On June 26 2009 12:00 CharlieMurphy wrote: If one were to not give a shit or actually be happy about his death, does that give the right of the rest of you people to attack that person?
yes, as they clearly should know better than to say something like that. edit: if they do post then clearly they are accepting responsibility for their own views.
terrible. What ever happened to free speech and alternative views? One could suggest that there are more important things to discuss than a man's death. One could also argue that 20 pages of "RIP", "loved the music", etc are just worthless spam.
free speech
you're allowed to post whatever you want
we're also allowed to post that you're a genius/raging douchebag/ignore you completely
ignoring rest of post because obvious inflammatory derailing is obvious
I can imagine no worse curse to afflict someone, in America, than dying while famous.
He was strange to the point where he became a poster child for strange, but it was all the sadder because you could tell exactly where the trouble had come from. Since he was a child, he never once had a normal life or happy family or, apparently, any stable cadre of friends that would not defend him against his own absurdities, or screw him over for a little money. His childhood was bitter, brutal, and short. He was a superstar, and perhaps an addict. He was a dominant American force, and perhaps something malevolent. He was undoubtedly unbalanced, mentally and physically frail, maybe even insane. And he was brilliant.
F. Scott Fitzgerald could have written his life story. His was the essence of modern American fame and wealth; an icon of both the selflessly good and the shockingly bad; famous, but alone; shining genius and grotesque self-destruction in constant competition.
Even at his peak he was a tragic figure, already isolated. Wasn't it always obvious why he used his millions to build himself a full-fledged childhood? And how sad it was that he had, apparently, nobody around who could act as an adequate foil. He surrounded himself with friends as he could, but also with fools and clowns and hangers-on.
He was like the kid from the Twilight Zone, I always thought, the one who could get anything he wanted, or wish anyone he wanted into the cornfield, and nobody would or could say a thing about it. Everyone around him seemed afraid of him, except the people who thought maybe they could use him. He was not human, not like them. And he seemed to feel it exquisitely. He mutilated himself -- there was no other word for it. Over decades, he tried to turn himself physically into something else -- a thing in his own image.
Michael Jackson was a dismembered soul; bits and pieces of him had been long ago sold off, and of his own volition. His physical appearance was stark, but uncannily apt, in a world where such things almost never are so literal.
He lay in death as he lived in life, alone but surrounded by thousands. Even as corpse, there are police cars and helicopters and television cameras everywhere, and all his friends (supposed and true) and business partners (close and distant) and hangers-on (of all stripes and demeanors) are on all the networks expressing their sorrow on live television.
One or two voices, mean and self absorbed, leap into the fray with the supreme confidence of an alpha vulture jumping into a flock already thousands strong. Was this one really a true friend? Was that one? Who can tell? Apparently he had about ten thousand closest friends, all of them loved, and every damn last one of them is going to appear before a television camera or do a telephoned interview while old stock footage of the person they loved gets played on a continuous loop, moments of genius and despair carved into a video tombstone.
MSNBC shows the goddamn ambulance footage -- the ambulance backing up through his gate, backing into the street very slowly and cautiously to avoid the person with the video camera who is filming the unfolding tragedy and will not move farther away. And then as the ambulance drives off, the tour bus drives in, careening past the fire vehicles, blocking the driveway so the tourists can get a good view of the day and place Michael Jackson died.
Gawd, what fuckers these people are. I think if they didn't have police protection on the hospital, people would be going in with scalpels to dismember him piece-by-piece, selling his remains as mementos. If his soul goes to heaven, it will first have to get past a hundred paparazzi with butterfly nets.
He was Norma Desmond, but played larger; he was his own Captain Ahab, seeking to find and murder himself. But goddamnit, he was brilliant too, a nuclear force of music, and no matter how his own soul failed him, that much cannot be denied. Hearing his young voice once again, touching each note flawlessly and effortlessly and with such weight, is nearly shocking. Then video of the gold and green helicopter, spiriting the corpse away. And what luck, in the control room -- we have video of the corpse, unnervingly small and light, wrapped in a brilliant white.
He was loved. By uncountable millions as idol, and by some too-few friends as a person. I hope that in the end he at least knew as much, and that even the most famously, visibly, agonizingly tortured soul in the world could find a little peace in that.
Don't know who wrote this but it's really tedious and overwrought. Someone needs to get their MFA money back because all they ended up with was a few too many literary allusions and not enough taste to cut back on the metaphors to where they actually count.
This could have been said just as well in one line. "This was a man who earned a successful career through a lifetime of great genius and terrible pain."
you're an idiot
Wow, your argument is so penetrating and thorough. It makes you look SO intelligent. Thanks for contributing yet another golden tidbit of wisdom.
On June 26 2009 12:00 CharlieMurphy wrote: If one were to not give a shit or actually be happy about his death, does that give the right of the rest of you people to attack that person?
yes, as they clearly should know better than to say something like that. edit: if they do post then clearly they are accepting responsibility for their own views.
terrible. What ever happened to free speech and alternative views? One could suggest that there are more important things to discuss than a man's death. One could also argue that 20 pages of "RIP", "loved the music", etc are just worthless spam.
free speech
you're allowed to post whatever you want
we're also allowed to post that you're a genius/raging douchebag/ignore you completely
ignoring rest of post because obvious inflammatory derailing is obvious
LOL? Rip MJ
my bad
you're allowed to post whatever you want as long as you don't piss off the moderators
On June 26 2009 12:00 CharlieMurphy wrote: If one were to not give a shit or actually be happy about his death, does that give the right of the rest of you people to attack that person?
yes, as they clearly should know better than to say something like that. edit: if they do post then clearly they are accepting responsibility for their own views.
terrible. What ever happened to free speech and alternative views? One could suggest that there are more important things to discuss than a man's death. One could also argue that 20 pages of "RIP", "loved the music", etc are just worthless spam.
free speech
you're allowed to post whatever you want
we're also allowed to post that you're a genius/raging douchebag/ignore you completely
ignoring rest of post because obvious inflammatory derailing is obvious
I like your last line there, were you completely dodge an argument due to your bias. No this is not a troll/derail attempt. I am 100% serious here. Its pretty ridiculous.
