Dancin' with the Truth

Our Michael, who art in limbo, Holyworld be thy name. You are redeemed, Our Michael, forgiven for all transgressions both real and imaginary. Your true fans await your final performance; your true fans have emptied the record stores of your albums, good, bad, and mediocre; your true fans have left the unemployment lines for LA and a chance to be a part of media history; and if there is any way at all to make a buck off your death, the sycophants are on it. You remember what it is to be the star at the center of the media maelstrom, so rest in peace, Our Michael, now that your final wish has been granted: everlasting vindication in your own personal Neverland.

Our Michael averred from the TV screen that he was not guilty of the charges brought against him by the families of young boys who were guests at Neverland, Jackson’s personal fantasy retreat hidden from the world in Los Olivos, CA, but the public didn’t really believe in his innocence. His stardom waned, his eccentricities became legend, and his fortune dwindled while the debt accrued. For the past decade, Jackson has been his own Lost Boy, a man who slowly eradicated his past in a futile effort to create a new Michael Jackson: white skinned, mainstream media, father of the year to his suspiciously lily white children, not an accused pedophile, but the King of Pop. He used drugs to anesthetize himself to the reality of who he is, who he always will be, and the one person in the world from whom he cannot hide: himself.

While most people's deaths are defined by their lives, Our Michael's life needs to be redefined by his death, the beginning of a new Our Michael legend that ensures a lucrative lifestyle for those who kept the fallen artist at a distance during his life, but embrace him in death, including his own father. Our Michael tried to be both black and white during his life, but his death affirms that although he cultivated and lived in a white world, the white Michael Jackson has been eradicated in the media coverage of the untimely death of a black superstar who was beloved throughout the world.

Michael Jackson’s family has not revealed the details about where/when/how his body will be laid to rest, but it is becoming apparent that it is all about mourning his demise in a public venue that maximizes the media coverage and the revenue stream that naturally follows. The free tickets for the memorial service at Staples Center are being awarded in a lottery to those who signed up on the internet: 1.5 million vying to be one of the lucky 8500 who actually get 2 tickets. How many of those lottery winners will be black is allegedly contingent on ownership of or access to a computer, as well as the luck of the draw. If you are white and cannot get through the door, that’s karma; however, if you’re black and have to stand on the sidewalk because you don't own a computer or buy coffee at Starbuck's, that’s another potential LA race riot. To be fair and save the tax revenue paying for the logistics and support services in multi-millions of dollars, tickets should have been sold to the true fans of any color who seem willing to pay whatever it costs just to be in the same state as Our Michael's remains.

The concert promoters are chomping at the bit to release a music video of Jackson’s rehearsals for the canceled concerts, knowing that they’ll make a huge profit off the singer’s death and pay down the projected losses that begin at $20 million just at Staples Center. Nothing sells like a dead superstar, and the more suspicious the circumstances, the more the death can be spun to the advantage of those who profit from it. Imagine having the tribute video ready to sell to the crowds outside the Staples Center on Tuesday ... at the gates to Neverland in Los Olivos ... at the Jackson family home ... at the gates to the now-empty rental mansion ... flooding internet vendors and mall stores the same day as the service.

Perhaps Jackson's death hasn't been milked for enough air time or financial gain yet as there is still money to be made when Neverland becomes another Graceland, a museum to conspicuous consumption, living well beyond one's means, and (potentially) the final resting place of the King of Pop, which can be enjoyed vicariously for a mere twenty-five bucks per guest, amusement park rides, parking, and food extra. This single death has done more to stimulate the SoCal economy than anything the state or federal politicians have done in the past 8 months, a moneymaker well beyond anyone's projections.

The media has been interviewing an endless stream of highly-paid experts in every conceivable topic associated with human beings residing on earth since the beginning of time to spin the new legend of Michael Jackson, icon. There is groundless speculation bookcased with eyewitness accounts based on individual perspective. A former nurse swears that Jackson asked for this drug and that drug, literally cashing in on her instant media-induced fame as she apologizes for the lifestyle that drove Our Michael to such desperate measures. A former manager recalls what it was like when Our Michael was a boy ... and his check is in the bank as he blames the father for Our Michael's darkest hours. The black cadre marches in a line: the political activist, the religious yardstick, the professional athlete, the well-known performer, sharing the theme of "I knew Our Michael when," as well as the spotlight on the black experience in America. Our Michael was so much more than just his music: son, brother, husband, father, icon.

What Jackson could not accomplish during his life is being actualized by his death: the transformation of a tarnished angel into a saint. All it takes is a bit of dancin' with the truth, a sleight of perception that the media does better than any Holyworld producer and which the public buys without question, regardless of the price of admission.