Who's Bad?

Written by Miranda Vidak

7/2/200917 min read

A surreal, surreal day.

Don’t know what to make of it, still. I just honestly don’t even know what to write about today. What can I write? What is it to say?

Michael Jackson just died.

I can’t even digest that sentence. It just looks wrong. Wrong isn’t the word even, it doesn’t look anything. It just doesn’t look at all. Those words are just not going together, why would anybody say that, or write that?

I sat down to write what I feel about the whole thing, and I just can’t. What poetic justice can you put down in words to justify the like of Michael Jackson?

Nothing I can say sounds gratifying enough. An Icon? A King? A Legend? It just doesn’t sound satiable enough. But why this specific death means more to me than some other death that also crumbled my world, is the fact this is the first time I was at the place where it happened.

Every time someone famous I loved died, someone that defined my childhood, or teen-dom, I always heard about it on TV or read about it. I remember the same scenario — watching television around the clock, sucking up all the info I could get, not sleeping for a minute in order not to miss anything, watching the stretcher carrying out the body that circumscribed my life; as if that piece of my life was being carried away with the body.

At those prodigious times, I also remember calling my friends frantically, the ones that happened to be where it happened, pestering them with all the questions that I could come up with, as if knowing every single detail is going to make it all feel better.

This time, it was the most surreal day. I was there. I live 10 mins away from the house he died in. First, I woke up with the news that Farrah died. Terrible news, but Farrah Fawcett was an icon of another generation, not so much mine; I knew a lot about her, but I just didn’t feel that death, other than being sad for this lovely lady.

Then I left the house and went to the bank, realized one of the bankers is my neighbor, chatted with him, laughed, gossiped about all the other tenants we don’t like, laughed some more, and left. Finished some other chores, came back to my bank again, waited in line to make a deposit, when my banker/neighbor approaches me from the back and says:

Did you hear? I just found out, it's still unofficial”. And I say: “Yeah, I know, I heard this morning, terrible news”. And he goes: “You couldn’t hear this morning, because now it’s 2 o’clock, and I just heard it, it’s not even official, someone from the Fire Department just leaked it”. And I say: “Well I did hear this morning that Farrah died, I don’t know what to tell you”. And he goes: “No, not Farrah, that was this morning, but Michael Jackson…Michael Jackson JUST died”…

Come again?

“Michael Jackson just died”.

“Sorry, got to go back to work”.

The City of Los Angeles in the next couple of minutes, hours was just indescribable. The most surreal atmosphere. Almost instantly, before it was even official, people were whispering on the streets. Almost instantly, the MJ music was played from just about every car passing by, every store, every house. It wasn’t even official yet.

That’s Hollywood, right then and there. One of the Fire Dept guys that drove MJ from his house to the hospital, just told someone right away, before it was even official, and the word spread out like a damn plague.

I was driving down Beverly Blvd with my boyfriend, both of us abashed, when the calls started to pour in. Managers, agents, publicists, all the Hollywood people were just perplexed — “O my god, did you guys hear, I just heard, did you hear?”.

Literally, it was minutes, and everybody knew already.

Sadness is not even the word. I don’t have to tell you, you felt the same. Just, being so close to it, it was that much more spellbound. I felt as if being at the place where it happened, being at the ground zero would somehow make me feel like I have some control over the sadness.

I was supposed to do something else that afternoon, and I couldn’t. If he died 10 minutes from my house, I, for once want to be where it happened, as if I wanted to grab a piece of his soul, before it migrates somewhere else.

In all my affliction, I did feel good about something. I felt good about the city of LA. The same city that often shows attributes I can’t quite fathom, on this day, the city was just amazing. People dropped the act for one day and showed a genuine colossal sadness everywhere you turned.

There was something so particular about Los Angelinos’ exigency and determination to follow Michael through every last stop his body will take as if saying goodbye is simply just unacceptable. Everyone was on the same page, we will follow him.

People came to his house in Bel Air, then went to UCLA Medical Center where he died, then they moved to the morgue in Boyle Heights, and just stayed there all night as if they wanted to guard his body and his soul.