I can imagine no worse curse to afflict someone, in America, than dying while famous.
He was strange to the point where he became a poster child for strange, but it was all the sadder because you could tell exactly where the trouble had come from. Since he was a child, he never once had a normal life or happy family or, apparently, any stable cadre of friends that would not defend him against his own absurdities, or screw him over for a little money. His childhood was bitter, brutal, and short. He was a superstar, and perhaps an addict. He was a dominant American force, and perhaps something malevolent. He was undoubtedly unbalanced, mentally and physically frail, maybe even insane. And he was brilliant.
F. Scott Fitzgerald could have written his life story. His was the essence of modern American fame and wealth; an icon of both the selflessly good and the shockingly bad; famous, but alone; shining genius and grotesque self-destruction in constant competition.
Even at his peak he was a tragic figure, already isolated. Wasn't it always obvious why he used his millions to build himself a full-fledged childhood? And how sad it was that he had, apparently, nobody around who could act as an adequate foil. He surrounded himself with friends as he could, but also with fools and clowns and hangers-on.
He was like the kid from the Twilight Zone, I always thought, the one who could get anything he wanted, or wish anyone he wanted into the cornfield, and nobody would or could say a thing about it. Everyone around him seemed afraid of him, except the people who thought maybe they could use him. He was not human, not like them. And he seemed to feel it exquisitely. He mutilated himself -- there was no other word for it. Over decades, he tried to turn himself physically into something else -- a thing in his own image.
Michael Jackson was a dismembered soul; bits and pieces of him had been long ago sold off, and of his own volition. His physical appearance was stark, but uncannily apt, in a world where such things almost never are so literal.
He lay in death as he lived in life, alone but surrounded by thousands. Even as corpse, there are police cars and helicopters and television cameras everywhere, and all his friends (supposed and true) and business partners (close and distant) and hangers-on (of all stripes and demeanors) are on all the networks expressing their sorrow on live television.
One or two voices, mean and self absorbed, leap into the fray with the supreme confidence of an alpha vulture jumping into a flock already thousands strong. Was this one really a true friend? Was that one? Who can tell? Apparently he had about ten thousand closest friends, all of them loved, and every damn last one of them is going to appear before a television camera or do a telephoned interview while old stock footage of the person they loved gets played on a continuous loop, moments of genius and despair carved into a video tombstone.
MSNBC shows the goddamn ambulance footage -- the ambulance backing up through his gate, backing into the street very slowly and cautiously to avoid the person with the video camera who is filming the unfolding tragedy and will not move farther away. And then as the ambulance drives off, the tour bus drives in, careening past the fire vehicles, blocking the driveway so the tourists can get a good view of the day and place Michael Jackson died.
Gawd, what fuckers these people are. I think if they didn't have police protection on the hospital, people would be going in with scalpels to dismember him piece-by-piece, selling his remains as mementos. If his soul goes to heaven, it will first have to get past a hundred paparazzi with butterfly nets.
He was Norma Desmond, but played larger; he was his own Captain Ahab, seeking to find and murder himself. But goddamnit, he was brilliant too, a nuclear force of music, and no matter how his own soul failed him, that much cannot be denied. Hearing his young voice once again, touching each note flawlessly and effortlessly and with such weight, is nearly shocking. Then video of the gold and green helicopter, spiriting the corpse away. And what luck, in the control room -- we have video of the corpse, unnervingly small and light, wrapped in a brilliant white.
He was loved. By uncountable millions as idol, and by some too-few friends as a person. I hope that in the end he at least knew as much, and that even the most famously, visibly, agonizingly tortured soul in the world could find a little peace in that.
Don't know who wrote this but it's really tedious and overwrought. Someone needs to get their MFA money back because all they ended up with was a few too many literary allusions and not enough taste to cut back on the metaphors to where they actually count.
This could have been said just as well in one line. "This was a man who earned a successful career through a lifetime of great genius and terrible pain."
you're an idiot
Wow, your argument is so penetrating and thorough. It makes you look SO intelligent. Thanks for contributing yet another golden tidbit of wisdom.
orly? because being a pretentious ass is such a contribution. not every piece of literature in the world is clear and concise prose jackass. sometimes it's appropriate to let your thoughts just run amok like let's sayyyy when expressing emotion.
seriously, next person who posts about "how good" someone else's "argument" is or about "freedom of speech" or "its okay to be a dick" or whatever other stupid bullshit is gonna eat a two-day ban
Well it's not like anyone can say they never listened to his music. So hate all you want, he's still gonna be remembered more than most people of this generation.
Such a tragedy. Regardless of all the whacked stuff he's done, guy is a phenomenal performer. May he rest in peace. I wonder how big a deal this will be compared to Elvis' and Lennon's deaths.
Wow. This is so unexpected and so sad at the same time.
And for those only thinking about him as a freak and a pedo even tough it was probably never true, remember what he once was: the most succesful artist ever.
EPT
