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Michael Jackson: Why He's Lucky He's Not A Squirrel Edition #70 — June 22, 2005 After this month's "not guilty" verdict, Michael Jackson must be relieved that he won't have to sleep with boys closer to his own age — in prison. But for whatever it's worth, despite his acquittal, he doesn't look all that free to me. If ever there was a poster child for someone struggling to deny their own racial heritage, Michael's our man. He's whiter than I am these days; sliced and diced in ways that tell the story: he's not proud to be black. He has "de-Africanized" his features. Gone are the proud lips, the nose, the hair. Michael is a rich black man's knock-off of "whitey." As for what remains of his once huge career, I think reality and not a global conspiracy against the entertainer is behind Michael Jackson's decline in record sales. It's no longer feasible for Michael Jackson to portray demons and street gang members with the naivety of a 12 year old in a 46 year old man's body. It also doesn't suit the more hardcore pop culture of 2005, AD. Now, Michael must sing, dance, and write good songs for his supper, like the rest of us reclusive millionaires. But with all the bad press and dirty laundry that's been aired, I think people are more interested in watching Michael Jackson's mental health deteriorate than buying his music. He is more valuable as a so-called "reality tv" commodity, like Paris Hilton and the American Idol contestants. After all, whoever watched "The Osbournes" out of admiration for Ozzie Osbourne's singing? No, they watched him because he was a burnt-out addict once held in high esteem by the icon-making machinery of pop culture. We just want to see him burn; to laugh at him. Build 'em up; tear 'em down. As for titles for a new Michael Jackson album, I've got some ideas.
Okay, enough of that. He's still a great entertainer. Unfortunately, his freak show of a private life is the only thing that holds the public's interest anymore. His career? Poof. Always portrayed as the delicate, angelic peacemaker, I also hope MJ eventually summons the "we are the world" kind of love and decency to sell the Beatles songs back to one of the guys who wrote them: Paul McCartney. But perhaps, in a strange twist of fate, Michael will lose his own songwriting catalogue in the Neverland bankruptcy garage sale to an anonymous buyer from England. A "Sir Paul" somebody... Who says there's no god? [And now for something completely different...] Lucky, The Terminator In January of this year we saved a young stray cat from certain death. She'd been abandoned outside in extremely frigid weather so we brought her indoors and made her a family pet. We called her Lucky — despite the veterinary bills. A severe ear infection further inspired her middle name, "Stinky." I have a cache of "pet names" for her and "Kitty," our other cat. It entertains me. I invested a lot of time with Lucky and soon the two of us were inseparable. Now she follows me around the house, everywhere. If I go to the kitchen, she goes to the kitchen; when I take a bath, she patiently sits outside waiting for me to come out. Outdoors, she comes running when I call — I have a special bell I ring for that purpose so I don't have to invent some embarrassing combination of whooping and clapping noises as my neighbors have for calling in their "loved one." Lucky also follows me on my walking path, and when she tires, she waits in the bushes to lunge at me when I come around again after another circuit. In this way, Lucky is more like a dog than a cat. She's also more of a biter than a licker. She would rather fight than snuggle. Which leads me to my dilemma. Yesterday I rescued yet another small animal from her jaws. This time it was a young chipmunk whose tail she'd stripped to the bone as she pulled him from the tree. My insides were screaming. Last week it was a baby squirrel, one of a litter of six babies out for a stroll (across the screens on our windows) with their mother. Lucky, it seems, is a sport hunter, and that deeply concerns me here in the land of squirrels and wildlife aplenty. I don't worry about the deer, but lucky chases anything within a reasonable size. She still hasn't discovered the delight of cornering a wasp or a bee; secretly I anticipate the day...as that will be one less victim off her list. Last year I fretted and fawned over Virtue, the baby squirrel I rescued. This year I'm aiding and abetting a baby squirrel killer. Life is so complicated sometimes. I love all these animals and yet, there is a complex drama of death, domination and general killing insanity that I must somehow make peace with, or at least accept, otherwise I will never find serenity. I suppose that requires a certain degree of detachment from life's dramas. The Buddhists call our attachment to illusion one of the "winds" that push us around aimlessly, like feathers in the wind. For now, I'm still blown away. Sometimes life is a big fur ball [cough]. But it's not all that BAD, right Mikey? Hey, teach me that Billy Jean move will ya? See ya next month for another Thriller. Uh - uh - woo!
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