I was almost not going to even address this, but…

Yes, Michael Jackson is dead. The Gloved One has given his final performance. And with his passing has come a whole lot of cowardly snipes, snarky and unimaginative jokes, and a variety of other backlash garishly displaying the herd’s need for blameshifting and vilification in order to feel better about themselves. In other words, business as usual.

Without wanting to defend a dead stranger too much, it’s apparent that this event has brought out the pitchforks and torches in an alarming number of people. Not too surprising, and, yes, I know why. It’s easier for the masses to condemn based on hearsay, rumors, and hastily reached conclusions, which is what Jackson got and still gets in spades. Most people simply love any opportunity to play social/moral arbiter, especially against a celebrity and doubly so if that celeb is filthy rich. Of course, the attention span of your average American is pretty darn short, so a whole lot of convenient filling-in-the-blanks has to occur. Remember, folks, no matter what you think regarding his interest in kids, it doesn’t alter the fact that Jackson was never convicted of a crime. Those who lied about his dealings with children largely recanted and the rest admitted their aims to get money from him — in all circumstances, not a shred of damnable proof has ever surfaced. Again, not standing up for him, but I do like to remind my readers of the facts. No, not what you saw on Entertainment Tonight, read on TMZ, or heard on the playground, but actual, immovable facts. Joining in on the “pedophile” party line is unfounded, immature, and an act reminiscent of sheep.

Jackson’s real crime, of course, is that he was eccentric. Or, weird, if you prefer. And not just any kind of weird but the kind that is so very unconventional (and, given his skin ailment, somewhat unavoidable) that it makes people uncomfortable, suspicious, and, often enough, angry. I liked that about him. Strike that… I REALLY liked that about him. In my younger years, I enjoyed watching people get themselves into such a lather over this diminutive effeminate singer, whether they felt threatened by him, alienated by him, or, as evidenced by Jackson’s postmortem reaction, compelled to cheap displays of self-righteous indignation. I also understood the social and psychological underpinnings of such behavior, chiefly from a little period of time some might remember as “Satanic Panic.” I’m sure if you thought hard enough, you can come up with some parallels there.

As much as the herd loves to worship everything from sports figures to politicians to rock stars, so too do they love to tear them down. The transparency of the act is obvious, betraying any sense of rational thought or dignity. Trust me, if you haven’t seen it or heard it today, you’ll soon enough have to endure the clucking of tongues and the wagging of fingers that only media misdirection and a bad economy could love. Get ready to re-evaluate your former opinions on some people you know as well. Because the death of “Wacko Jacko” is going to bring out the worst forms of pettiness, mindless conformity, and media regurgitation in at least one person in your immediate vicinity, and that’s probably a conservative estimate. I think I actually hurt from all of the cringing and eye-rolling I’ve done today.

I’m not exactly a fan of MJ. I didn’t buy any of his records (and, likewise, won’t backpedal by now claiming I did, like others will) and had by the mid-1980s steered my adolescent musical radar away from pop and more towards heavier territory. My positive memories of his music are from my pre-teen years in the 1970s, but I also collected stuffed animals and drew epic space battles, so what did I know at 9 or 10? And while Jackson’s drug problems are nothing to be admired, he certainly carved out an empire (even a momentary one) for himself, lived a completely self-directed life, looked to be having fun much of the time, and, like Frank sang, he did it his way. I can admire that.

There aren’t many weirdos left in the world, and that’s a shame. Sure, there are manufactured oddballs worthy of little more than a deserved dismissal and a quick forget. But, the true, dyed-in-the-wool weirdos are definitely a rare breed, and appreciation for them is something completely beyond the consideration of modern mediocrity. A very sad reality.

So, that’s what I’ve got. Continue with your shenanigans.

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