The Fat Lady Sings

Michael Jackson - The Elephant in the Room

 

It seems all anyone wants to remember about Michael Jackson are the good things: his music, the love of his family, his charitable works.  Laudable, to be sure; but we all know there’s more to Jackson’s legacy than that.  Should it be mentioned?  Or remain the unacknowledged elephant balancing on that beach ball in the middle of the room?  Am I the only one whose attention continues to be drawn towards the center ring? 

 

Every human being is a universe of complexity.  We carry within the seeds of unimaginable death and destruction.  Most make it through without tapping that darkness.  Did Jackson?  According to law, yes.  The truth?  Probably never be known.  Elephant in aspic – icky, smelly; preserved forever – indelible and indigestible.  So why look at it at all?  Good question.  Maybe it’s me – my tendency to pick at sores even if they sting - anything to make them go away.  I’ve spent my entire life trying to understand the genesis of personal demons – those nasty elephants dancing ‘round MY room: Why did my mother hate so damn much?  What made my brother so violent?  Why did my sister kill herself?  Around, and around, and around – addiction, abuse…..  So why aren’t I as crazy as Michael?  How did I emerge with my soul (and personality) intact? 

 

I have to say I abjure the freak show Jackson encouraged and became part and parcel of.  For every cliff I walked up to, looked over and decidedly moved away from – Michael seems to have jumped off willingly with both feet (or so it would seem).  And there lies the rub.  How many of those dancing elephants he consorted with were really real?  To put it bluntly: Did he molest those boys?  I cannot even begin to answer that question - because I don’t understand how something like that could happen in the first place.  Under what mechanism does the abused become the abuser?  What sours in the brain?  I have never in my entire life ever intentionally hurt a single living creature.  I couldn’t even force myself to – the empath in me begins screaming at the first sign of pain.  Hell - I can’t even retaliate in kind when someone does or says something directly to my face.  Creating pain is as alien to me as breathing water.   

 

Hurt myself?  Now that’s different.  Oh yeah – I’ve hurt myself more times than I could count (there’s that inability to retaliate rearing its pacifist head).  But just me.  Only me.  I don’t foist my bad choices (or destructive behaviors) on anyone else.  I’m the only one who suffers.  So how is that different for others?  What satisfaction can be derived from experiencing another’s fear or pain?  I can still hear my mother saying over and over that she wanted someone else to ‘understand’ the length, depth and breadth of her own abuse.  She‘d tell me this while torturing me, by the way – my tears personal vengeance against her own vicious mother and sister.  How on earth this assuaged any of her childhood pain I do not know.  The harder I’d cry – the crueler she became.  It was as if my tears drove her to be all the meaner.  My brother?  He’d just laugh.  He really got off on it too – a died-in-the-wool sadist, that bastard (may he rot in Dante’s hell for all eternity).

 

I could never, ever, under any circumstances do anything even remotely like that.  I’m incapable of it.  So it’s hard to understand (or possibly forgive) Michael Jackson’s sins (if sins there were).  Can I ignore them like everybody else and just celebrate the good?  I dunno.  I’m conflicted.  It’s the same when I look at Bing Crosby.  All four of the children he had from his first marriage are dead.  Two of them committed suicide.  All spoke of the dreadful abuse they suffered at his hands.  He was a real son-of-a-bitch.  Does that make him a bad actor or singer?  Depends on your point of view.  I look at the affable character he presented on film and wonder……had he injured one of his sons that day?  Were they nursing wounds while he frolicked in front of the camera?  How did that make him feel?  The mind reels.  It’s hard to turn off that kind of knowledge – to pretend there’s no elephant there; and as such it impedes my enjoyment of his work.  It didn’t use to, by the way – but that’s changed as I’ve grown older.  I understand more and tolerate less now.  Same with Jackson.  I look at his open visage, I listen to his music and I’m left terribly confused. 

