Yesterday, someone left a charming comment calling me a “Stockholm syndrome-infected pedophile-lover” because I’m not, like, ecstatic that my childhood hero and pop star legend Michael Jackson has died.
I would like to invite this person, and anyone else who may hold similar views, to kindly kiss my ass.
As I mentioned in my column on Michael’s death, the allegations against him have always left me confused. The one thing I’m sure of is that he never grew up, and hence developed inappropriate relationship patterns, particularly with kids. Could that stuff have been hurtful and damaging? Sure. In my previous post I talk about just that. HOWEVER, we simply DO NOT KNOW whether or not Michael Jackson was a bona fide molester and abuser. The facts are not all clear, and I, for one, hate the self-righteous desire to collectively sharpen our pitchforks and go after the monster on the outskirts of the village.
I don’t think we will ever know for certain, unless new facts come out. I think we need to accept the fact that this issue will remain ambiguous.
People say that Michael’s money and fame bought him protection as if they are 100% sure of this fact. You know what else money and fame can buy you? False friends. Leftists in particular can act as if money alone can erect some sort of impenetrable forcefield around a person, forgetting that it can also paint a giant target sign on your back.
Was Michael a dupe? I don’t think so. By all accounts of people who knew him (this, oddly enough, includes someone close to me as well), he was a clever individual. And he wasn’t socially incapacitated either. But he did have glaring vulnerabilities and eccentricities, and his desire to reclaim his childhood may have left him open to attack.
So don’t call me a bloody “pedophile-lover” if I refuse to unquestioningly accept the narrative of “Wacko Jacko” and his harem of five-year-olds. In my experience, some of the most evil, calculating abusers and rapists were best at feigning normalcy above all. Considering that Michael happened to be one of the least obviously “normal” people on this entire earth, I have to wonder. Would I want my kid brother sharing a bedroom with Michael Jackson? Um, no. But neither can I pretend that this issue is as clear-cut as I would, perhaps, like it to be.
I think we may never know who Michael Jackson really was. Maybe Michael Jackson himself wasn’t sure.