I wanted to be where he died. Even though they say he might have even died in his house, I wanted to be where he was presumed dead. I didn’t want to listen to the news just jet, I didn’t want to make sense out of it just yet, I didn’t want to know what exactly happened, I just wanted to be where he was going to be last, as if that fixes anything.

As if that is going to make it better.

The UCLA Medical Center looked like it was under siege. Million news trucks, helicopters flying above, news reporters talking in million different languages, Jermaine Jackson going in and out of the hospital crying, it was just surreal.

I will never forget all those hordes of people. Thousands of people. Everybody walking out of work, doctor's office, grocery stores; whatever they were doing at the time, and just came.

Everybody’s faces. Crying. Confusion. Disbelief. Anger. The grief later exceeded to dance, the Moonwalk face-offs, the singing, and some kind of strange comradeship.

The crowd was at the hospital for about 5–6 hours, nobody was moving, nobody was leaving; everybody was waiting for his body to be taken out from the hospital and put into a helicopter that was supposed to take him to a morgue in Downtown LA. It seemed like everyone was waiting to be absolutely positively sure he died.

The thought of Michael Jackson dying, as unthinkable, was something every single person out there had in common. Nobody wanted to let go. As if he’s taking a piece of everyone’s life with him.

My feelings transitioned from mad and confused, kind of lethargic even, to some strange solitude, as if I felt he might be relieved now from all the pressures, and all the gossip that plagued all his life.

Solitude mixed with anger. Why am I so mad? Did I expect he’s never going to die? Did I think Michael Jackson could never die?

Some Swedish reporter snapped me out of my thoughts when she approached us outside of UCLA with a question — “What did MJ and his music mean to you?”. I pulled myself together for a few seconds to give her a coherent answer, and realized — it wasn’t just the fact I listened to Michael Jackson’s music since I know my own name, it wasn’t just the fact that Pop music makes me feel unbelievably joyful and his songs are the greatest ones side by side with The Beatles; it’s the fact that for me, Michael Jackson is THE personification and the embodiment of America.

Ever since I was very young, I was obsessed with American Pop Culture. I was extremely Americanized, I absorbed everything that came from the US — the music, movies, magazines, tv-shows — just about everything.

I moved to States when I was about 20, but ever since I was 12–13 I dreamt about living here one day; and when I was 15 I learned the exact way TuPac was talking, I learned all about rap wars between East and West, I knew the names of every single actor/actress, singers, groups of the ’80s and ’90s, and knew the lyrics of every song, I remembered all the lines from my favorite movies, yeah, you could tell I was a bit obsessed.

America was more than a dreamland for me, it was the way of life. There are 6 people that are the embodiment of America, in my opinion.

Michael Jackson, Cindy Crawford, Johnny Depp, Brooke Shields, Madonna, and Michael Jordan. They were not just embodiments, they were the visualization of America for me. Michael with Billie Jean and Thriller, Cindy in House Of Style, Johnny in 21 Jump Street, Brooke in Blue Lagoon, Madonna with Like a Prayer, and Jordan in Bulls; these people didn’t just circumscribe my early youth, but they become the symbols of where I wanted to exist.

The crowd was at the hospital for about 5–6 hours, nobody was moving, nobody was leaving; everybody was waiting for his body to be taken out from the hospital and put into a helicopter that was supposed to take him to a morgue in Downtown LA. It seemed like everyone was waiting to be absolutely positively sure he died.

The thought of Michael Jackson dying, as unthinkable, was something every single person out there had in common. Nobody wanted to let go. As if he’s taking a piece of everyone’s life with him.

My feelings transitioned from mad and confused, kind of lethargic even, to some strange solitude, as if I felt he might be relieved now from all the pressures, and all the gossip that plagued all his life.

Solitude mixed with anger. Why am I so mad? Did I expect he’s never going to die? Did I think Michael Jackson could never die?

