Not-So-Final Thoughts on the Passing of Michael Jackson

I know I’m about three or four days late, but I have something to say about the passing of pop music’s most infamous performer.

I, like many, was stunned by the sudden revelation that the eccentric recluse was dead. I, like many, didn’t know how truly physically ill he was. I was immediately struck by the outpour of anguish and grief. People flocked to his rented LA home and wept and prayed and sobbed like he was family. Fans and fellow celebrities gushed to CNN and NBC about how the world had suffered a great and terrible loss, and about how they were shocked and horrified and in the throes of great sorrow. Millions flocked to Facebook and Twitter and claimed that they would have twins in his honor and name them “Michael” and “Jackson” – even if they were girls.

I understood the shock, for it’s almost always surprising when a celebrity – even a bizarre one with a tainted past – falls ill and dies mere hours afterwards. What bothered me the most at the time was how, in a matter of minutes, the media and public seemed to forget that, for the past 15 or so years, they’d wanted nothing to do with Michael Jackson.

Sure, mourners wanted to honor his enormous and immeasurable contribution to music. It’s very true that without MJ, there would be no JT (or at least not the JT we know and love). Still, it seemed slightly inappropriate that people would speak of a great loss when some of those same mourners had perhaps thought – maybe even just once – that the shattered, troubled soul that was Michael Jackson just wasn’t worth saving.

People had good reason to dislike him.

Once, he was a musical powerhouse, dancing and singing and producing hit after hit after hit. A phenomenally talented child, he evolved into a legendary pop star as a young man, releasing some of the most popular albums ever made. People forgave him his bejeweled jackets and outlandish possessions (he owned a monkey at one point). They dressed as him for Halloween and learned the Thriller dance and the moonwalk. Then, things started getting…weird.

He kissed his then-wife Lisa Marie Presley on stage and made people uncomfortable. His hair caught fire during a Pepsi promo and he screamed like a woman (that was a little big funny). He built the ostentatious and notorious Neverland Ranch. This ranch was a wildly expensive fantasy-land filled with roller coasters and candy and Peter Pan paraphernalia. It was just as much a present for himself as it was for the many children who came to visit. Oh, and who could forget the shocking physical transformation that turned a young black man into a white, practically faceless wax statue? It was stranger than any book or movie – and it was accompanied by allegations of child sexual abuse.

Interestingly enough, the other reaction to the news of Jackson’s death was gleeful indifference. Some people proclaimed that his death was a blessing, for he was nothing more than a child molester who managed to pay off his accusers. Though Jackson’s reputation will always be coloured by the terrible accusations – and his admitted conduct with children will always be known as inappropriate – no one will ever truly know if Jackson molested the two boys whose families pressed charges. While many can rightfully argue that Jackson had no right to sleep and bathe with children who were not his own, it cannot be said with certainly if his conduct was consciously criminal.

That said, where were those nearest and dearest to Jackson when his life turned – both literally and figuratively – into a circus? The media – who lamented his passing – was there through every step of Jackson’s bizarre journey into absolute madness, constantly documenting his unexplainable behavior. He was a joke, a spectacle, and a town fool. The world laughed at his public gaffes, and why wouldn’t it? Everything he did was ridiculous.

“Did you hear Michael Jackson came out to greet reporters wearing a surgical mask before dangling a baby over a balcony?”

“Yeah. He’s fucked up.”

The once wildly revered pop star blew his massive fortune on garish sculptures and paintings, and commissioned numerous wax statues of himself. I suspect Jackson spent a lot of time worshipping the person he once was and would never be again.

Now people are wondering who is to blame for his sudden death. Was it the doctor who prescribed too many painkillers? The media who made fun of him for amputating his own face?

No, perhaps the blame lies with those closest to him. Maybe it belongs to his abusive father and stupid mother, who treated him like a commodity and not a child. Maybe it belongs to the producers who treated a talented little boy like a full-grown adult and denied him genuine and necessary lessons in growth. Jackson seemingly grew up believing he was special (and he was), and he never learned that one cannot live on fantasy alone. People are fickle, and they can stop loving you. Money doesn’t grow on Peter Pan fairy-trees, what goes out must come in. Perhaps the media and public should turn an accusing eye on Jackson’s close friends and family who, throughout the years, never tried hard enough to get him the help he so desperately needed.

