Saturday, June 27, 2009

Don't Stop Until You Get Enough...

I guess that his heart had enough, because I know that I had had enough of Michael Jackson. Listen, I understand mourning the loss of such an impactful artist, a talent musician who had one of the greatest impacts of all time on the industry. I concede that something has been lost, for better or worse? I watch these legions of adoring fans that seem unequivocally convinced that this man was falsely accused of child molestation, and I shake my head. Take a step back, and take a deep breath. This man peaked artistically about 20 years ago. What he has produced since has sucked. We are not talking about Tupac and Biggie gunned down in their 20s, before they had a chance to do their best work. Michael Jackson, however significant his influence was on the music industry, has sucked for nearly a generation.

When I heard over my radio at work that he was dead, I did not feel any sorrow. I did not feel sad that this avenue of art had been closed permanently. He sang some great songs, yes, but honestly just about everyone outside his most devoted fans recognized that there was likely to be no new good tunes coming out of that music maker. Was he a misunderstood product of a lost childhood that he forever desired to re-capture? Perhaps, but for whatever the reason, his kid fetish was just way too fucking out there for me to feel any empathy over his demise. Even on the 15% chance that there was no fire at the source of all that smoke, there is just too high a probability that children hardened his dong for me to feel empathy. When you look at his life through the eyes of hindsight, that whole “we are the world, we are the children” riff is just way too fucking creepy to hide behind the veil of philanthropy.

The world lost a probable pedophile yesterday. Explain to me how I should feel any fragment of sorrow? When Yasser Arafat died, I gave out a solid “Tiger Woods fist pump”. The world was a better place without the Middle Eastern Bernie Madoff. When Saddam died, fist pump. I have fist pumps waiting for Osama Bin Laden, Hugo Chavez, Kim Jong Ill, Charles Taylor, Robert Mugabe, Ahmanbeenajad, and a few other world leaders should they ever meet an untimely demise. I wept over the death of Steve Irwin, but when I learned that Jacko was dead, I felt no emotion. Infact, if I felt anything, it was a little slice of satisfaction knowing that there was one less sicko sticking his hands down the underpants of children. Yes he was an innovative artist and the evolution of his life fucked him up in ways few can understand, but his thing with kids crossed a line that if anyone crosses they should be forbidden from hero worship.

I have not written much this past week, because as a hockey fanatic I have been knee deep in NHL Draft probability theory. I have scribbled together part of a rant on CUPE, but I will save that for another day.

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