Some Swedish reporter snapped me out of my thoughts when she approached us outside of UCLA with a question — “What did MJ and his music mean to you?”. I pulled myself together for a few seconds to give her a coherent answer, and realized — it wasn’t just the fact I listened to Michael Jackson’s music since I know my own name, it wasn’t just the fact that Pop music makes me feel unbelievably joyful and his songs are the greatest ones side by side with The Beatles; it’s the fact that for me, Michael Jackson is THE personification and the embodiment of America.

Ever since I was very young, I was obsessed with American Pop Culture. I was extremely Americanized, I absorbed everything that came from the US — the music, movies, magazines, tv-shows — just about everything.

I moved to States when I was about 20, but ever since I was 12–13 I dreamt about living here one day; and when I was 15 I learned the exact way TuPac was talking, I learned all about rap wars between East and West, I knew the names of every single actor/actress, singers, groups of the ’80s and ’90s, and knew the lyrics of every song, I remembered all the lines from my favorite movies, yeah, you could tell I was a bit obsessed.

America was more than a dreamland for me, it was the way of life. There are 6 people that are the embodiment of America, in my opinion.

Michael Jackson, Cindy Crawford, Johnny Depp, Brooke Shields, Madonna, and Michael Jordan. They were not just embodiments, they were the visualization of America for me. Michael with Billie Jean and Thriller, Cindy in House Of Style, Johnny in 21 Jump Street, Brooke in Blue Lagoon, Madonna with Like a Prayer, and Jordan in Bulls; these people didn’t just circumscribe my early youth, they become the symbols of where I wanted to exist.

But Michael Jackson was the most particular one — the one that looked mesmerizing to me, sounded like something out of this world, moved literally like something out of this world, and just was someone that made me feel other-worldly.

But disastrously, too bad he was also an embodiment of another part of America, or better yet say Hollywood, that I do not like. The one with a tendency for pill-popping.

How could he be so reckless? Didn’t he know just how much he means to us? I choose to forget the latter. I don’t want to listen to any noise.

I choose to remember how he made me feel.--

I’m desperately trying not to write about this anymore. I’m trying to stay away from all the circus surrounding MJ’s death; this guy deserves peace at last. But I can not seem to stay away and not be furious with all the news reports popping out after his departure.

Yes, the whole planet thinks Michael Jackson was weird. Got it. But after seeing all his friends, acquaintances, family members, doctors, gurus, and numerous other idiots in his close circle talk so much nonsense, it makes you wonder; how did this guy even live to be 50?

How could he be normal with that kind of surrounding? It’s simply unbelievable what’s going on in the aftermath of his death. I’m trying to round up his life and legacy, and it just makes me sad, how terribly his life unraveled and — ended.

I’m trying to find some sense. It’s not just that he died, it’s HOW he died. How can this not make you furious?! Everyone just keeps repeating how sad and tragic his life was; how could it not be, with everybody around him constantly taking stabs at him? And he just took it and took it.

And now that he died, is there one godamn person in his circle that can step up and do him some justice? Everybody just keeps going with the same rhythm as while he was alive; shitting, trashing, and not calling up those who took part in his demise. Why would we call anyone out? Why would we know the truth? It’s easier than ever now that he’s dead, we can just conclude he’s weird, he died because he’s a freak, and close up shop, right?

There are people who, directly, with their actions, helped destroy a life of such an extraordinary talent, and somebody’s just going to cover it all up?

His life was not tragic, tragic were all the leaches around him, and what’s deplorable is that those who contributed to his demise can’t even step forward and do this man some justice.

Idiotic “friends” around him that did nothing to protect him. Some members of his family that can‘t even shed one tear for the son and a brother that’s been feeding them all their lives.

Media that deliberately destroyed him because he dared to give them just his art, and not his private life. Random useless strangers that ruined his life, his reputation, and crushed his soul by taking advantage of his kindness.

“Business partners” who used his passiveness to feed off of him. You name it, they had a bite. Can we at least, the public and fans — have the decency to not judge, but try to understand, doubt what’s been served to us, and demand to know the truth?