It seems that when Jackson realized that the world wasn’t filled with talking trees and friendly chimps and an endless supply of money, he was hit hard. He didn’t turn to drugs and sex and alcohol in the traditional rockstar way, he just went batshit crazy. He lost his mind and befriended various children, sequestering himself in his own private Disney world where every day was filled with ice cream and dinosaurs and hot air balloons.

Mourning fans have extended their condolences to Jackson’s family, but perhaps they don’t deserve the sympathy – his selfish and mercenary parents certainly don’t. During his lifetime Jackson failed a lot of people, but a lot of people failed him too. Fame hasn’t always been kind to children, and few emerge from the bright lights of Hollywood indulgence unscathed. When Jackson went from being eccentric to blatantly mentally ill, those closest to him should, perhaps, have done more. Maybe they did try, but really, we’ll never know.

It’s odd that some people are saying that his death is a tragedy. The last two decades of his life have been a tragedy, and this is merely a sad ending to what had already become a very sad story.

Some are calling for the blood of Jackson’s live-in physician, who many believe to have been responsible for his untimely death. Maybe – and this will sound like a terrible thing to say – Jackson’s doctor was merely being merciful. This world didn’t have much to offer Jackson anymore, and maybe he (Jackson) knew that. Now, he’s free to enjoy the ice cream, dinosaurs and hot air balloons elsewhere. No one will point and laugh at his weird nose ever again.

So, It’s Been Awhile…

Those of you who check this defunct collection of ramblings have likely given up on me.  I don’t blame you, I’ve been gone awhile.  Six or seven months, give or take.  I haven’t been terribly busy, just terribly uninspired.  

I’m torn on the concept of blogging.  I like it, and I like doing it, but sometimes I just don’t feel like it.  I try to talk about greater issues, so as to interest a greater number of people.  No one wants to hear about my mom or my homework or my dwindling bank account.  People might want to hear about my scandalous sexual escapades and wild fantasies, but I feel weird sharing them because a lot of people who read this would know who I’m talking about.  Sharing that sort of thing would be rude, and in poor taste.  That said, I can still say things that are in poor taste.  So here is a random collection of my most obnoxious opinions.

But before that, I should welcome 2009 to…Earth.  

I had a good 2008.  It had its sad moments and unhappy hours.  It had its tears, but it had many, many joys.  On a serious note, I can honestly say that this was one of the best years of my life.  I learned so much, and accomplished things (little things, but things nonetheless).  I outgrew some bad habits and developed some good ones (and a few more bad ones, perhaps).  I met an incredible guy, and made many new and wonderful friends.  I may have lost some too, and I won’t forget that either.  

I lost that 15 pounds I’d be whining about since high school, I got over a startling personal disappointment, and I went back to school.  I wasn’t always in the best of moods, but I was in the best of places.  I spent 2007 nursing disappointments and grievances, and 2008 made up for all of it.  I can only hope that this year as good as the last.

Here’s to good times, good friends, good memories, and great loves.  

As for my obnoxious opinions, here they be:

I hate people with dumb “artistic” opinions.  These people tend to be young, but they can be old.  They can even be me, at times, but hopefully not often.

While traveling on a streetcar back in October, I heard two 15-ish year old girls talking about Hedley.  They were discussing that, “we’re putting out fires and changing car tires” song – things no members of Hedley do or will likely do…ever.  The great top 40 summer hit about being a working stiff reminiscing about high school, it seems, is deeper than meets the…ear.

“I don’t really like the song that much,” said one girl, “but, like, I really like the message, you know?”

No, I don’t know.  There is no “message” in that song.  None.  It’s about nothing.  

None of the members of Hedley are old enough to mourn their youth, and I’d wager that their lives now are far better than the ones they led in high school.  Oh, and they don’t put out fires, nor would they likely have to change their own tires.  

Onto Barack Obama…

I like Obama.  I was glad when he won.  In fact, I was overjoyed.  You don’t need to be American to celebrate this change in American political winds.  He’s young, he’s black, he’s charismatic, he’s eloquent, he’s interesting.  

