Not bloody guilty!
That’s the verdict from the jury on Michael Jackson.
If there was ever a story I wished would go away, it’s Michael Jackson. From his burning hair to allegations of child molestation, I’m tired of him. Tired of the ranch, the animals, the marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, the surrogate mother and the dangling baby. He may be the King of Pop, but today he’s become the King of Weird. Weird works well in a circus, but on the evening news, it sucks.
In the gossip rags, he’s Wacko Jacko. How one could have squandered such talent on weirdness is beyond me. Perhaps it began in the 80s: a Michael Jackson look-alike underwent repeated plastic surgeries to keep up with the King of Pop (that did not portend well). Or was it that I was supposed to care when Jackson’s hair caught fire in a Pepsi commercial? (Really, what was that all about? It was as if the President had been shot.) Or was it Jackson’s protestations that the media had turned his life into a circus? How one can rant, “Leave me a lone” and “Look at me” simultaneously is beyond understanding.
The Jackson saga demonstrates one point clearly: Celebrity is a synonym for parody.