Michael Jackson: The Memorial
There’s so much to be said about today’s Michael Jackson Memorial. But the chorus of pundits, critics and sycophants is at fever pitch. Three things, then.
It was difficult to take in the once-in-a-lifetime event as a fan or even a regular member of American culture. I was in the back row of the MTV Studios’ control room for our marathon, four-hour live report. In my left ear, I was listening to (and speaking with) Kim Stolz’s floor producer, Jane Mun. In my right ear I was listening to everything else: the executive producer’s calls for breaking news, the chyron operators call for ID, CNN, MSNBC, general studio prattle, quips and comments, and the program itself. Meanwhile, I was feeding as much information to as many of my colleagues as possible (things like, “LAPD calls Michael Jackson memorial “biggest event since 1984 Olympics,” and “FAA has restricted airspace in one-mile radius of Staples Center”). To say nothing of keeping track of Twitter, Facebook, email, BBIM, AIM…
So what I did see and hear — from the moment the helicopters first shot the family at Forest Lawn (“It’s got to be chilling for the family to have 20 helicopters overhead as you’re trying to mourn the passing of a relative,” KTLA’s Asha Blake said as her network shot the mourners from a helicopter) to the “© AEG” at the program’s conclusion — felt like a hastily-assembled, loosely-choreographed and poorly-scripted infomercial on behalf of all those who stand to benefit from a positive shine on Michael Jackson’s Legacy.
Only two attendees struck me as genuine, unfiltered, unvarnished, and lacking agenda: Brooke Shields and Paris Jackson.
Who other than Brooke Shields could possibly have understood Michael Jackson better? Sure, Macaulay Culkin, Emmanuel Lewis and Corey Feldman had been his friends, and had some perspective on the downside to being a child star. But, like Michael, Brooke’s timing was impecable (or unfortunate); star ascended alongside MTV, People Magazine, and Perez Hilton. Like Michael, Brooke’s career traces the hockey-stick graph of Global Celebrity Obsession.
So while she could have turned dark or cynical, Shields honored what was deep and simple in the pop star. Choking back tears, she said read two passages from the book “The Little Prince,” saying that although he was called the King of Pop, he was always a little prince to her.
“Here is my secret,” she quoted from Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s book. “It is very simple: One sees well only with the heart. The essential is invisible to the eyes.” (Mister Rogers loved “The Little Prince.”)
“Michael saw everything with his heart,” she continued. “Today, although our hearts are aching, we need to look up where he is undoubtedly perched in a crescent moon, and we need to smile.”
Later, after the requisite “We Are The World” medley featuring the entire Jackson Clan (yes, Joe was there in the background), Paris Jackson said a heart wrenching goodbye.
“Ever since I was born, Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine,” the 11-year-old told the thousands of people gathered at Los Angeles’ Staples Center and an estimate one billion television viewers. “I just want to say I love him so much.”
First I thought, ‘What, they didn’t learn with Michael?’ Then I thought, ‘Maybe they’re building evidence for the inevitable Debbie Rowe showdown?’ It even occurred to me that Paris was a plant: After eleven years of shrouded silence, perhaps the family positioned her there at the end of the program’s arch to leave us all with the impression that, despite all of the allegations, Michael Jackson was just a regular ol’ dad.
And then I decided that it didn’t matter; here was a broken-hearted 11-year-old. Here was a little girl who will grow up in the shadow of a terrific, inspired, swirling circus.
Sure, Michael Jackson was weird. But aren’t we all? Who among us doesn’t have an overbearing or over-identifying mother or father? Who among us doesn’t have an addiction of some sort? Or sibling rivalry? Of a lack of self confidence? Who among us hasn’t wished to hide away, never grow up, retreat into our own personal Neverland? Who among us doesn’t want to be loved?
Maybe it’s better, then, that we’re all remembered for our better selves: our brightest smiles, our freshest moves, and our most melodic songs. Maybe it’s better to remember with our hearts, not our heads.
Strong Island
When I went there, anyway, ninety percent of Syracuse University students were from New Jersey, New York City (“The City,” as they presumptuously called it), or Long Island.
Now, by 1989, I’d been to New York City to see a few Broadway plays, which — coming from suburban Philadelphia — meant I’d at least been through New Jersey, but I didn’t know a thing about Long Island (which didn’t prohibit me from making out with a black-haired, red-nailed, gum-popping beauty on my first night at college, but that’s a different story for a different time).
I mean, sure, someone mentions The Hamptons every day, but I’ve never really been there (and best as I can tell, I don’t want to), and I don’t know much about the place save for some pretty broad stereotypes (see previous paragraph).
Ends up it’s quite a place. Long Island is the longest and largest island in the contiguous United States, extending nearly 120 miles from New York Harbor. It’s twenty-three miles at its widest point, totaling some 1400 square miles. Nearly eight million people live there, making it the 17th most populous island in the world. If it were a state (as some have suggested), Long Island would rank 12th in population.
Thanks to Robert Moses’ bridges, tunnels and highways, the rise of the automobile, ready-made housing (Levitt & Sons, Inc. built the first planned community, or suburb, there after WWII) , Long Island was the fastest growing country in the entire U.S. from 1950-1979. Which explains all those kids at Syracuse.