He hasn’t given anyone reason to believe that he’s a communist, fascist, dictator, child molester, satanist or, as Jon Stewart said, witch.  He’s not even particularly revolutionary as far as American politics go.  He has a relatively socially liberal voting record, but social liberalism isn’t viewed by most first-world nations as all that radical.  A lot of countries pay no mind to abortion and gay marriage, and those countries haven’t been struck by God-sent meteors, nor have they been swallowed up by hell.  I bet you $2 that they won’t be (I’d bet more, but I’m broke, and broke people must be frugal).  

He said, “spread the wealth,” not, “impose upon the people a system that will guarantee no one makes more than $10 an hour, regardless of whether or not he/she sells coffee or operates on hearts.”  

Are these people serious?  Honestly?

I suspect that those who deal with little oppression crave it, just so they can protest and feel heroic – Like Sean Penn or Clint Eastwood.  I’d almost be willing to bet a sum larger than $2 that should real war, violence and oppression settle on North American soil, all of those nationalists would flee, if possible, to the libertine cesspool across the Atlantic.  

Also, that study that linked sexy TV shows to teen pregnancies?

No, the correlation between such things needs to be examined more closely, and other factors need to be taken into account.  The most damning argument is the fact that the teen pregnancy rate in the Netherlands is 5 per 1000, while the United States boasts a 50 per 1000 rate.  The Netherlands is home to the city of Amsterdam, a tourist hotspot with legal brothels, live sex shows, and stores that sell the most disgusting and horrific pornography ever made (women with horses, horses with men, women with armed rapists, women with open wounds, etc).  

Why the disparity?  If a sex-saturated culture guaranteed young parenthood, why aren’t European countries overrun with teenage mothers?  

Because people aren’t as uptight about sex.  They don’t shriek about the dangers of comprehensive sex-ed (which does not include teaching five year olds how to give blowjobs, trust me), they don’t call bare breasts “obscene,” and they don’t promote puritanical values while using erotic ads to entice people to buy drain cleaner.  The hypocritical disconnect between actions and theories, and the denial of the importance of supplying teens with adequate knowledge of contraceptive options leads to teen pregnancies.  Let’s not blame HBO.  

Speaking of pop culture, here’s my take on quality entertainment:

Good TV shows:  I’m flighty about TV, I have a hard time committing to shows.  However, my favourites for this year were True Blood and Summer Heights High.  One’s a vampire drama (one with hot and graphic sex scenes) and the other a hysterical satire of life at an Australian high school.  It’s not as over-the-top as it seems, and that’s what’s great about it.  Everyone has met a Ja’mie or two…or three.  

I don’t have much to say about movies, but I will say that this year re-invigorated my interest in literature.  I read a lot, which was nice.  I didn’t read much upon graduating from university, probably because I was temporarily tired of learning.  My favourite book(s)?

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen.  An entertaining and engaging look at circus life during the Great Depression.  It has cliche dramatic elements – an affair, a cruel husband, a gang of tough workers hailing from the school of hard knocks, betrayal, suspense, etc.  It also has insight into an exciting industry struggling to thrive during tough times, and those who survived and those who did not (and those who did not deserve to).  

As Forrest Gump would say, that’s all I have to say about that.

Enjoy the New Year, everyone.

I Wanna Make it Wit’chu!

This is not a conservative post, though it will seem that way at first. 

A few days ago (or perhaps a few weeks ago, I can’t be sure) my brother, normally a fan of horrendous death metal (horrendous to me, at least), started singing the praises of Lil’ Wayne.  I wasn’t totally surprised, as he’s been partial to hip-hop before.  His description of the music?  

“It’s jokes.”

Being too lazy to download Pop Bottles myself, I listened to it on his computer.  It’s not an exceptional song, but it contains an outstanding line(s).

 “Okay, start with straight shots and then pop bottles,
Pour it on the models,
Shut up bitch, swallow,
If you can’t swallow,
Shut up bitch, gargle.”

The visual of someone gargling anything (and in this case, Mr. Wayne may be referring to semen) is off-putting in and of itself.  Gargling isn’t a particularly sexy act, for it neither looks nor sounds pleasant.  It’s usually done to rid one’s mouth of unwanted bacteria.

