A Eulogy, Maybe
The other day something happened to the blood pumping organ called the heart inside the body of Michael Jackson, best known to me as the brother of Janet Jackson, a cute singer who in turn is best known to me because while performing at an event having to do with, I believe, a Superbowl football game of some years ago, she experienced having one or maybe both -- I don't know, not having seen the pics -- of her twin frontal appendages that, as in the case of all women, so admirably protect her heart plus her lungs as well as serving other useful purposes, laid bare to the grateful view I think I can say of as much as half of the known world. This happened because, whether by design or by accident, another performer onstage with her at the time, a man named Justin Timberlake, applied too much force while yanking her blouse during his delivery, and ever since then, just to show how buried in various bigotries large sectors of American thought still are trapped, legal threats continue to be uttered, over what I do not know nor can I fathom, and all I know is that the great "crime" of partially uncovering the lady's upper torso on TV is invariably placed not at the feet of the person who yanked the blouse but instead against Janet J., the victim, maybe because she is a female -- or because her melanin count is not seen to be as desirable as that of the Timberlake guy.
But anyway, as I was trying to say, a few weeks ago the heart of J. Jackson's brother, M. Jackson, either thought it needed to take some time out or was prompted to do so by other sectors of his body, in a process probably helped along by M. Jackson's own powers of misperception, which he had already demonstrated several times during his time on earth, most notably when while still a young man he paid good money to have plastic surgery performed to change his face from the natural one of a Rainbow man, to which the appearance of his sister offers clues, because her ship apparently maintains a more even keel than did her sibling's, and that has allowed her to keep her face largely as it always was, and she is still alive, while he instead had his altered to the unnatural one of a Rainbow who hoped to be taken for being a Euro man, with an outcome that was even more predictable than was the placement of the blame for the Timberlake Superbowl tug, namely that all too soon thereafter M. Jackson might have been thought to have cast himself in the lead role of Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray," or maybe, because of the liking for shades, H.G. Wells' "The Invisible Man," and in all the countless glowing testimonials to M. Jackson, one will hear few if any references to his most startling and baffling act as "The Man Who Ordered the Assassination of His Own Face."
And anyway, as I was about to say, suddenly not long ago at a mansion that M. Jackson was renting though he owned a 2,600-acre ranch somewhere, and probably close by, called "Neverland," after 50 years of constant and unusually profitable operation, the heart of M. Jackson suddenly missed several consecutive beats too many, and though a doctor was close by, help was slow in coming because, though M. Jackson was apparently the heart of millions, including the President of the United States, no one in that mansion could quickly tell the people with the defibrillators and things the street address of that edifice. And this flew also in the face of the fact that M. Jackson himself should've known about the importance of always keeping up the beat, and he may even have recorded a celebrated song called "Beat It," because he, like his sister and seemingly everyone else in his outsized family, was a musician, and a proficient one at that, as I have been told interminably through the years, though I came along too soon to appreciate not only his sound but also that of his many siblings, including J. Jackson's, after finding that the space music of the 1960's and afterward better emulated the beautiful and mysterious sounds that had presented themselves all through my childhood earlier, like a constant film score underlying all the essential drama of existence.
But I digress -- that malfunction of M. Jackson's auricles or ventricles and what-not had the least desirable result, and now, as a country and as a planet, and as in the case of Elvis Presley, we are all doomed henceforth never to hear the end of it.
I wonder if M. Jackson would've liked it that way, or whether he and his blood pump had finally gotten thoroughly tired of the endless beat and throb of all his tremendous celebrity and all the controversy of likewise monstrously excessive proportions.
But anyway, as I was trying to say, a few weeks ago the heart of J. Jackson's brother, M. Jackson, either thought it needed to take some time out or was prompted to do so by other sectors of his body, in a process probably helped along by M. Jackson's own powers of misperception, which he had already demonstrated several times during his time on earth, most notably when while still a young man he paid good money to have plastic surgery performed to change his face from the natural one of a Rainbow man, to which the appearance of his sister offers clues, because her ship apparently maintains a more even keel than did her sibling's, and that has allowed her to keep her face largely as it always was, and she is still alive, while he instead had his altered to the unnatural one of a Rainbow who hoped to be taken for being a Euro man, with an outcome that was even more predictable than was the placement of the blame for the Timberlake Superbowl tug, namely that all too soon thereafter M. Jackson might have been thought to have cast himself in the lead role of Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray," or maybe, because of the liking for shades, H.G. Wells' "The Invisible Man," and in all the countless glowing testimonials to M. Jackson, one will hear few if any references to his most startling and baffling act as "The Man Who Ordered the Assassination of His Own Face."
And anyway, as I was about to say, suddenly not long ago at a mansion that M. Jackson was renting though he owned a 2,600-acre ranch somewhere, and probably close by, called "Neverland," after 50 years of constant and unusually profitable operation, the heart of M. Jackson suddenly missed several consecutive beats too many, and though a doctor was close by, help was slow in coming because, though M. Jackson was apparently the heart of millions, including the President of the United States, no one in that mansion could quickly tell the people with the defibrillators and things the street address of that edifice. And this flew also in the face of the fact that M. Jackson himself should've known about the importance of always keeping up the beat, and he may even have recorded a celebrated song called "Beat It," because he, like his sister and seemingly everyone else in his outsized family, was a musician, and a proficient one at that, as I have been told interminably through the years, though I came along too soon to appreciate not only his sound but also that of his many siblings, including J. Jackson's, after finding that the space music of the 1960's and afterward better emulated the beautiful and mysterious sounds that had presented themselves all through my childhood earlier, like a constant film score underlying all the essential drama of existence.
But I digress -- that malfunction of M. Jackson's auricles or ventricles and what-not had the least desirable result, and now, as a country and as a planet, and as in the case of Elvis Presley, we are all doomed henceforth never to hear the end of it.
I wonder if M. Jackson would've liked it that way, or whether he and his blood pump had finally gotten thoroughly tired of the endless beat and throb of all his tremendous celebrity and all the controversy of likewise monstrously excessive proportions.
posted by Carl (aka Sofarsogoo) | 3:30 PM
1 Comments:
Now they are going to charge someone with MURDER for his death. Poor Michael, I hope he is finally at peace. I did like his music 25 years ago, but not the freak he turned into.
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