Skip to main content

Let's Get Real

Many years ago, young boys with beautiful voices were castrated to preserve the gorgeous timber of their voices. How could society condone that? Music was the priority -- it was all for the glory and the beauty of the music.

Michael Jackson was a true, gifted talent, but unfortunately, he was a "castrato."

Last night, I caught the very end of Martin Bashir's infamous interview with Jackson. Michael spoke openly about how he wouldn't be upset if his children slept in a grown man's bed. He talked about how beautiful and non-sexual this practice is. He also described how Debbie Rowe allowed him to take the infant Paris from the birthing room before the umbilical cord was removed; before the baby was cleaned up. He said the children were Debbie's "gift" to him. He was naive, needy, uninitiated, unaware of how surreal he sounded. During an Oprah interview, when she asked him whether he was a virgin, he visibly blushed. Michael Jackson was a child.

Yet in his videos his body moves in a knowing, sexual way. He often grabbed his manhood while thrusting his pelvis. Even as a child, he could use his voice to make very suggestive intonations. How do we reconcile those two strange images: Michael talking in hushed, girlish tones and Michael gyrating, pouting and grabbing himself?

This is my concern about all this adulation of MJ: should we be mourning the man or the boy who never grew up? I think many of us feel for the boy -- that boy who we collectively learned was terribly exploited, but who gave us those lovely, uniquely high notes. To borrow from one of MJ's own songs, we should be looking at ourselves in the mirror. We know that our love of his music made us conflicted about Michael, but we need to go one step further: we need to say what happened to Michael shouldn't happen to children ever again.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My Like-Hate-Hate Relationship with Dave Ramsey

I cannot go to sleep in silence, so I usually have talk radio on as I drift off. Most times, the cadence of the talking head becomes the white noise I need. But sometimes I actually listen to the conversations. As much as I hope for Clark Howard, Dave Ramsey happens to be the head that's talking when I go to bed. Gradually, I became aware of his philosophies. He has many, but I'll focus on just a few: 1) Get Rid of All Debt - I really like this one. As someone who wants the points my credit card awards, or the cashback my other credit card awards, I feel like I'm always a month behind. I pay off my balance in full each month, but by then of course, I have lowered my bank account and have less to spend in the current month. I do wonder what it would feel like to pay just the bills for my current living expenses. I plan to give it a go, but I won't buy Ramsay's book or go to Financial Peace University. "Where debt is dumb, cash is king, and the paid off mortgag...

WELL, HELLO! I return, a new person & personally new.

This is weird. I haven't blogged in ages (clearly evident), but a friend who read my latest email about my travels in and around LA suggested that I do something more with my writing. She suggested that I blog or journal or publish my travel writings. I am opting to do the former for now. It's been too long. I need to write to keep my brain active, so I shall cut & paste the email I sent to my friends about my latest solo excursion. A little background: I sent an email to my group of 9 other friends to see if anyone wanted to go to the California Museum of Art. I found free tickets on Goldstar and although it was located in Thousand Oaks, long car trips never bothered me. My friends were courteous but succinct -- I was on my own because...it's Thousand Oaks and too boring to be worth the trip. Here is my take: I went out to Thousand Oaks, searching for this museum. I didn't see much of the city because GMaps showed my destination was right off an exit. I drove, s...

While I can still think thoughts...

Who would imagine the changes that occur as one ages? We all know that physiologically, things happen -- we get gray hair, the waist disappears, joints creak, etc., but I have experienced some startling changes that remind me I'm no spring chicken (NOTE: Using the term "spring chicken? -- definitely a sign of aging). I find partially used tissues around my living space. And by "living space," I mean the recliner I sit in each night to watch TV and in the pockets of my comfy robe that I wear religiously every evening. When I was a kid visiting my grandmothers, I was saddened and puzzled by the random tissues I saw in their wake. I don't know why this happens, and it doesn't matter because it's just me at home, but it's kinda disturbing when I do my vacuuming and find one tucked into the side of the chair cushion. How did I become so attached to tissues? I distinctly remember when I was young, thinking how strange it was that lunch ladies had to wear ha...