punch after punch, not at least deserve the truth?

Press, you who made enormous profits over five decades by ruining this man’s life, can you at least give something back to him in death and investigate what really happened here? Can you actually investigate this time, what is being covered up, and finally lay it out for the people who actually care?

We are sick of the lies; it’s so transparent and coordinated. Who is afraid of Michael Jackson, even in death? Why are you STILL doing this? WHO are you doing this for?

Why are you taking a step back in the investigation? Why are you not challenging bits and pieces that don’t make any sense in this story? You were relentless when digging through his private life; now dig into the lives of the people who ruined his. Isn’t that just as profitable as exploiting him was?

There are so many things here that do not make sense. So many disturbing things surrounding Michael’s life that, at times, even his strange behavior starts to feel somewhat intelligible.

People always say no one is going to help you unless you help yourself. Strength matters in life, but vulnerability matters too. Sensitivity is often treated as a weakness, something that will diminish you, when in reality it can become a source of enormous strength if you have real support from the people/family around you.

I truly think his biggest downfall was not having any of it.

Even in death, he cannot be left in peace. All of his friends are suddenly crawling out with a story, a clothing line, some advice they supposedly gave him; everybody knew something was wrong, yet nobody did anything. They all come out now with the same line: “He was taking all kinds of pills, you know…” Then why are you saying it now? Why didn’t you say it to him when there was still time?

Why didn’t you do something about it then?

And his family is even worse.

First, his sad excuse of a father goes to the BET Awards held in his son’s honor. He sits in the first row, laughs the whole time, gets up and dances from time to time, and then goes to the after-party. AN AFTER PARTY. Your son died a week ago! When approached by CNN’s reporter asking him how he feels, he simply responds:

“Great, I feel great.”

You feel great?

The confused reporter looks at him, abashed: “Hmmm. Anything else? I mean, you know, your son just died…”, and Joe Jackson says — “Yeah, you know, the world’s greatest entertainer just died, and you know how it is….” Then turns to someone on the red carpet and yells: “Hey Marvin….Marvin, come here, tell him what we do, we just opened a new Record Company, you know, what’s the name of the company, Marvin, Marvin, tell ‘em….”

What ih the flying fuck was that? I know, joke’s on me, expecting more from Joe Jackson, but this whole spectacle is just unbearable.

Hey, Joe, your son just died, but it’s cool, promote your shady business, loser.

Did the media do the piece on this old fart not being phased with his son's death, other than mentioning, well, that was “a bit strange”? No.

How about Jermaine Jackson, the one who always thought he deserved Michael’s solo career, always famously called out for being jealous? Jermaine Jackson went on to meet Larry King in Neverland today, and when Larry asked him, “Are you sad being here? Do you feel terrible?”, loser 2.0 answered, “No, you know, I feel joyful, I feel his spirit….”

This interview sent me to the smithereens.

Larry: “How did you find out your brother died? Was that shocking for you?”

Jermaine: “Well, Larry, I heard from you guys, you guys called me, CNN, ha ha ha…you know, that was funny, yeah, it was a shock, and I had to drive all the way to another part of town.”

(He means he had to drive to UCLA Medical Center when Michael was pronounced dead, as I was there, and saw him going in and out of the hospital.)

Larry: “Well, Jermaine, do you want to know what happened? Why did your brother die?”

Jermaine: “Larry, you know, it doesn’t matter now, you know, I mean I feel his spirit, and I’m joyful.”

Larry: “Yes, I understand, but maybe there was something inappropriate that happened, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Jermaine: “Larry, I feel wonderful here at Neverland. I feel joyful.”

A brain has left the fucking building.

Did any of the press call out on Jermaine? Could Larry King maybe have said Hey, what’s going on with you asshole, can’t you mourn your freaking brother for 2 seconds?

Nah.

I know, Larry’s old school, but hey, if anybody could have done it, it’s Larry King. What was CNN going to do? Fire him? Larry is bigger than CNN.

Just how many people are working for the same system that did not want to have Michael Jackson on this earth anymore?

I’m losing it.

Maybe I’m subjective, I fully admit it. After all, Michael was my first virtual boyfriend. Yes, I felt the first tingle of sexuality that one gets triggered in their adolescence with looking at something or someone — that first thing you feel it, when you understand you’re soon leaving a child in you and becoming a woman. That was Michael in the ‘Dirty Diana’ video for me.