It seems to me, we aren’t supposed to get the truth.

Does this man who never complained about anything and just took punch after punch after punch, at least deserve the truth?

Media, you that made enormous profits over 5 decades ruining this guy’s life, can you at least give something back to him in death and investigate what really happened here? Can you investigate, but really investigate this time, everything that is attempted to be covered up; and just lay it out for the people who actually care?

Why are you taking a step back, why are you not challenging bits and pieces that don’t make any sense in this story? You were quick to dig into his private life, now dig into the lives of the ones that ruined his life! Isn’t that as profitable, almost as much as him?

There are so many things that aren’t making any sense here. There are so many things that are wrong surrounding MJ’s life; it almost makes his strange behavior somewhat intelligible.

People always say no one is going to help you unless you help yourself. Strength is important in life, but so is vulnerability! Sensitivity is often what people say will diminish you, but it’s what actually makes you even stronger if you have adequate support from people/family around you.

Even in his death, he can’t have a fair share. All of his friends are crawling out with a story now, a line, an advice they had for him; everybody knew what was going on, but nobody did anything. All his friends come out with the same crap: “He was taking all bunch of pills, you know….”; why are you saying it now? Why didn’t you say it to him, when there was still time?

Why didn’t you do something about it then?

And his family is even worse.

First, his idiot of a father goes to the BET Awards held in his son’s honor; he sits in the first row, laughs the whole time, gets up and dances from time to time, and then goes to the after-party! When approached by CNN’s reporter asking him how he feels, he simply responds:

“Great, I feel great.”

You feel great?

The confused reporter looking at him abashed, asking again: “Hmmm. Anything else? I mean you know, your son just died…”, and Joe Jackson says — “Yeah, you know, the world’s greatest entertainer just died, and you know how it is…., hey Marvin (or whatever his name was, I was too stunned to pick it up)….Marvin, come here, tell him what we do…, we just opened a new Record Company, you know, what’s the name of the company, Marvin, Marvin, tell ‘im….”.

Hey, Joe, your son just died, but it’s cool, promote your shady business, loser. Did the media call up on the old fart other than mentioning how he was “a bit strange”? No.

Then Jermaine Jackson meets Larry King in Neverland today, and Larry asks him — “ Are you sad being here, do you feel terrible?”, and loser 2.0 answers — “No, you know, I feel joyful, I feel his spirit….”

Larry — “How did you find out your brother died, was that shocking for you?”, Jermaine — “Well, Larry, I heard from you guys, you guys called me, CNN, ha ha ha…you know, that was funny, yeah it was a shock, and I had to drive all the way to another part of town….”

Larry — “Well, Jermaine, do you want to know what happened, why did your brother die?”

Jermaine — “Larry, you know, it doesn’t matter now, you know, I mean I feel his spirit, and I’m joyful…”

Larry — “Yes I understand, but maybe there was something inappropriate that happened, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Jermaine — “Larry I feel wonderful here at Neverland, I feel joyful.”

A brain has left the fuckin’ building.

Did anyone call up on Jermaine? Did Larry King maybe say — “Hey, what’s going on with you asshole, can’t you mourn your freaking brother for 2 seconds”?

Nah. Yeah, I know, Larry’s old school, but hey, if anybody could have done it, Larry could. It’s not like CNN is going to fire him, or anything.

Listen, maybe I’m subjective, after all, MJ was my first virtual loverboy, when I was about 13 years old and saw his ‘Dirty Diana’ video, I could not sleep for days, I watched it over and over relentlessly — and thought he has to be the most beautiful boy in all the world. I am subjective. But this is not about my pubescent sexuality, discovered by watching MJ crawling on stage in tight leather pants that surely needed oil to put on, imagining it must have been fucking cool to be that goddamn Diana.

It’s about fairness, and the fact everybody deserves it, whatever you might think about their ruined face. It’s his face, he can do whatever he wants with it. Is he fucking up your face?

