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Did I write this weeks ago and forget to post it? Hm. Nevermind.

Michael Jackson was a distorted fun-house mirror reflection of our late 20th C obsessions, if we ever cared to look. Our preoccupation with physical beauty twisted into his cartoonish death mask face. Our obsession with youth perverted into evil appetites. And our quest for self-improvement, by any means necessary, without ever examining the standards by which we feel we must improve. Transhumanists take heed: here was a man who took advantage of all the medical tech of the age to transform himself into what he thought he needed to be. But in the end, what was that?

A cautionary tale. Of course looking at the man in the (distorted) mirror is useful only if you recognise him as such. And by and large, people haven’t. In fact, it seems for the most part an agreement by the media to more or less pretend the last decade of his life didn’t happen. “We lost a great artist,” after all. But “we” lost him sometime around the early 90s. Best to just to avoid uncomfortable questions, then.

Like: in what kind of sick, fucked up world is being able to sing and dance a justification for getting away with child abuse?

I expect Michael Jackson sightings to be just as common in the coming years as dead Elvis sightings last century. The two deceased have this in common: by the time they died, their trufans had already been practising denial for years.


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puddlesofun

April 2015

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