I watched it over and over, relentlessly,  and I thought he had to be the most beautiful boy in all the world. I am subjective. Have at it. But this is not about my pubescent sexuality, discovered by watching Mike crawl on stage in tight leather pants, and that expressive face.

It’s about fairness and fucking justice. It’s about the fact that everybody deserves it, while you’re going on about his face. Why are you all so stuck on the face? A thousand suspicious things are going on about this death, and you’re STILL on the face? It’s his face; he can do whatever he wants with it.

They say extraordinarily talented people are often surrounded by mediocre, uninspired people who leech to them, while deeply resenting their greatness. In Michael’s case, can this be more obvious? His genius was so potent; the people around him could not stand being constantly reminded of how ordinary they were.

It’s only logical, by that formula, that the one person who had a genuinely human reaction to Michael Jackson’s death, a visible pain and despair, was Janet Jackson, the next most talented member of the Jackson family.

Is there an end to how much grief, deception, and betrayal this man endured, and now even in death?

Which brings me to the most painful part of this huge rant, and Michael’s entire life — the molestation lies. The ruined legacy that will never breathe outside this scam, even though the man was acquitted BY THE COURT, on all 14 counts. No media, with access to all the legal files, ever bothered to set the record straight. A ten year long investigation that found NOTHING.

No one’s printing it. We’re still on the Wacko Jacko racist carousel.

If you haven’t been living under a rock somewhere, you know Jordan Chandler’s father sued Michael for child molestation. We all know he put the kid under hypnosis with drugs and implemented a fake “memory.” We all heard the tape of him admitting he drugged and coached the kid, admitting he’s extorting Michael, admitting he doesn’t care about the kid. It’s all ON TAPE. We all know Jordan’s mother was driving around town in Michael’s limo and went shopping using Michael’s black Amex. We all know he was never charged for anything.

We all know Michael wanted to go to trial, but was advised to settle, to make the story go away. Did those around him plan this? He settled; therefore, he’s guilty? He gave them $20 million; therefore, he must be guilty. Right?

Wrong.

Media won’t tell you this. You have to look on your own. I spent months researching this. Michael didn’t settle anything. He did not even know he had settled. He did not give any money. His insurance company settled because THEY did not want to deal with a lengthy trial that would probably cost as much. The studio wanted him to tour, not waste time in the court, like the good cash cow he was. Michael protested it, but it was already done.

And that became the one thing he always regretted because it informed every other leech that Michael’s good for good ‘ol extortion! And they piled up, later in life.

Michael publicly stated all this, but the media never wanted to put it in their circulation. Wacko Jacko was more profitable. It was done; he was a child molester, a stigma that was never going to leave him.

Why am I going on about something that happened 16 years ago? Because the kid who sued him is 29 years old today. Jordan Chandler admitted his father coached him. And Jordan and he also heard that Michael died today. Not just that, he feels bad about it, he says. Not just that, he’s unofficially talking to some small media outlets, asking for forgiveness and admitting Michael Jackson never touched him.

Are you fucking serious?

His dad Evan made him do it, Jordan says to small media outlets, no one heard about, unless you research it yourself. He was afraid of his dad, Jordan says, to a small media outlet no one knows about. He says all that while collecting $20 million of extortion money.

In 2005, Jordan sued his dad because, apparently, he hit him, beat him, and tried to kill him. So he doesn’t have any contact with the dad. But he has the money. Plenty of it. Did Jordan come forward in 2005, when he removed his dad from his life? Did he do anything to save at least the last four years of Michael’s life that he could have spent in dignity?

He didn’t.

But he is stepping out today, a week after Michal had died, one of the most talented entertainers in history, broke and despised. He watched Michael get thrown out of his beloved Neverland because of accusations he now admits were false. He watched him lose everything, and he said nothing.

Today, he’s out in New York, getting papped on the street, dripped in bling that Michael’s extortion money paid for. He was just a kid then, I understand, a victim of greedy parents, I get it. Guess what, Jordan, you aren’t a fucking kid anymore. No one’s pushing you to continue the lie.