They say extremely talented people always have a huge number of untalented, uninteresting, and trivial people around them at all times — as if they want to be associated with greatness,  to compensate for the lack of theirs , while secretly they despising the person and the talent they possess. In Michael Jackson’s case, his genius was so potent, people could simply not take being constantly reminded just how ordinary they are.

It’s only logical by this formula, that the one person that had the only decent human reaction full of pain and despair, is Janet Jackson — the next most talented one among Jacksons.

What makes me mad is the following part of this saga. The most important part. The one that was the forerunner of Michael’s demise. I was always careful not to talk about this out of respect toward everyone (minors, then) involved. But when I heard of the recent development, I couldn’t believe it. So I will most definitely mention it, I don’t care anymore. The trial. The one that erased MJ as we knew him, and produced this ghostly figure only resembling the once superstar. The molestation trial in 1993.

If you haven’t been living under a rock somewhere, you know Jordan Chandler sued MJ for child molestation, well his parents did. We all knew the kid lied, that his parents made him do it to get the money, we all knew that the sheriff and the father coached the kid on what to say, we all knew that his mother was driving around town in MJ’s limo and went shopping using MJ’s black Amex, we all know he was never charged for anything.

It’s widely known Michael was refusing to give interviews at the height of his prime as an entertainer. What is the press to do in a perfect payback situation like this? Manipulate the facts about his settlement with Jordan’s parents. He settled, therefore, he’s guilty. He gave the money, therefore, he must be guilty. Right? Wrong.

I researched it. Michael didn’t settle anything. He did not even know he settled. He did not give any money. His insurance company settled because they did not want to deal with a lengthy trial. His insurance company gave the money.

MJ protested, but it was already done. He publicly stated it, but nobody wanted to print it. It was done, he was a child molester, a stigma that was never going to leave him. Why am I going on about something that happened 16 years ago? Because the kid that sued him is 29 years old today and he also heard MJ died. Not just that, he feels bad about it, he says. Not just that, he’s unofficially talking to some small media outlets asking for forgiveness and admitting Michael Jackson never touched him.

His dad Evan made him do it, and he was afraid of his dad. He said it. And they got 20 million in the settlement.

But in 2005, he sued his dad, because he apparently hit him, beat him, and tried to kill him. So he doesn’t have any contact with the dad. But he has the money. Plenty of it. Did he come forward in 2005, when he fucked off the dad from his life to at least save the last 4 years of MJ’s life and a little bit of reputation and dignity?

He didn’t.

But he is stepping out today, when one of the most talented entertainers in history died , broke and despised. He watched MJ get thrown out from his beloved Neverland because of his false accusations, by his own admission and watched him lose everything.

Today, he’s fooling around NYC, getting papped with all the bling MJ’s extortion money paid for. He was a kid, I understand, a victim of greedy parents, I get it, but guess - you aren’t a kid anymore, now you know better and no one is pushing you to lie no more.

Get out of your expensive apartments and your Bentleys, do one decent thing in your life and lose me with that chatter with small media platforms; call Larry King or Oprah, sit down, look at the fucking camera, and tell the world the truth! Harvey Levin, why aren’t you on top of this?

What is TMZ doing now? Why aren’t you following his Bentley and quizzing him on the street like you do all other celebrities?

I just can not accept the fact that this amazing, talented human being, the one that gave millions in charities and helped those in need when no one was doing it, the one who was born to delight people — fades away, disappears; I can’t believe how mistreated in childhood, life, and even death he was, and no one wants to do absolutely fuck all about it.

The purpose of his life was truly just to give joy to others and experience nothing but judgments from others, back to him.

The quote about Stephen King on Michael, the other day floored me:

There’s a sadness that’s all too common in people who possess talent in amounts so great it has become a burden instead of a blessing. Michael was indeed innocent of the abuse allegations. In the court of public opinion, however; he was found guilty of Weirdness of First Degree. In his eyes you can almost see the sadness like they’re saying — “Yes, I’m strange, but I’m doing the best I can, and i just want to make you happy. Is that so bad?

Indeed, was that so bad?