However, hearing that line got me thinking about other unpleasant – and by “unpleasant” I mean “decidedly unsexy” – lyrics in hip-hop and pop songs. 

Look, here, at this erotic collection of steamy words penned by Oscar winning musical geniuses 3-6 Mafia:

“Slob on my knob Like corn on the cob,
Check in with me and do your job,

 Lay on the bed and give me head,
Don’t have to ask don’t have to beg

 Juicy is my name, sex is my game
Let’s call the boys, let’s run a train

 Squeeze on my nuts, lick on my
butt.”

I don’t think a eating corn on the cob – an activity done during casual dinners and my family’s annual Father’s Day BBQ – is an adequate comparison to a blowjob.  Mainly because most civilized people don’t “slob” on their corn, but rather bite it with vigor and enthusiasm (something that shouldn’t be done during oral sex). 

The rest of the chorus compliments the crass and laughably bad first line.  Run a train?  Isn’t that illegal in most instances?  Is this a consensual train-running?  Or a Showgirl’s style train-running? Regardless, it’s not “hot.”

Hearing that line reminded me of a popular Lil’ John (the rapper who always screams YEEEEEAHHHH) song that contained the line:

“Til’ the sweat drops down my balls.”

Sweaty balls.  Nice.

It would seem that some sexually suggestive lyrics fail at being both sexy and suggestive.  They instead opt to be crass, overt, and – as my brother said – “jokes.”  Perhaps this is done purposely, but regardless, it seems unnecessary. 

I enjoy a sexually-charged song, and I don’t shy away from explicit content.  In fact, I often embrace it.  Sex can be reduced to something raw and animalistic in a musical context.  It need not be constantly presented as something elegant and softly romantic.  However, it doesn’t have to be made into something inherently dirty, either.  The lyrics don’t have to allude to spit and sweat, nor do they need to include lewd metaphors that only vaguely apply to the acts being discussed.

Artists have the freedom to be explicit, but some can’t – and don’t – pull it off well.  When did subtlety become overrated?  When did creativity fall to the wayside?  When did songs about sex turn into songs about gargling and eating corn? 

A sexy song is, I believe, only sexy if you can imagine yourself having sex to it.  Corn on the cob has never been an aphrodisiac for me, nor has the word “slob.”  “Slob” is something that comes out a dog’s mouth when he’s chewing a dentabone.  Ball sweat has never whipped me into a sensual frenzy.  To be fair, I’m sure the term “pussy sweat” would make most men recoil in disgust.  You don’t need to be flowery in your descriptions of natural bodily functions, but you can try to be tasteful. 

People have lost touch with sexiness.  Justin Timberlake, I fear, has not brought it back (though he’s right in claiming that it left). 

People took the ball of openness and artistic freedom and ran too far out of bounds with it.  They didn’t appreciate the power and privilege, and infused their lyrical creations with juvenile and obscene descriptions of generally desirable erotic activities. 

In layman’s terms:  Some of these contemporary boundary-pushing “poets” have ruined sex for me (and others, I’d imagine).  Nothing quashes desire faster than a overt referral to gurgling or slobbering.

Now, to be fair and gender-inclusive, male rappers aren’t solely responsible for destroying and defacing human sexuality.

Kia asked men to lick:

“My neck,

My back,

My pussy,

and my crack.”

She lost at me at, “crack.”  An unsexy word, to be sure.  It kind of, I don’t know, takes the mystique out of things.

A few short years ago, songs by Genuwine and LL Cool J were considered relatively raunchy.  They were overtly suggestive, yes, but raunchy?  Not really – at least, not by today’s disgraceful standards.

“Pony” and “Doin’ It” are probably still on people’s Sex Songs playlists.  They have a certain thrust-friendly rhythm to them, and the lyrics serve to compliment the beat.  Granted, “Pony” contains some giggle-worthy lyrics.  However, because it makes an effort to be edgy and raw (not repulsive), it can get away with silly lines like:

“You’re hor-nay, lets doooo it.”

And:

“My saddle, is waiting,

Come and, jump on it.”

The difference between hot songs and repugnant ones? 

