It’s Bad. That’s The Way You Make Me Feel.
I have no tears for Michael Jackson — I was a fan, I celebrated his life. What kills me is that millions of people mourned his passing — and that’s bullshit. For the last 15 years, everyone (literally everyone) took horrible, horrible jabs at Jackson for being too white or too weird or too into children or too much of a has-been. This is hypocrisy at its worst.
What most people don’t know is that Michael Jackson was a clever star. In the waning days of his career, he befriended B-list celebrities — like Uri Geller and David Blaine — knowing they may one day make it to the top, perhaps carrying him with them.
But this alone didn’t make him king. There’s something about a guy — however gay — who can berate a girl who’s turned him down, only to later sing and dance his way into her heart. Jackson had serious game.
Life without TV
Something is horribly wrong when a shoeless boy runs up to you in the morning to tell you Michael Jackson has died. It’s the kind of thing that lets you know you’ve lost touch with the in-crowd, that you’ve found other things to do besides listen to the news. And it’s wrong because you don’t know if it’s good or bad, if you’ve found something better to do than keep up with Mr. Jones or if your life has deteriorated and you’re left with nothing but to complain — incessantly – about the weather. (And it is too hot right now.)
But that’s not wholly sad. What is sad – what is downright tragic, is that Farah Fawcett died of ass cancer.
I’ve always warned past girlfriends that they should be extra nice to me, because pulchritude has a shelf-life, and when you force me to break up with you I know you’re going to have a one-weeker with some nasty bald guy who happens to have warts (which you won’t see). And then you, too, will die of ass-cancer.