As you read these words from
a person so engorged with love that he often unknowingly discharges it even in
his sleep, it might be impossible to accept the truth that some time ago, a
bitter dash of Hate was a prime ingredient of his life's
take-all-you-want-but-eat-all-you-take buffet.
And a delicious spread it
was, too, until he became intelligent enough to read and comprehend the
ingredients.
While ostensibly loving all
creation, in truth there were two types of people he hated: Racists and
Eskimos.
Years later, when he added
Hypocrites to the list, somehow the concoction blew up in his face and left him
giddy and pure.
That coy little fable is my
convoluted way of saying right at the gate that I am unable to embrace Hate in
any form (while remaining wary of situations that would engender a
vulnerability and need for its companionship).
So what follows has little
or nothing to do with Race or Eskimos or Hypocrisy, I assure you. My great
friend and drummer in the Troy Dante Inferno, Buddy Pastel Jr. (himself the son
of the greatest unsung, multi-ethnic percussionist of the '30s and '40s,
Onishiro "Boom-Chucka" Bam) wisely put the whole racial thing in perspective
for me when he said, "Hose, the fact is that there's only one Race. It's called
the Kentucky Derby."
Michael Jackson, who
increasingly resembles what must be his own twisted idea of an Eskimo whore's
remains three months after an igloo cave-in, somehow wound up in the news again
last month. To the minds of retards, it may not be my right to comment upon him
or his trial-like circus, at least at this time. However, take away my access
to any right and I'm likely to go all indignorant ovah yo donkey, Balaam. After
all, the self-dubbed "Queen of Pop" is becoming an important aspect of the
entertainment scene of the Aughts. If the lips of my pen scream to release the
inky drool of Truth, who am I to clog their font?
The emergence of CDs,
heralding the demise/coma of vinyl LPs presented a brilliant opportunity for
Michael Jackson to introduce his emerging identity as the porcelain result of
his own secret, thoroughly misguided experiment in confounding or disproving the
science of genetics.
Gone from the "early hits"
CD were the original album's graphics and any intimation of Michael's younger,
natural physiognomy. Although even his substantial fortune couldn't effect a
recall of all circulating evidence of his previous self, he correctly figured
that his very brilliance would entice the majority of the buying public to
clear their memory's visual log and start afresh, enjoying the unprecedented
metamorphosis of the most supertalented entertainer of the age; a true credit
to at least his adopted race.
The first public accusations
of improprieties with young males presented him with what he saw as an easy
mission: to prove his heterosexuality to any and all who would question it.
Marriage and babies would take care of that, and money was no object. The
rabble, who years later would probably be worshiping the boogers of Tom Cruise,
would not only buy this solution to Michael's "little" problem, they'd soften
up for more . . .
This is where whatever logic
existed in his brain left Michael without even leaving a "Dear Jacko" letter
for his boy-tool, as some enterprising, unintimidated reporter will someday
point out. (I'm only a columnist/amateur gynecologist/lounge metal god.)
The explosively concise
evidence emerges at any routine observation of "his" children who (if this
unavoidable aspect is of interest to somebody someday) are more honky that I
am. (Oh yeah, but even if these kids are in danger, at least they're rich. So
leave 'em alone, okay?)
It's an ivory thing; you
wouldn't understand. And just for the record, I have more soul in my frenum
than LaToya or Janet combined; that's a scientific fact.
If he follows his lawyer's
edict and refrains from allowing young boys into his tainted bed from now on,
there could be bad, dangerous times ahead for the inhumanly delicate Michael
Jackson. When any megalomaniacal millionaire goes through and enforced
withdrawal of any sort, the result is
likely to be a real
thriller; a killer-diller indeed.
Hot damn. I'm feeling a bit
of perverse sympathy, which I would extend to Phil Spector. His unfortunate
timing could end up being the deciding factor in the temporary satisfaction of
America's need for an occasional
sacrificial lamb. How else
to ensure
the well being of the
majority of other wealthy cretins?
Besides felonious politics,
I mean, to which we seem to have finally surrendered.
___________
LIVE 8, this month's
gargantuan transglobal music fest, is sure to be a milestone in the annals of
both entertainment and humanitarianism.
When Bob Gelding called me
and I refused his offer to appear at the English portion of the event, he
sounded disappointed.
But how could I travel away
from this once-beautiful city in its time of need? Aid to Africa is immensely
important, but how can we clean our neighbor's yard when our own is in such
disarray?
So, along with countless
other San Diegans, I choose to remain here at the center of a more immediate
crisis and join my own homies in an unprecedented demonstration of patient
concern, waiting for some magical miracle to put things right.
Without Hope, who is there
to truly entertain the troops? Perhaps in some faraway Neverland, the answer
lies in wait.