The Nation in the Mirror

By the end of the trial, Jackson had begun to press his courtroom-victim persona into service in other areas of his life. Under pressure now to sell his ownership of the Beatles catalog to cover his mounting debts, Jackson began to cast his financial difficulties as being a result of organized persecution. In the last week, we were told, through Jesse Jackson, that the idea that Jackson should have to give up his grip on "Strawberry Fields" in order to pay for his elephants and his amusement rides and his collection of porcelain sarcophagi is a "gross injustice."

People ask about Michael Jackson's post-trial career. He may have a future as a permanent victim. Why not? All fading celebrities play the Christ/martyr card sooner or later, once they have nothing left to sell. Which is where, regardless of the verdict, Michael is now.

Who is Michael Jackson? The idea that he is a unique individual, utterly unlike anyone else in the world in either appearance or behavior, has been repeated so often that it is now no longer seriously questioned. But the Michael Jackson who emerged from this trial appeared not as a singular genius but as just another ordinary full-of-shit Hollywood person, distinguished only by the scale of his pretentiousness.

Because this case could never really be about the evidence — there wasn't enough of it — it ended up mostly being a period piece about a certain kind of brazen, image-obsessed sociopath common to this part of the world. Jackson was a perfect representative.

The scam was the same all across the board in the Jackson trial. Everyone had a deep, dark secret, a criminal racket or a sordid perversion, which is what their real raison d'etre was, what they really did for a living. The loyal business associate was a gay pornographer. The accuser's mother, the grieving parent of a cancer victim, was a scam artist who allegedly used her son's chemotherapy money to pay for her own plastic surgery. Your continental chef ran a live-sex Web site, and your maid was negotiating with the tabloids about the value of the things hanging on your walls. Even your travel agent was wearing a wire.

In private they were all crooks, no better than any random group of suckers found in a communal holding cell at the L.A. county jail on any given day. But in public they all pretended to be legit and apparently spent most of their waking hours trying to be seen at benefit concerts and charity functions. They talked about diets, their new pilots, some relationship to Jesus they all allegedly shared. It was all the same rap. They were old women lying about their age.

Or their face. Here's Jesse Jackson, in a radio broadcast, interviewing Michael about his weight-loss tips during the trial:

JESSE: You've maintained the weight, man, that's what people is [sic] most jealous of and so excited about....

MICHAEL: My health is perfect, actually. I'm a great believer in holistic natural foods and eating and herbs and things, you know, God's medicine, instead of Western chemicals....

If you can grasp the absurdity of Michael Jackson, a man with a face made entirely of wax and plastic parts, proclaiming absolute faith in "God's medicine" and the natural processes, then you've grasped the essence of the Jackson trial.

An American these days may be a welfare cheat, he may fuck little boys and he may just want to steal Iraq's oil. But as long as he gives it up for Jesus, stays out of jail and keeps the weight off, he's still viable, still a story. What he is underneath doesn't matter. And nobody is particularly interested in finding out. We're happy to stare — but we can do without the smell.

[From Issue 977/978 — June 30, 2005]