Tuesday, November 8, 2011

A life lived off the wall

I just have to comment on Conrad Murray and his conviction of having caused the death of Michael Jackson. 

"Lawyers for Murray and a defense expert blamed Jackson for his own death, saying the singer gave himself the fatal dose of propofol while Murray wasn't watching. A prosecution expert said that theory was crazy." 

What's so crazy?  Jackson had long been addicted to morphine, Demerol, Valium, Xanax and Ativan - indeed, he called that stuff his "milk."

For me, that brings to mind images of Gollum crooning to, for and about his "precious".  Certainly, both had faces that can only be described as effed-up, although at least in Gollum's case, he was born that way.

That was no baby monkey on Jackson's back - it was a fully-grown, mature, well-versed, and worldly gorilla.
BABIES are bottle-fed their milk for a time, then they learn to drink milk from cups; eventually, the child becomes an ADULT, and gets a job, and uses his earnings to buy the type of milk he likes best...to drink from in cups, bathe in, shoot up - whatever.  My point here is that Jackson was no babe in the woods; when push came to shove, surely, he could take matters in his own hands; surely, he knew what to do.

Michael Jackson was supposedly "The King of Pop"...he enjoyed a Kardashian-style marriage to Lisa Marie Presley. Her dad was Elvis Presley - "The King" - it's my understanding he died while sitting on his throne, ie., the toilet - there's just no prettifying that.  So why is it so important that we all remember The King of Pop any better than we remember THE KING???  Why are we to believe Jackson was any different from any other hardcore junkie?

Pop's King, but much more like Pop's Liberace - who's gonna say ol' Lib couldn't play the piana, huh? But Liberace was a weirdo too. 
Michael Jackson was only eight years older than me - I was there when he came out with Thriller and all that; I witnessed his transformation.  He had some good music, and he could dance...but he was HELLA weird.

Michael Jackson was a drug addict - and a barely functioning one at that.  His marriage to Lisa Marie Presley was very Kardashian in nature.  He lived a strange life that included plastic surgery, hyperbaric stuff, catchin' on fire, sleep overs with little kids; living in Never Never Land and playing with monkeys, marryin' Elvis' daughter, and skin bleachin. 

For whatever reason, a grip of people idolize him...but I only remember him as a surrogate mother hirin', one glove wearin', chirpin' bug-eyed crotch grabber...who dangled the kid he named "Blanket" from a balcony and made the whole fam-damily sport masks and disguises...I MEAN COME ON.

I find this posthumous portrayal of Michael Jackson as the hapless, victimized naif preposterous - the only hapless, victimized naifs in the Jackson story are the ones he rented for slumber-parties, and those he purchased to parent.
one of many paintings of himself that
Jackson had commissioned according
to his exacting specifications

Michael Jackson shopped for a doctor, and he bought one.  $15,000 per month is nothing sneeze at (just ask Jan Tanner); all that money must have been nice at the start, but at some point the good doc must have realized he'd made a deal with the Devil...there comes a time to pay, and apparently, his time is now. 

I can't help but marvel, however, at the gross disparity and social injustice that goes on in our nation's courtrooms:

  • Jackson's doctor was found guilty of manslaughter for aiding and abetting Jackson's slow and protracted narcotic suicide and faces 4 years in prison;
  • our city's own 16-year-old Eric Manley was sentenced to 22 years in prison for a crime he committed while a minor, after both victim and perp had been drinking excessively, and after young Mr. Manley's teeth had been broken out of his mouth;

I'll illustrate this article in the morning, I just had to get it off my chest now. 
Expect another outraged post about Chaz Bono (working title: Chez Chaz).

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