Get out of your expensive apartments and your Bentleys, and do one decent thing in your life. Lose me with that mea culpa chatter in the small media outlets; call Larry King or Oprah, sit down, look at the fucking camera, and tell the world the truth.

Harvey Levin, why aren’t you on top of this? What is TMZ doing now? Why aren’t you hunting Jordan in his Bentley, driving around New York, and quizzing him on the street like you do all other celebrities?

Who is the person above, running this charade?

Who is still profiting from lies about Michael, even now, in death?

I just cannot accept the fact that this kind, sensitive, talented human being, the one who gave millions to charity and helped people in need when almost no one else was doing it, the one who was born to bring joy to people, simply fades away and disappears. I cannot believe how mistreated he was in childhood, in life, and even in death, and that no one wants to do absolutely fuck all about it.

Was the purpose of his life truly just to give joy to others, to always give — the joy, the music, the money, the cultural clout — and never receive anything in return except judgment, ridicule, and lies thrown back at him?

I managed to get through this whole piece without crying; I’m angry. Anger is good, better than sadness; anger keeps me focused.

But as I’m finishing writing it, I just saw what Stephen King posted about Michael on his website. This absolutely floored me. I’m bawling, again.

“There’s a sadness that’s all too common in people who possess talent in amounts so great it has become a burden instead of a blessing. Michael was indeed innocent of the abuse allegations. In the court of public opinion, however, he was found guilty of Weirdness of First Degree. You’ll also see Jackson’s sadness and almost painful desire to please. Yes, I am strange, his eyes say, but I am doing the best I can, and I want to make you happy. Is that so bad?”

Indeed, was that so BAD?

The world simply wasn’t ready for so much innocence, kindness, and beauty mixed with that much talent.

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This past weekend, a friend asked me to see the Michael movie with him. I have tickets, where do we meet? This is a friend I usually go to the theater with; we don’t ask each other what we want to see, one of us buys the tickets and tells the other where to show up. When I told him I couldn’t go, he casually asked — busy today, what day can you go? No, I can’t see this movie. Ever.

I spent about 45 minutes on the phone explaining to one of my closest friends why I can’t see a Michael Jackson biopic, and probably never will, and he just wasn’t getting it. Miranda, you’ve been obsessed with Michael for 4 decades, what the fuck, let’s go see a fucking movie.

I figured out during that phone call that I’ll never be able to explain why my body physically can’t walk into that theater and watch that movie unless I give you the full picture. And that picture begins on June 25, 2009 — the day Michael Jackson died. I was there, ten minutes from his house. When the news broke, I went to his home. I went to UCLA Medical Center to wait for confirmation of death. Then I went home and wrote a piece about the entire day.

Five days later, after watching the aftermath of his death unfold — his family, the media, and the people around him who had played a role in his demise — I wrote another piece. That was 17 years ago. These two articles are relics, firsthand historical accounts of one of the biggest cultural events of my lifetime, and of the moment that fundamentally shaped how I perceive humanity, fame, media, power, and America itself.

And more importantly, they became firsthand accounts of what Michael Jackson revealed about human nature itself: how society treats people who embody sensitivity, honesty, genius, and transcendence, and how quickly those same people are consumed by forces built on the exact opposite of everything they represented.

The forces you see at play today.

It’s a full circle. It all connects.

People who are profiting from this movie are the people who participated in removing him from this earth, and who robbed us of him.

I’m haunted by this man. His life, legacy, and the way he ended.

I’m haunted by the fact that he left this earth believing people hated him.

I’m happy that the revival of his image has pushed younger generations to dig deeper into understanding him — one more step toward a greater awakening.

Michael is completing the work, even from the grave.

He warned us then about the systems. The hierarchy. And for me to properly review and write honestly about the renewed interest in Michael’s legacy that this film has reignited, I need to revisit the past and walk that entire circle with you.

Michael Jackson has been a crucial part of my own self-construction. I owe him this series.

Michael, Part One

I wrote this piece on June 25th, 2009, on the day Michael Jackson died, 10 minutes from the house he died in. All the images were taken by me, in front of his house, in front of the UCLA Medical Center, where he was presumed dead, and in front of the morgue in Boyle Heights, where he was finally taken on that day. The pictures are blurry; smartphones weren’t then what they are now — they were taken with my BlackBerry. I have never read this piece since the day I wrote it. It’s been 17 years since I’ve looked at it.

