Here are three things all of us can learn from the life and death of Michael Jackson, a.k.a. “the King of Pop.”
· Compared to way too much of today’s fare, Jackson’s music videos were family-friendly.
Several television networks that focus primarily on music ran several hours of Jackson’s videos this past weekend. That was fitting and proper. All those stations owe their very existence to Jackson, especially his “Thriller” and “Beat It” short features that made music videos popular.
And if you watched any of Jackson’s videos in that retrospective of the past few days, then you noticed there were few, if any, of the scantily clad rump shakers you see in some of today’s videos. Jackson made videos that were clean. And I define clean as a video that I wouldn’t mind my grandkids watching.
Videos that distinctly were NOT clean regularly graced the airwaves of BET, which ran a show called “Uncut” before network honchos wisely decided to yank it. How bad was “Uncut”? Former porn star Heather Hunter, obviously trying to sever the link with her licentious past, made a couple of rap videos that were featured on “Uncut.”
I remember what she told me when I interviewed her in a Prince George’s County mall bookstore a couple of years ago. “My video was the cleanest thing on ‘Uncut,’” Hunter said. I thought for a few seconds. Then I told her, “You know, it was.”
Things are pretty bad when a former porn star has to tell you that you’ve gone way beyond the boundaries of sexual propriety and good taste.
· It may not be accurate to say a person or persons can have too much money, but having too much money and way too much free time on your hands can be a bit problematic.
Jackson was, without a doubt, a super-talented singer, dancer, choreographer and songwriter. I loved his music; I treasured his performances. His gradual descent into weird kind of depressed me. If I had to put a finger on where the descent into weird started, I’d have to say it was the “Bad” video.
I remember when it premiered on television. And I distinctly remember the scene where Jackson grabbed his crotch during one of his slick dance moves. I removed my glasses and checked the lenses to be sure they were clean.
“Did I just see what I thought I saw?” I asked myself. “Did Mikey just grab his crotch?” Oh, he did, Indeed he did. It got worse after that. The allegations of child molestation followed, with Jackson issuing indignant denials of the charges, claiming he was innocent and that people were picking on him. Never once did it seem to dawn on Jackson that the mess he was in was of his own making and no one else’s.
Here was a grown man who played and romped with little kiddies way more than any grown man should. Later he admitted, in full view of television cameras, that he saw nothing wrong with one of those kids sleeping in his bed with him. I was stunned by the admission.
“I wouldn’t even let my own grandkids sleep with me,” I blurted out to the clearly unresponsive television screen. “Not even if they presented me with a signed, notarized statement from a licensed psychiatrist telling me it would be beneficial to their mental health for them to do it.”
Jackson made hundreds of millions from his talent. He didn’t have too much money. But that too much free time thing clearly wasn’t working for him.
· Preliminary reports indicate Jackson died of a heart attack. Whether Jackson’s alleged addiction to painkillers was the cause of that heart attack or not remains unclear. What should be clear is this: shouldn’t America’s black “leaders” focus on those diseases that are killing black Americans just as dead as HIV and AIDS?
For the past few years we’ve been hearing black leaders – NAACP board chairman Julian Bond comes to mind – urging blacks to “get tested” because of the sharp rise in HIV/AIDS among black Americans, especially women.
Heart disease and complications from diabetes kill far more black Americans than HIV/AIDS has. If Jackson’s passing helps remind us of that, then his untimely demise will have served a noble purpose.
Examiner columnist Gregory Kane is an award-winning journalist who lives in Baltimore.
