Friday, March 11, 2005
Bad
Can we talk for a minute about the Michael Jackson trial?
So okay, granted, Michael’s got back problems. He’s got face problems, he’s got money problems, he’s got dressing-in-sequined-military-garb problems. I can see how these might cause him to run a little behind schedule. But seriously, do they really prevent him from putting on pants? That takes, what, thirty seconds? Maybe forty if they’re button fly? Which, by the way, they should never ever be.
And all this waving to "fans" outside the courthouse is some seriously Norma Desmond shit. This isn’t the Grammys with Brooke Shields. It isn’t even that "tribute concert" he put on for himself a few years ago. It is, in fact, a criminal trial, and not of the adorable Winona-Ryder-wanted-some-tank-tops type. Say what you want about OJ Simpson, he never moonwalked on the roof of a car before heading in to grimace his way through another day of evidence. And he made us all think about Ford Broncos again.
I feel bad for the guy, I really do. Just like I feel bad for the homeless guy who screams song lyrics at people down by the Damen stop on the Blue Line. All crazy people deserve our pity and the best medications we can find them. But Michael needs to understand that it is never again going to be 1983 and that friendships with Liz Taylor and Bubbles the Chimp are no longer the height of pop culture currency. I mean, we all really liked "Thriller," okay? Can’t we just be allowed to retain our pleasant memories of that?
Maybe I should just get rid of my television.
Can we talk for a minute about the Michael Jackson trial?
So okay, granted, Michael’s got back problems. He’s got face problems, he’s got money problems, he’s got dressing-in-sequined-military-garb problems. I can see how these might cause him to run a little behind schedule. But seriously, do they really prevent him from putting on pants? That takes, what, thirty seconds? Maybe forty if they’re button fly? Which, by the way, they should never ever be.
And all this waving to "fans" outside the courthouse is some seriously Norma Desmond shit. This isn’t the Grammys with Brooke Shields. It isn’t even that "tribute concert" he put on for himself a few years ago. It is, in fact, a criminal trial, and not of the adorable Winona-Ryder-wanted-some-tank-tops type. Say what you want about OJ Simpson, he never moonwalked on the roof of a car before heading in to grimace his way through another day of evidence. And he made us all think about Ford Broncos again.
I feel bad for the guy, I really do. Just like I feel bad for the homeless guy who screams song lyrics at people down by the Damen stop on the Blue Line. All crazy people deserve our pity and the best medications we can find them. But Michael needs to understand that it is never again going to be 1983 and that friendships with Liz Taylor and Bubbles the Chimp are no longer the height of pop culture currency. I mean, we all really liked "Thriller," okay? Can’t we just be allowed to retain our pleasant memories of that?
Maybe I should just get rid of my television.