 

You see, there’s no denying the man was loved – and not just by his fans or those who depended upon his benevolence either. Jackson had friends, family – people who loved him for who he was and not how much he had.  I was particularly affected by his daughter at yesterday’s memorial.  Ask me at age 11 if I loved MY mother – and I’d have said no – no way.  Feared and hated?  You bet!  Same with my brother.  But Paris really loved her dad.  It seemed obvious - though I’ll admit to being troubled at the way she kept grabbing the back of her neck while speaking (though maybe that was just a reaction to Janet’s playing with her hair).  Odd behaviors like that often signal hidden emotions.  I’d literally pull mine out at that age.  Still - somewhere under all Michael Jackson’s Halloween makeup and Twilight behavior lived a decent human being.  Can someone like that do evil?  What if the answer is ‘no’?  What if those elephants are merely constructs – creatures of smoke and fog, lingering because gossip keeps them there?  One puff and they’re gone.  Then why does the image persist?  Why are my eyes still drawn to that center ring?  If the accusations weren’t true – why pay twenty-odd million to make them go away?  That’s fear talking – fear of exposure….isn’t it? 

 

More questions than answers, I’m afraid.  So those elephants keep dancing, beach balls in tow: around and around and around and around.  What’s the truth here?  Where’s it hidden?  Will the real Michael Jackson please stand up?  Thing is – he can’t – not any more.  So I’m left with questions and a clinging sense of evil I just can’t ignore.  That’s the problem with abuse.  It leaves scars that color and affect every single thing.  Maybe I’m viewing all this through a distorted prism – seeing things that aren’t really there (on both sides).  Like I said before – I guess we’ll just never really know.  

1776 - Mama Look Sharp

I think this speaks for itself.

Louie - RIP

My cat Louie had to be put to sleep today.  He'd become incontinent, spending all his time hiding under the bed.  He wouldn't allow himself to be touched in the best of times; sick - he'd run if you so much as looked at him.  That made treatment essentially impossible.  You had to chase him all over the house just to take him to the vet.  Grabbing hold of him to administer meds wasn't even possible.  Never once had he ever allowed himself to be picked up, cuddled or petted.  Louie was frightened of the world - and whatever paranoia that poor cat carried worsened as he grew older and his health deteriorated.  In the end - we weren't even able to treat his diabetes with medicated food.  He simply refused to eat any of it.

My husband had to bring him in alone as my physical restrictions (and unending pain) made going with impossible.  That was heartbreaking.  Louie only ever allowed me near him (he was frightened of my husband).  I wanted to be the one to hold him in my arms - to ease and comfort his passing.  The fact that I wasn't able just about slays me.  I feel terrible: hurt, angry, depressed.  For years (15 actually) I tried to help that cat become part of the family.  Behavior mods, drugs, multiple veterinarians - you name it, I tried it - all to no avail.  Then he became ill - and the choices (and time) ran out.  I lost my kitty today - and it hurts like hell

So rest in peace, sweet Louie.  If there's a heaven - I hope you're finally happy in it.   

Michael Jackson + Addiction – Life at its Most Unfair (UPDATE)

 

I'm getting really pissed over the tenor of all this media coverage - and I'll tell you why.  It's the whole prescription meds angle.  Michael Jackson likely died due to an overdose of pain medication.  Christ!!  Every time some celebrity either dies or gets sent to rehab for using prescription pain meds as a route to getting high - my doctors get squirrely over treating my chronic pain.  I've a hard time getting them to treat the pain in the first place (why is it women are always told to just ignore severe pain?  As if that were possible!).  But as soon as the media gets in an uproar pontificating over all the supposed people lining up to abuse pain medication – doctors become loath to prescribe anything – no matter how badly needed.  And I need them.  Badly.

So I’m royally pissed.  The only people I ever hear of using pain meds to get high are indulged celebrities.  The rest of us barely get our pain treated at all.  And I am always in pain.  Always.  Every fucking minute of every fucking day (including the last few, which have been a nightmare).  The meds I am rationed only ease it enough so I can manage to walk across the room – they never really alleviate it.  And that under-prescribing is not about addiction, actually.  You don’t become addicted if the meds relieve real pain (or so my doctors keep telling me).  It’s the Puritanical belief that pain is something to be endured.  Just suck it up and move on.  Well the people who believe that have never lain writhing on the floor unable to breathe because they hurt so damn much.  Sleep?  Pffft.  Not likely – and when I do – I experience pain in my dreams.  So I never really escape.  My pain is always there.  It greets me in the morning and I shake hands with it every night. 