Twenty years later, though — fourteen of which I spent within earshot of the place — I can still count the times I’ve visited Long Island on one hand (twice: once to run the Montauk Triathlon, and once for my pal John’s wedding).
Well, chalk up one more.
Abbi and I spent yesterday afternoon on the North Shore in Sands Point, New York, just twenty-three miles of Moses’ concrete handy work or forty-five short Long Island Railroad minutes from Midtown Manhattan. It’s the spit of land F. Scott Fitzgerald made famous (re-named East and West Egg) in “The Great Gatsby.” And for good reason. The trees and lawns are a deep emerald there. The sky is washed blue like a Hollywood set. And New York City glistens like a silver-lined Oz on the edge of the horizon.
After a few hours on the beach, we retired to the pool, drinks in hand beneath the cool canopy of trees, and listened to the faint buzz of lawn mowers yielded to crickets and then the distant rumble of fireworks. It was tranquil and relaxing, and precisely the kind of adult eventualities that scares the hell out of me: child rearing, home ownership, lawn maintenance, neighborhood relations, automobile procurement, possession, and prolongation, commuting, etc etc etc.
But did I mention the view?
The Hurt Locker
A few months after September 11th, the Department of Homeland Security launched a website called ready.gov.
The site’s initial incarnation was ostensibly a series of updated ’50s brochures: what to do in the event of nuclear blast (duck and run), what to do in the event of building collapse (duck), etc. (It’s since been significantly neutered.)
I found the site (and the entire Department of Homeland Security, for that matter) comical, but also frightening close to home; just two days after watching the towers fall with my own eyes, I scrambled down twenty-nine flights of stairs when my Times Square office building was evacuated following a bomb scare.
Still, I tweaked one of those animated images to reflect my discomfort with the whole post-9/11 tenor and posted it on my homepage for months; our rush to war left me feeling as if the country was collapsing on my head.
A few months later, on March 17, 2003, President George Bush gave then-Iraqi President Saddam Hussein an ultimatum.
Saddam Hussein and his sons must leave Iraq within 48 hours.
The cause of peace requires all free nations to recognize new and undeniable realities. In the 20th century, some chose to appease murderous dictators, whose threats were allowed to grow into genocide and global war. In this century, when evil men plot chemical, biological and nuclear terror, a policy of appeasement could bring destruction of a kind never before seen on this earth.
Unlike Saddam Hussein, we believe the Iraqi people are deserving and capable of human liberty. And when the dictator has departed, they can set an example to all the Middle East of a vital and peaceful and self-governing nation.
The power and appeal of human liberty is felt in every life and every land. And the greatest power of freedom is to overcome hatred and violence, and turn the creative gifts of men and women to the pursuits of peace.
In April, 2005, cracks in our collective facade began to crack when CIA officials conceded that, in fact, neither WMDs nor an Al Qaeda connection were found in Iraq. On Tuesday the U.S. Military began its withdrawal from Iraqi cities.
Meanwhile, some 4321 military servicemen and an estimate 100,000 Iraqis have died, nearly half from improvised explosive devices: car bombs, roadside bombs, and suicide vests — a component of the war that director Kathryn Bigelow addresses head on in her wrenching-but-stellar film, “The Hurt Locker.” From A.O. Scott’s New York Times review:
It is a viscerally exciting, adrenaline-soaked tour de force of suspense and surprise, full of explosions and hectic scenes of combat, but it blows a hole in the condescending assumption that such effects are just empty spectacle or mindless noise. Ms. Bigelow … is one of the few directors for whom action-movie-making and the cinema of ideas are synonymous. You may emerge from “The Hurt Locker” shaken, exhilarated and drained, but you will also be thinking.
Bigelow begins the film with a slightly heavy-handed quote from combat journalist Chris Hedges: “The rush of battle is a potent and often lethal addiction, for war is a drug.” And while “The Hurt Locker” certainly explores the theme through Staff Sergeant William James’ compulsion to plunge head-first (and armor-free) into the face of danger, for me, the film begs an even larger question — one first (or most-articulately) asked in Country Joe & The Fish’s 1968 protest song, “I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ To Die Rag.”
What are we fighting for?
In the final minutes of the film — following what can only be described as an excruciatingly-tense two hours of bullets, bombs, and random, un-glorified, and nearly-palpable violence — James asks his partner, “Why do you think I am the way I am?”
In the next scene, he’s stateside, blankly pushes a shopping cart through a vast, empty, Muzak-themed grocery store. When his wife asks him to get a box cereal and meet her at the checkout, James finds himself lost and overwhelmed in an aisle of colorful, cartoon and celebrity-strewn boxes.
Like Staff Sergeant William James, America is brave and stupid, courageous and reckless, hopeful and nihilistic. And Staff Sergeant William James, we are adrenaline junkies (to say nothing of power, influence, oil, or narcotics).
But say what we will about self-governing, human liberty and the creative gifts of men, in the end, we’re not fighting for the right to choose between two parties, we’re fighting for the right to choose between Apple Jacks, Banana Nut Crunch, Corn Flakes, Frosted Flakes, Golden Grahams, Honey Bunches of Oats, Kix, Lucky Charms, Mueslix, Nut ‘n Honey, Raisin Bran, Shredded Wheat, Special K and Wheaties.
