Bob Grant Online
Bob Grant
 

Michael Jackson’s Final Peace

July 7, 2009

Is this the day they are to have the spectacle mourning the death of Michael Jackson at the Staples Center in Los Angeles?

Whatever I say in this commentary in no way is meant to be pejorative of the talented but tragic “King of Pop.” I don't think the national production being carried out is his fault. As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he himself said something like, “Oh gosh, for me?”

Yes, for you, Michael — for you because the ghouls want to continue feeding off of you even in death. After all, they leeched off of you while you were alive. Oh, I know you made such obscene amounts of money in your lifetime, if we could get it all together we would have a hefty stimulus injection for our financially ailing economy.

You lavished great sums into constructing your “home grounds” called Neverland — a curious name which suggests you may have not believed it was possible to construct such a self-indulgent compound.

I love the smell of natural cedar. I think it is one of the most beautiful fragrances ever created. It, of course, is very expensive. But with all of your wealth no amount of money was too much. I am talking about cedar because you had special rooms constructed from cedar that you may have called closets, but a family could have lived most comfortably in those rooms.

Hey, it was your money and you were entitled to spend it however you wished. As a matter of fact, you did spend vast amounts of money on whatever you wished, but did you really wish to spend so much on painkillers and the most dangerous drugs created by medical science?

One drug, Diprivan, was so powerful it was to be used only in hospital operating rooms. It was so powerful it would put a patient in an extremely deep sleep. Is that why you took that drug, Michael? Was it because you had so abused your body you couldn’t buy a good night’s sleep with all the other pills, concoctions, and Lord knows, what else at your disposal?

Was all this drowning in dangerous chemicals symptomatic of a tragic human being, who, in spite of his great talent and famous wealth, was so full of self-loathing he couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror and see the consequence of his self-mutilation? Jackson was a talented, cute, black boy who had himself disfigured so often he became a grotesque caricature of a white dowager.

You, who became a serial victim of the scalpel, and for what? Did all of this plastic surgery enhance your talent? Did it make you sing better, dance better, create better, feel better? Was any of it necessary? That poor nose of yours, being whittled to almost nonexistence; that exaggerated cleft in your chin; the alabaster complexion where once was a healthy African-American glow, replaced by an artificial, nondescript sickening white.

Why, Michael? Why did you hate what you were? Well, at least now your demons will leave you in peace. At last, those so-called doctors who only supplied you with the poisons destroying your body and your soul will have to siphon someone else’s money.

And your many fans will never really know the self-torment you left behind. To them, your legacy will be what you wished it to be.

But, Michael, it was not. Sleep the only way you can.

Bob Grant

Straight Ahead!

 

 
That slams the lid onthings for today
 

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