Intent.

Do you want to arouse, or shock and horrify?  If your goal is to come up with the dirtiest, most pornographic metaphor, your intent is to elicit gasps and raised eyebrows (accompanied by covered mouths).  Writing about sweat and slobber is akin to writing about diarrhea – daring, but not necessarily commendable.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Being realistic about your exploitative (and perhaps misogynistic) view of sex doesn’t do listeners any favours. 

It signifies the creation of one more song that makes people think – for two to three minutes – that sex just isn’t all that sexy. 

 

“There’s a feeling I get, when I look to the west…”

That title has no real relevance to this post, I just heard Stairway to Heaven in the car today.  It’s not a song I often hear while driving, mostly because it’s old.  It’s classic, yes, but it doesn’t get a great deal of airplay.

It seems to me that current rock music, though occasionally soulful in its own right, is lacking the abstract passion of the songs of decades past.  It’s not all bad, nor is it all shallow, but it’s not as…prolific, dare I say?  It doesn’t contain as many long guitar solos and abstract allusions to metaphors you’d find in romantic era poetry. 

 I have no idea what Stairway to Heaven is about.  I don’t know what feeling I should get  when I look to the west.  I don’t know why there’s a lady standing on the road that I’m supposed to wind down on.  I don’t need to know to appreciate the song - and it’s a song I appreciate on more than an auditory level.  I’m a fan of most catchy beats, but they don’t hold any long-term fascination for me.   Stairway does, and I wasn’t even alive in the 70s. 

I suppose this entry’s title is relevant  . 

When I started this blog, I promised myself that I’d try to write once a week.  However, I’m not one to talk about my day.  Trust me, you don’t want to hear about it.  Almost every blog turns into an essay, albeit an “I” essay.  One occassionally laced with tasteful profanity – yes, profanity can be tasteful. 

One thing I’ve noticed is that most of this site’s hits come from people sifting through entries with sex tags.  I don’t judge, I do the same thing.  If I see a tag that says “anal sex”, I click – even though I’m not all that interested in rectal intercourse myself. 

So on an inappropriately sexual/mildly political/deeply controversial note, allow me talk about drunk sex - or rather sex had while a woman is drunk.

Some friends bought me The Guide to Getting it On for my birthday.  It’s a book about, yes, getting it on.  It’s long, intelligent, helpful, open-minded and appealing.  It touches on every subject associated with sexuality – kink, fetish, porn, biology, society, psychology and assault and abuse. 

Sexual assault and abuse are serious subjects.  They’ve been very real realities for an astounding number of people, male and female alike.  However, it would be unrealistic to say that adult men are at as great a risk of sexual battery and assault as adult women. 

The Guide is sympathetic towards victims, and rightfully so.  However, it declares women who have had sex under the influence of alcohol – willingly and enthusiastically – as much of victims as survivors of short and long-term sexual abuse.

That’s absurd.

If a woman consumes alcohol willingly, she’s made an adult decision.  If she chooses to leave with a man and proceed to have (or perhaps even initiate) sex with him, she’s made a choice, albeit one spurred on by imbibing potent liquids.  If her drink was drugged, or her protests to “just kiss/cuddle/sleep” etc were ignored, then yes, she was raped. 

However, if she consented to sex, she consented to sex.  Perhaps its sex she’ll regret, but her regret and embarrassment is less serious (and life-altering) than his potential imprisonment and life on a sex offender’s registry. 

Also, the book mentions that it’s a man’s – and only a man’s – responsibility to determine the extent of sexual activity when the woman has had more than one drink.  It is his duty, drunk or not, to err on the side of caution and refuse the woman’s advances.  This is a noble principle in theory.  However, in a situation where sex seems evident, it’s hard for some people (male and female, drunk and sober) to cease activity that is, in fact, consensual. 

And to be fair, some women get drunk in order to feel more comfortable initiating sex.  It’s common to consume at least a few drinks with a date/partner/fuck buddy/whathaveyou on any given evening.  Consuming some alcohol – even a lot of it – does not render most people immobile or unconscious (that said, no one has any right to initiate sex with someone who has blacked out).  It lowers ones inhibitions and leads to hasty decisions, yes, but it’s drank with those effects in mind. 

