First Michael Jackson and now this. A little over a week ago, I was captive in a local car repair shop for over two hours as one absurdity after the next dribbled out from the non-stop television coverage of Michael Jackson's funeral. A phalanx of commentators paused to reflect solemnly on Jackson's manifold contributions to the world of pedophilia--er, I mean, to the world of pop culture.
It is possible, I'm told, for a kind-hearted person to experience pity when contemplating the wreck that was Michael Jackson's life. But could anyone really take him seriously as an cultural figure? (His place as a cultural symptom raises a different question.) I found nausea competed heartily with irritation as the assembled news casters marshaled superlative after superlative to describe the career of someone whose entire life was a monument to voracious commercial exploitation, on the one hand, and artistic nullity fired by unstopped narcissism, on the other. [UPDATE: But I think there is a lot to be said for this Michael Jackson.]
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