So now we have Michael fucking Jackson and his medicated trips in and out of Neverland.  Great.  Fucking great.  I’ll be needing my prescription renewed soon – and I anticipate trouble.  The last time Rush Limbaugh got caught with fake prescriptions – the pain clinic I was attending decided to cut patients meds in half.  You’ve no idea what it’s like to sit in a hospital waiting room listening to some poor sonofabitch cry himself silly because he can’t get any relief for his cancer pain.  Me?  I weep every day.  I weep every day 'cause I hurt every day; that's my life.  So yes, it’s terrible that Michael Jackson died.  Really.  I’m sorry for him, for his family and for his kids; but this talk of policing Anna Nicole-like over-prescribing will not have the effect people are looking for.  Wealthy celebrities will still be able to buy Oxycontin and Methadone any time they damn well please – while the rest of us (those who really need pain relief) – will have one hell of a time getting the occasional Vicodin.

But then I guess life is never fair.

Here's Michael in better days - when it was only about talent and ability.  I've noticed something, by the way - as I've watched the endless streaming videos: Michael Jackson was one angry fella.  Seriously.  There's lots of violence and destruction to be had in every one of his mini films.  I’d say Michael was mad at the entire world.  Maybe he had good reason to be – I don’t know.  Pity it got him in the end.  RIP, Michael.  It wasn’t your fault - not really.  No one was ever looking out for you, I guess. 

Well - the FDA just pulled Vicodin and Percocet off the market because they contain Tylenol, and Tylenol causes liver damage.  I'm sure this is a knee-jerk reaction to all the over-prescription hysteria running rampant in the media at the moment.  Thank you Michael fucking Jackson.

So that's it, folks - I'm screwed.  No more pain meds for me.  Oh - I'll call my doctor tomorrow and see if he will prescribe an alternative....but my hopes aren't very high in that quarter.  Frankly - I don't know what I'm gonna do at this point.  The chronic pain I suffer has spikes that are off the chart even with the pain killers.  I cannot even begin to imagine how bad it will all get if I’m left to cope on my own.

What a fucking mess!

Money – It’s a Crime

Hollywood justice strikes again.  Singer Chris Brown was given no jail time after pleading guilty to assaulting his girlfriend.  Rihanna turned up to testify (unwillingly) – only to learn it wouldn’t be required of her.  The deal was done.  The sentence?  Community service.  Along with washing graffiti off walls - Brown gets to talk about the evils of battering woman bloody to other batters who also got nothing more than a slap on the wrist.  To make everything worse – the judge had to enforce an order of protection.  Not against Brown as one might think; but to ensure Rihanna’s the one who stays away.  Evidently she wants to re-start the relationship (she’s been calling him).  How sick is that.  

In a word?  Appalling - just across the board appalling.  Had Chris Brown assaulted a stranger in the street - he'd be going directly to jail.  But because his victim was a woman he'd had a relationship with - he gets a freebee.  So what's gonna happen the next time he does this - 'cause you know he will.  Maybe not Rihanna - but whoever he's dating will feel that bastards fists, you can bet on it.  I know.  I've volunteered in women's shelters.  They always do it again.  Always.  An interdiction now might have made some kind of difference (jail time + counceling) - but all this tells little boy Brown is throw money at any situation and you can make it go away.

I think I'm gonna be sick. 

David Carradine – Suicide at 72 (2 Updates)

 

I met David Carradine during the 1976 Academy Awards.  His brother had just won the Oscar for best song (‘I’m Easy’ from the film 'Nashville').  The entire family was there - from old papa Carradine on down.  His father had even brought his own Oscar with.  There they were - something like 8 sons, all lined up, circling the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  Old man Carradine went up to everyone he could find, introducing his youngest son, shaking everyone's hand (his own gnarled from arthritis).  I’ve never seen a prouder man in all my life.  He was on fire – his arm around his son, comparing statuettes.  I actually got to touch an Oscar that night.  It was quite surreal.

David was there along with all the rest.  He stood a little off to the side.  Happy, yes; but not really participating.  I noticed he was a bit shorter than his brothers (definitely shorter than the old man).  I shook his hand too - told him I was a huge fan (I was).  Frankly – he and his father were the ones I was interested in.  I hadn’t liked 'Nashville' – and I thought the song sucked (sorry Keith).  David was a huge TV star.  ‘Kung Fu’ had been one of my favorite shows.  I appreciated the chance to tell him so.  He was quite gracious (as was the entire family).  I gushed, he smiled – then he lit a cigarette and moved off with the rest of the clan, maybe a step or two behind.  I wondered at that.  It was the look in his eyes – a look I was all too familiar with.  That look of not quite measuring up.  So I wondered whether or not David wanted it to be he who won the second family Oscar – not his younger brother.  Not envy mind – just a tinge of sad regret. 