A surreal, surreal day.

I still don’t know what to make of it. I honestly don’t even know what to write about today. What can I write? What is it to say?

Michael Jackson just died.

I can’t even digest that sentence. It just looks wrong. Wrong isn’t the right word; it doesn’t look anything. It just doesn’t look at all. Those four words don't go together; why would anybody say or write that?

I sat down to write what I feel about this entire day, and I just can’t. I’m staring at the blank screen. What kind of poetic justice could ever do justice to someone like Michael Jackson?

Nothing I can say sounds gratifying enough. An Icon? A King? A Legend? It just doesn’t sound enough. But why does this specific death mean more to me than other deaths of the public people I loved, who also crumbled my world?

The fact that this is the first time I was at the place where it happened.

Every time someone I loved died, someone who defined my childhood or teenage years, I heard about it on TV or read about it in the press. And it was always the same ritual: hearing the news, the shock, watching television around the clock, absorbing every detail I could find, refusing to sleep in case I missed something. Watching the stretcher carry out the body of someone who had shaped my life, as if a piece of my own life was being carried away with it.

At those prodigious times, I remember frantically calling my friends who lived where it happened, pestering them with questions, as if knowing every detail would make my grief bearable.

This time, it was the most surreal day. I was there. I live 10 minutes away from the house he died in. First, I woke up to the news that Farrah Fawcett died. Terrible news, but Farrah Fawcett was an icon of another generation, not so much mine; I knew a lot about her, but I didn’t feel that death, other than being sad for this probably very lovely lady.

I left the house shortly and went to the bank. I realized one of the bank tellers is my neighbor; I chatted with him, laughed, gossiped about all the tenants we don’t like, laughed some more, and left. I finished some other chores, came back to my bank again, waited in line to make a deposit, when my banker/neighbor approached me from behind and said:

“Did you hear? I just found out; it’s still unofficial”. And I said: “Yeah, I know, I heard this morning, terrible news”. And he goes: “You couldn’t hear this morning, because it’s 2 pm, and I just heard it. It’s not even official; someone from the Fire Department just leaked it”. And I said: “Well, I did hear this morning that Farrah died; I don’t know what to tell you”. And he goes: “No, not Farrah, that was this morning, but Michael Jackson…Michael Jackson JUST died”…

Come again?

“Michael Jackson just died”.

“Sorry, got to go back to work”.

And he went back behind the counter.

I was spinning. The city was spinning.

I walked to the car where my boyfriend was waiting for me, and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell him, his face was spinning, everything was spinning.

The City of Los Angeles, in the next couple of minutes and hours, was just indescribable. A lot of huge people died here, but nothing of this magnitude. Surreal atmosphere. Before it was even official, people were whispering on the streets. Instantly, Michael Jackson’s music was playing from just about every passing car, every store, every house.

One of the Fire Department guys who drove MJ from his house to the hospital told someone right away, before it was even official, and the word spread like a damn plague.

I was driving down Beverly Blvd with my boyfriend, both of us abashed, when the calls started to pour in. Managers, agents, publicists, all the Hollywood people were just perplexed — “Oh my god, did you guys hear, I just heard, did you hear?”

It was minutes, and everybody already knew.

It felt like a dark plague had descended on the city. Sadness isn’t even the word. I don’t have to tell you; you felt it too, if you’re here. Being so close to it made it all the more spellbinding. I felt as if being there, at the place where it happened, at ground zero, might somehow give me a sense of control over the grief.

I couldn’t work that afternoon. If he died 10 minutes from my house, I want to be where it happened, as if I needed to grab a piece of his soul, before it migrates somewhere else.

In all my affliction, I did feel good about something. I felt good about Los Angeles. The same city that often shows attributes I can’t quite fathom, or even stand — today, the city was just amazing. People dropped the act for one day and showed a genuine, colossal sadness everywhere you turned. I have never seen people in this city be authentic about anything, and I finally did today.

There was something so ethereal about Angelenos’ determination to follow Michael through every final stop his body would make, as if letting go were simply unacceptable. Everyone was on the same page. We will follow him. Every step they move him, we’ll follow.