It is true that sleeping with a person far drunker than yourself could constitute you taking advantage of another’s altered state.  However, there is a difference between taking advantage of someone and brutally, maliciously assaulting them.  It’s not necessarily right and/or ethical to desire a woman simply because she’s drink and therefore more likely to engage in sexual activity.  But as long as that woman participates, willingly, in sexual intercourse, no legal recourse should follow the events of the evening. 

Yes, being used can leave one feeling vulnerable and upset, but these are feelings from which can gain some degree of wisdom.  But it’s not fair to have a man arrested for having sex with a conscious woman who said, “yes”, just as it would be unfair to prosecute a woman for having sex with an intoxicated but conscious man who said, “yes.” 

Just as you can’t blame a beer company for making you run naked through a suburban park at 2 am, you can’t blame a horny partner for your feelings of regret following a night of voluntary drinking and fucking. 

I’ve had sex while drunk.  I’ve had sex while very, very drunk.  I’ve felt compelled to do and say things during drunk sex that I might not do or say during sober sex.  However, I’d never dare accuse any of my partners of anything close to rape or sexual assault.  I’d expect actual rape/sexual assault victims to loathe me if I did.

Anyone can put down a bottle and go home at any time.  You know before you buy that drink exactly how you’re going to feel at the end of the night. 

Better to be the one experiencing a little morning-after embarrassment than two to 10 years in prison. 

Dickipedia, and Other Assorted Discourse

First off, here’s a website you all must see:

 http://dickipedia.org/index.php?title=Main_Page

It’s a small but poingnant listing of dicks, or rather men (and only men at this point, but that could change) who embody dickish qualities.  My favourite entry is probably Bill O’Reilly’s, mostly for its mention of his sexual fixation on loofahs (or “felafel’s”). 

Actually, if you’re not made too uncomfortable by transcripts of unwanted sexual advances made over the phone, search for Papa Bear on The Smoking Gun.  

The man who believes sexual immorality to be a scourge on America harasses female employees with awkward references to vibrators, “spectacular boobs”, and food inserted into incorrect orifices.

Actually, with the various outings of various “moral” persons, one is led to question whether a declaration of purity is an ironic way of saying, “I’m into shit you haven’t even heard of.”

On a less sexual/judgmental note, I have a confession to make.

I saw No Country for Old Men and did not enjoy it. 

Every once in awhile, a movie comes along that drives people wild – in a good way.  They declare it a masterpiece, a beautiful example of fine and intelligent cinema.  A profound display of artistry and brilliance.  No Country for Old Men is one of these films – and I did not like it.

Honestly, I thought it was boring.  I realize that the Coen brothers were going for understated and intense, and they succeeded.  The film is both of those things.  It’s also unbearably slow.  The more it meandered, the less I cared about the sluggish characters it trailed for two agonizing hours.  Watching the film was akin to be pulled, slowly, in a very old wagon attached to a very old horse clomping down a very long and narrow dirt road. 

The film contains clever (and in some cases, memorable) dialogue.  It feels natural, despite the fact that it was likely constructed carefully and diligently.  It’s the kind of dialogue that most (or perhaps all) screenwriters want to master.  It’s terse, laconic, and meaningful in a subtle kind of way.  It conveys, successfully, the fictitious thoughts of fictitious men who are vastly different from most fictitious action/western heroes and villains.  They’re hardened and eccentric people, but not pseudo-masculine like the Dirty Harry’s of old.

The preview had me at, “what’s the most you ever lost in a coin toss.”  Unfortunately, the movie itself lost me early on.

I will say this much, Javier Bardem’s performance is as good as his dancing is poor:

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4155/is_20050202/ai_n9504897

As far as entertainment goes, I highly recommend the unique rock/electronica music of Holy Fuck.  It’s all instrumental, and it’s all fabulous.  It’s sexy, in a soul-freeing kind of way.  It’s the kind of music that makes you want to embrace public nudity and celebrate the art of unpolished, spiritually-soothing-yet-wildly-awkward dancing.  It’s arousing in the same way a smart-but-kinda-ugly person is arousing.  I deeply love its soul.