Maybe I was wrong.  I’ll never know.  I am sad that he's gone.  He's the second person I met that night to commit suicide, by the way - Margot Hemingway being the other (she literally saved my ass that night).  How odd is that?

R.I.P. grasshopper.  You’ll always be Kwai Chang Caine to me.

 

***Note: I know old John only had 5 sons (I looked it up) - but there were more than 5 family members with him (as I remember).  It looked like a sea of tall, thin men in tuxedos.  I was overwhelmed by the sight.  No one in my family would have turned up like that for me.  I envied both David and Keith the love that support represented.

Update:  There's evidently some question as to whether Carradine committed suicide or not.  Auto-erotic suffocation (a la Michael Hutchence) is now a distinct possibility.   Whatever the truth - his family, friends and fans are devastated. 

 

Second Update: It looks like the FBI is getting involved upon request of the family. 

Disapproving Birdies

 

 

  

 

It seems rabbits aren’t the only disapproving creatures in the universe.  These baby birds look mighty pissed at something, if you ask me – especially Mr. Hunchback over there on the left.  I have no earthly idea why they disapprove so mightily (or at what).  Mommy and daddy bird provide loads of nice crunchy buggies (wasps seem to be especially tasty).  Even the accommodations could be considered roomy (for five baby birdlets, that is).  So what’s the beef?

 

Every spring I am treated to swallows nesting in my porch eaves.  They are always welcome - disapproving or not!

 

Terms of Service

I've posted this before.  It seemed relevant considering the day.

We owe our troops so very much.  Sometimes I wonder if it can ever be enough. 

When I was a little girl (in the early 1960's) there was a man from our neighborhood who spent all his time sitting on benches - usually waiting for busses he never seemed to get on.  He wore shabby clothes and blinked quite a lot.  Most of the children were afraid of him.  We were told he was suffering from something called 'shell shock' - though no one bothered to explain exactly what that was.  I knew it had to do with loud noises, however - because the crueler kids would sneak up behind him and set off firecrackers or shoot cap pistols just to see the poor sod jump and scream.

 

I thought it was a terrible thing to do.  Most of these kids were the local bullies.  I’d often been on the receiving end of their nastiness – so I sympathized with the man.  I was maybe 6 or 7 at the time (1^st and 2^nd grade) – so the thought of his being at all dangerous never even crossed my mind.  He just looked sad.  My child’s mind reasoned that all he needed was a friend to make him feel better (‘cause god knows that’s what I needed).  Well - one Saturday afternoon I screwed my courage to the sticking plate and sat down beside him on that bench.  He never moved, just stared out into space.  I had no idea what to say – so I told him all about the Mighty Mouse cartoon I’d seen on TV earlier that morning (I thought Mighty Mouse was so cool!).  He never spoke – never even acknowledged I was there – but I could tell he was listening.  Not many grown-ups ever listened to what I had to say.  It felt good – like I had a real friend.  After a while, I said my goodbyes, promising to visit him the very next Saturday.

 

And so began one of the oddest relationships of my life.  Nine am on a Saturday, rain or shine, he’d be there.  Waiting.  We never really spoke (to each other) – though there were times when he’d talk to himself – disjointed stuff about war and bombs and mud.  Things I wasn’t equipped to understand or deal with.  I only have snatches of those memories – but I remember telling him about the shell shock.  I thought it was some disease, you see – like mumps or the measles - that one day he could get better.  At least I think that’s what I told him – that one day he’d get better.  He got very quiet; then kinda nodded his head.  Then he began to cry.  I didn’t know what to do – so I went over to the Jack-in-the-Box and bought him some French fries (they cost a quarter in those days – my week’s allowance).  I patted his hand.   

 

I wasn’t always able to make it – though I tried.  Saturdays were big chore days around my house – I had lots to do before I could go out and play.  I tried to get everything done early – but sometimes I had to wait quite a while to get started.  My father drank heavily, you see - spending most Saturday mornings in the bathroom (or the hallway) getting sick.  I’d try and sneak out if I could – but that wasn’t always possible.  Also - my mother liked to go out on weekends.  Sunday was usually her big meet-n-greet day – but that depended on my father’s drinking.  The drunker he was Friday night – the earlier she wanted to get out Saturday morning.  It was her way of sticking it to him.  I remember one particular Saturday - driving by in my parent’s car (we were going to visit my aunt or some such).  The mans bench was on a busy corner, near a traffic light.  When we stopped for the light – I looked out the window right at him.  I was afraid to wave, afraid if my parents noticed they’d refuse to let me see him any more; which was what happened, in the end.  He looked right at me – right into my eyes.  As the car pulled away, I saw him get up and stumble away.  He’d been waiting, you see – for me.

