Michael Jackson Gives Up the Naughty Chair

The King of Pop is Dead.

"Mouth to mouth resuscitation/Sounding heartbeats—Intimidations."--Michael Jackson

Kids went loopy in my neighborhood last night when the news came in that Michael had croaked. They flooded the street, backed up traffic, and carried makeshift signs, urging everyone to honk for Mister Jackson.

"C'mon, do it! Honk for the song 'Thriller,' man!"

A whole generation of children finally felt safe to roam again. Which, of course, was a mistake on a Section Eight block swarming with convicted child predators and crackheads, but nobody, not even public safety officers, would dare intervene. Why kill the spirit of their youthful display? That would make them no better than the deposed king.

Yes, the King of Pop is dead. The pancake make-up-wearing mulatto mutant took the wrong spike of Demerol and his respiratory system folded, a cardiac arrest at 50 years young. And not a day too soon, because Six Flags just announced ten Funatic reasons to purchase season tickets to their Great Adventure & Wild Safari.

Every mainstream dee-jay is bawling uncontrollably and playing a full platter of Jackson 5 songs, as if they were grieving over the Death of Motown rather than the death of an aberrant overgrown varmint. Not me. I'm leafing through pictures of the Jackson 5 and marveling at how much that Michael Jackson looked like Nick Cannon, listening to those same songs on the radio and laughing a lilted laugh at the realization that the Michael Jackson most of us knew and loved was dead by the time he was tall enough to shoot hoops. The golden honeysuckle voice of a cherub was lost by the mid-80's, replaced by a high-pitched hoot that sounded like it was emanating from the bowels of a deviant beast with its nuts caught inextricably in a meat grinder. "Be there in the morning" was replaced, in quick succession, by graphic visuals such as this: "As he came into the window/It was the sound of a crescendo/He came into her apartment/He left the blood stains on the carpet/She ran under the table/He could see she was unable/So she ran into the bedroom/She was struck down/It was her doom."

Annie's okay today, thanks to the UCLA Medical Center's failure to revive the preternatural Peter Pan. They jammed a breathing tube down his narrow throat, but it was no use. His bilious soul had already escaped and by this time a flotilla of blood simple fans had gathered outside the facility to weep like a hero was struggling to hold on to the mortal coil. No such luck, fanatics! The kids aren't all right. Actually they are. And now Las Vegas is short one more would-be entertainer, one more gaudy exhibit of bankrupt art.

There is a portion of the black community out there right now who will hate me for celebrating the uncomfortable passing of a so-called legend, but these are people that don't deserve to vote. We're talking about people who only ever defended the mutated monster of pop because he was black...once upon a time, in a distant past, before he was emancipated, before abominable backwards ass facial surgeries and skin discolorations, before he started allegedly ripping apart virginal adolescent anuses in a secret wall chamber of his molestation mansion.

It was a long time since Michael was right, not just as a subhuman inhaling the oxygen of God's green earth but as a recording artist. "Black and White" was more a cultural landmark than a musical one and after that...what? It was all over after puberty had run its course, which might explain some of Jacko's predilections...kind of. In fact his music started to suck once he was old enough to break away from the caustic father who had pimped him and his siblings out. But his personal resentment over being denied a normal childhood, coupled with the derangement that was the corollary of such a background, twisted his bits in a queer direction and the cup runneth over with Jesus Juice as he got his jollies by denying other people's children of the innocence he deserved as much as them.

All the carousels and kiddie trinkets, pixie dust and petting zoos couldn't possibly make up for becoming a Lost Boy penetrated by the Pop, soul devastated and personal identity shattered by a grown man in pajamas.

There are many questions this morning, like who will tuck me in at night, and who will be the rightful successor to the throne of Pop? Kanye West is the pretender, but he's no Smooth Criminal, just a corn-fed suburban guy who happened be born black. Certainly Pharrell has the talent, but he always gets stuck on those rhythmless Snoop collaborations. Jay-Z is an entrepreneurial music mogul with clout and skill. But who cares if his personal taste ranges from rap to Shania Twain if he can't write anything more versatile than "D'evils?"

The ideal candidate would be Andre 3000 or Andre Benjamin, as he is now known. But unfortunately, like the other runner-up Justin Timberlake, he's too busy being a serious actor. He's just not kicking out the jams like he used to. So we'll probably have to settle for Eminem, a white man who doesn't really want to be in the spotlight any more than the freaky Milk Dud of Never Neverland that he lampooned on his last album before the recent Relapse. The comparisons are obvious. Marshall Mathers, the artist known as Eminem, is as much a social leper as the Gloved One was and Relapse, like much of his past work, is every bit as awkward, revealing and entertaining as the legendary Martin Bashir interview with Mikey.  His musical material and personal life has been almost as decadent, with one exception:  as Em once rapped, "I've done touched on everything but little boys."

Regardless of who takes his questionable place as the reigning master of the craft, there will be no escaping the sense of heroism and martyrdom that comes from a celebrity perishing. The World Wide Web crashed shortly after the news flash about Jackson. As if somehow his death is more important and more epic than that of your next door neighbor or grandmother or best friend.

Still, it is a sad occasion when overzealous adolescents will never get to taste of the juice or sleep in a bed with a man with no nose. And if I was a pre-pubescent, I would much rather live under a veil than have to change Elizabeth Taylor's diapers with a Blanket.