People came to his house in Bel Air, then went to UCLA Medical Center, where he died, then they moved to the morgue in Boyle Heights, and just stayed there all night as if they wanted to guard his body and his soul.

I wanted to be where he died. Even though they say he might have even died in his house, I wanted to be where he was presumed dead. I didn’t want to listen to the news just yet. I didn’t want to make sense out of it at this moment. I didn’t want to know what exactly happened. I just wanted to be where he was going to be last, as if that fixes anything. As if that is going to make it better.

UCLA Medical Center looked like it was under siege. News trucks everywhere, helicopters flying overhead, reporters speaking in a million different languages, Jermaine Jackson going in and out of the hospital crying, it was just surreal.

I will never forget those hordes of people. Thousands of them. People walking out of work, doctors’ offices, grocery stores. I spoke to people at every stop we followed, and whatever they had been doing at that moment, they dropped it and just came. The city froze to a standstill.

I will never forget those faces at every stop. Crying. Confusion. Disbelief. Anger. But something transcendent happened all of a sudden — the grief began to turn into dance, Moonwalk face-offs, singing, and a strange kind of comradeship.

The crowd was at the hospital for about 5–6 hours; nobody was moving, nobody was leaving; everybody was waiting for his body to be taken out of the hospital and put into a helicopter that was supposed to take him to a morgue in Downtown LA. It seemed like everyone was waiting to be absolutely, positively sure he died.

My feelings today shifted from anger, confusion, and disbelief to lethargy, then to a strange sense of solitude, as if I felt he might finally be relieved of the unbelievable lies, smear campaigns, and pressures that had plagued his life.

Some Swedish reporter snapped me out of my thoughts when she approached us outside of the UCLA Medical Center with a question — “What did MJ and his music mean to you?”

God.

How does a person of my generation even answer that question?

I pulled myself together for a few seconds to give her a coherent answer, but instead just fell into a sort of spell of a memory, the recollection of my life that led me here, at this spot, the UCLA Medical Center, where Michael Jackson was presumed dead.

I wasn’t born in this country; he brought me here, at this spot, and left me here, at this spot.

Michel Jackson was more than just a musician to me. He was the personification and the embodiment of America in my eyes. He represented what America meant in my small, adolescent life back in Europe, and he became the trigger that shaped the path my life would take.

I was extremely Americanized as a child, much to the detriment of everyone around me. I absorbed everything that came out of the US: the music, movies, magazines, TV shows, and it was never just entertainment to me; it felt like a mission, a plot.

Seeing Michael for the first time — yes, I saw Thriller first, but I was too young to comprehend its cultural significance, the moment it truly clicked for me was the Dirty Diana video. I was about 12 or 13, and I watched it the way people study a science project. That was the moment I decided I wanted to live in the place where that kind of artistry and dedication could exist.

I knew the names of every single actor, actress, singer, and group from the ’80s and ’90s, and I knew the lyrics to every song. I remembered lines from all my favorite movies. It was a hobby of mine, something I enjoyed. But Michael was different. Michael was a job. A plan, a determination, an endgame. I studied him like one studies survival.

How do I explain all this to a reporter from Stockholm? I lifted my head, she was still looking at me, and said just that — Michael was a survival to me. Existential component that carried everything I felt I needed to inhale to become who I needed to be.

The word started to spread around the crowd in front of the UCLA, that Michael died from some sort of overdose. I wasn’t ready for the cause of death, and to take a path on that road just yet. I ignored it and talked to anyone and everyone outside, but my mind couldn’t avoid it. No one’s mind could avoid it.

I started to get angry again. Wait for the confirmation, I kept telling myself. I couldn’t. I felt betrayed.

How could he be so reckless?

Didn’t he know how much he means to us?

I forced myself to forget the latter. I don’t want to listen to any noise. I walked to the group that was still moonwalking and practicing the tilt. Someone brought the white gloves. I took one. Let’s take a picture, someone said. We didn’t need anyone to coordinate us. We all did it at the same time, same hand.

We just knew.

My boyfriend called me over to show me an article that just came out. The cause of death. I declined to read.

I choose to remember how he made me feel.

At least for today.

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