 

I saw him there on and off for the next several years.  I’d finally been forbidden to talk to him, being found out whilst kipping 50 cents for a couple of Cokes.  I was afraid of what my parents would do to me if I got caught disobeying (retribution in my house was swift and devastating) – so I’d ride my bike on the other side of the street, hurrying by very fast, unable to look him in the eye - all the while feeing guilty as hell for abandoning him.  He never knew why I stopped coming by.  I’ve always regretted lacking the courage to defy my parents and just say something – but I was so afraid (I had good reason to be – alcoholics and drug addicts aren’t known for making sound parenting decisions).  It was terrible.  He’d just look at me with those big sad eyes, watching me ride by.  I felt like a criminal.  Then, one summer, he was just gone.  I’d gotten so used to seeing him there.  I learnt about his death from a local shopkeeper.  He’d died sitting on that bench, all alone.  I was told he was indeed a veteran – of WWI.  And it wasn’t just shell shock – he’d been gassed.  And now he was dead – he was dead, and I never even knew his name. 

 

And that’s all he earned after serving his country – a worn out bench with a six year-old child to keep company.  Well I say he deserved better.  They all do.  You know - every time I hear Paul McCartney’s The Fool on the Hill I think of that poor man sitting alone on his bench - waiting.  Here it is almost 50 years later – and nothing has changed.  Veterans still wait for someone to care – and they often do it alone.

Adam Lambert - Ray of Light (Updated)

Whole Lotta Love from The Adam Lambert Show on Vimeo.

A superstar was born last night – and like any star or comet streaking across the sky – there may only be a limited viewing opportunity.  Adam Lambert may have sung his last yesterday.  Not because he wasn’t all that and a bag of chips – ‘cause he was – but because America doesn’t seem to know what to do about it.  Vote, you’d think.  Make him the next American Idol.  It’s a competition – and Adam obviously outshines all the rest.  But that counts for naught here in Jesus land – where a Jewish, possibly gay, albeit heavenly performer is considered less because of it. 

So I fully expect to tune in tonight and learn America in all it’s homophobic faux religiosity has rejected Adams ray of light.  To hell with ‘em.  I got to see magic performed right before my very eyes.  Adam prowled the American Idol stage like a jungle cat – sinewy, svelte, beautiful.  He sang like the angel he is – draped in swirling black leather, kohl smeared eyes and snakeskin pants.  I was entranced.  Adam entrances.  Few singers are possessed of that magic - to hold your heart in the palm of their hand.  I cried with him on 'Change is Gonna Come'.  He reached through the TV screen and caught me up in his emotional connections.  I was shivering by the time he was done. 

 

That's the difference between Adam and everyone else (for me, at least).  He touches my soul in a very profound way.  I feel with him; and that's the mark of any great artist: eliciting emotion whilst experiencing their work.  The last time I saw the birth of this magnitude star – Madonna appeared.  Before her it was Elvis (before my time – but it’s easy to see in his early performances).  Both changed popular culture.  We see our world differently thanks to them.  Adam also possesses this elusive quality.  When asked - Madonna said she wanted to rule the world. Adams assault will be quieter, more respectful (as was Elvis, in the beginning) – but no less all-encompassing.

 

I am nigh unto positive that Kris Allen has won American Idol.  But he will have lost in the long run.  Unfortunately for him - Kris's victory will always have a mental asterisk by the title – and that’s not fair to a very nice, very capable, very talented young man. Maybe America will surprise me – and go for pure talent.  I doubt it – but who knows?  Stranger things have indeed happened.  Look who’s president.

Addendum: Well - I was right. Adam Lambert did not win American Idol. Even Kris Allen acknowledged that Adam should have won. Once again the evangelicals carry the day. Politics and religion have twisted what should have been a joyful singing contest. I am very sad for us all.

The New Republican Party Theme Song

 

I'm My Own Granpaw (With Diagrams!)

Courtesy Ray Stevens