TRU

King Peter Pan’s Unofficial Autopsy Results – The Michael Jackson Eulogy!

I don’t want to pour cold water (given that it’s Winter and it’s cold already) over the recent euphoria surrounding the death of pop musician Michael Jackson by making jokes about the deceased. Yeah, for real, Michael is dead and his bigger-than-life gimmicks are gone with him. Never again shall he need to put on funny masks and hats at a time when Swine Flu is not yet an epidemic; never again shall he need to throw a peace sign everytime a camera clicks as if he was a Golani Bridage corporal as his tank passes a UN monitored check-point in Southern Lebanon.

Michael is finally gone and with him went his undying quest to be everything he was not destined to be. Unfortunately even at death he can't be Peter Pan. First; the young boy has always suffered unrequited love and an adult aura that is just too unacceptable for kids. Since eleven-years old pleading with ‘baby’ to give him ‘one more chance’ only for baby to marry him for two years and unlike his wish to produce a genius who will fuse Elvis Presley and him – nothing came out. Michael became a divorcee.

Michael, it is understood that as a kid who never really went to school like all of us always thought genetics worked along his narrow interpretation of biotic understanding– as if suppose I marry the daughter of Larry King me and her stand a big chance of producing a hotshot media personality. Nobody told Michael that genes don’t function according to our whim – you have more odds stacked against you to inherit cancer and diabetes from your mother than her guitar playing skills - another such punk was Lauryn Hill marrying a failed Marley hoping to produce Bob Hill. And poor Michael went ahead and married Lisa-Marie Presley only to bore her with his untold bedroom antics; somebody please leak Michael’s Sex Tape to Vivid!

Michael wanted to be a white person since he realised that he was not Diana Ross and that MTV preferred putting on heavy rotation videos from white artists to blacks at the time. He had seen a few Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday and Nat King Cole videos but scores of Rolling Stones and ABBA. His obsession to be bleached was a business move that went horribly wrong.

Sometimes I wonder where was Motown’s Barry Gordy through this entire morass? Okay, it’s Gordy we talking about who was where he was when Marvin Gaye bled through his nostrils.

Maybe Michael aspired to be white since he always saw his mentor Quincy Jones with white chicks. But whatever drove Michael along that route will never be known, lest the root of his life-long sadness. The nigger just couldn’t be Caucasian regardless of multiple plastic surgeries. Guitarist Carlos Santana said some time ago that success comes with its own hiccups. He said that after those screams, those autographs and euphoria, you are alone in your hotel suite and those walls just can’t hug you, your cars can’t love you, your millions can’t talk to you when you are lonely.

Even Lauryn Hill once spoke about some of the richest people she knew who wanted to commit suicide.

Yeah, the ‘King of Pop’ who aspired to dance on the moon since his Thriller days finally has an opportunity to be a King for real. Where he’s at there’s no work so his credentials alone guarantee that Michael finally became king, at death – on our side. Funny.

However we need to also be empathetic to the Gloved One. We are not him which means we can’t walk a mile in his size 11 shoes. At the same time we must remember that while he was Pied Piper R.Kelly role model, when Kelly was accused of sexual impropriety with a minor he let the courts decide and never settled out of court with the accuser. Some armchair analysts say such a move in Kelly’s part means that he had nothing to hide and wanted everything placed in the open while good old Michael settled out of court because he wanted his moment of wacky testosterone surge to be buried under a load of dollars.

Imagine if President Jacob Zuma decided to settle his own rape accusations with Khwezi out of court. I doubt that he would be occupying Mahlambandlopfu today.

So, we’ll never know if Michael did it but since dead people can not sue or be sued we can start to speculate why he would always love walking around with burly Marine-type men holding umbrellas for him and sitting on wheelchairs? For the life of me I am scared of wheelchairs even when it means they are just the means to being admitted to hospital. Something says to me if I acquaint myself with the machine I might be inviting some handicap. I know this sound cheap but not cheaper than Michael’s gimmicks which are snapped for free.

But for Michael to love wheelchairs to the point that when the paparazzi snapped him sitting on one and raised a flag about his health his publicists had to dig deep to convince them that he loves traveling incognito in wheelchairs leaves a lot of questions than answers.

Whatever emerges and what can be observed out of the life and times of Michael is that he was a very sad and broken man. He never really had friends apart from his legion of publicists, biographers, fans, Nelson Mandela, personal photographers, PAs, brothers, sisters, mother and father. He never trusted people enough to get close to them since he always thought they wanted something from him. He was never a 50-Deep type. Who the fuck did he think he was – some drug that everyone wanted to get high on?

He surrounded himself with naïve young boys. Of all people, including alleged long-time ago girlfriend Lisa Bonnet Michael married his nurse and ‘fathered’ two children with her. He then fathered a third surrogate child whose mother we will soon find out as lawyers sling it out in the LA High court. Very few people know if Michael drank alcohol or smoked purple. What people know is that he loved his prescription drugs as a cocktail and often drug cocktails clog the heart and bring about heart attacks – Marilyn Monroe opened our eyes. Was Billy Jean about her?

There’s not much science involved in analysing heart attacks; if your heart is overloaded with all the carbon dioxide it beats very fast, which means more blood or rather oxygen released into the system, which means you sweat, which means you become dehydrated and the blood becomes thicker and has more difficulty traveling through your arteries, which means if at that time you are incapacitated by another drug your heart gets clogged and you suffer cardiac failure and die.

I heard people in Harlem and all over the world saying when the King (of Pop) died a part of them died as well. The same people cried when the King (of Rock and Roll Elvis Presley) died as well and claimed a part of them died with him. Some of those career-mourners cried twelve-years ago when the King (of New York Notorious BIG) died too and claimed a part of them was silenced under those bullets in LA.

I saw people on television crying as if they have just lost their balls. They cried the same way when Jimi Hendrix died. I saw them crying when Janis Joplin passed on. I swear I heard them crying fifteen years ago when Kurt Cobain spilled his own brains.

I read a piece written by another King (of Kwaito music) Arthur Mafokate saying he was shattered by Michael’s demise. My advice would be ‘go ahead and be shattered, he is not coming back folks. I loved Michael too as a human being and musical genius, but not deep enough to cry, let alone stop rolling my blunt because I miss him’. I ask people who trusted Michael with all their heart to tell me, ‘if you could unscrew your dick and leave it with someone for five days while you went somewhere, would you trust yours in the hands of Michael, do you think your pussy or dick will still be in a state you left it in with Michael if you did so? The question is largely that do you think the dude could be trusted? '

I don’t know. But truly on June 25 – indeed the music died.