Beat it


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Beat It.Today is the two year anniversary of the death of Michael Jackson. When I heard that I thought about the dearly departed and self-anointed "King of Pop"  and I came to a realization. When you get down to it, there really is nobody I can think of off the top of my head who I have less in common with: I can't dance to save my life, It rarely occurs to me to dress in anything that resembles a neon naval officer's uniform, I'm not much of a singer, I've never had any desire to touch any young boys, supple, Tootsie Roll-esque weiners, nothing. Plus, unlike Michael Jackson, I was born in an affluent neighborhood and then moved to an underprivileged one. Thanks, economic downturn.
     Most importantly, I was thinking about the outpouring of reverence for the man. I  was watching the news today as hundreds of people marched on his grave like it was the jheri curl juice-infused Lincoln Memorial. That got me thinking about talent in general. Michael Jackson was so talented that people were willing to forgive him for everything bad he did. Mind you, he didn't just do one or two things wrong. This guy might as well have sat down and with lots of careful consideration, created a list of things to do to alienate himself from his fans. He released bad album after bad album, bleached his skin and had enough plastic surgeries to turn himself into an effeminate version of Lord Voldemort. He hung out with an overall-clad chimp, stole Beatles songs from Paul McCartney and held them for ransom and even dangled a baby out of a hotel window. That last one is so awesome that I demand that you stop reading for a moment just to remember that and take it in.....
There, that's better...
     On top of all this, there's still the whole hiccup about Michael Jackson being a homosexual pedophile, but so beloved a homosexual pedophile that all of this seems to have been washed away from his fans minds, limited as they appear to be. 
     Now here's the thing: As a law-abiding citizen who has never committed anything close to any of these dastardly deeds, my death will carry with it no fanfare. Granted, I've never done anything as great as the great stuff Michael Jackson did, almost none of us have. However, I'd be willing to bet that none of you ever hung your genetically engineered, laboratory conceived child out of a widow in front of hundreds of camera-weilding onlookers. Well, me neither. Still, when Michael Jackson died, a large percentage of the world mourned. Were I to die tomorrow, I'd be lucky if the mexican place I eat at every day gives my girlfriend a free horchata and a sombrero to deliver my eulogy in.
     I guess the lesson here is that in order for people to love the art, they shouldn't necessarily love the artist. Or, indeed, the Propofol that said artist's private physician prescribes to lull him into a coma every night. Well, not that night two years ago, I guess.    

One final, barely relevant note: Michael Jackson's brother, Jermaine, has a son who he named, ahem, Jermajesty. J-E-R-M-A-J-E-S-T-Y! That man voluntarily did that to his child and is still not the shittyiest, craziest or most abusive person to children in his family. Now THAT'S talent.