WA is for WAcko
You take the smidgeons of good with the torrents of worst in the Perth media.
Good on WA Today for publishing a nice little tirade against our autocratic, elite, puritanical local councils (see previous post). Bad on thewest.com.au for this:
Wacko story # infinity is “WA News” now. Because it touches all of us, I guess? All of us have been touched down the pants by the gloved hand of this story so many times now.
Last time that I couldn’t avoid writing about Jacko I said that the “full story” amounted to him being a big weirdo who made some music and had a trial and died. But I remember now a great passage from Michel Houellebecq‘s 2001 novel, Platform (warning: shit is about to get off-topic and heavy):
All humanity instinctively tends toward miscegenation, a generalized, undifferentiated state, and it does so first and foremost through the elementary means of sexuality. The only person, however, to have pushed the process to its logical conclusion is Michael Jackson, who is neither black nor white anymore, neither young nor old, and, in a sense, neither man nor woman.
Nobody can really imagine his private life. Having grasped the categories of everyday humanity, he has done his utmost to go beyond them. This is why he can be considered a star, possibly the greatest — and, in fact, the first — in the history of the world.
All the others — Rudolph Valentino, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Humphrey Bogart — could at best be considered talented artists. They did no more than imitate the human condition, having aesthetically transposed it. Michael Jackson was the first to have tried to go a little further.
There’s also a couple of really great, cogent post-Jacko pieces which have really put the lie to my former statement. Still in the vein of “let’s put this garbage to bed” (because garbage needs a place to sleep too) but really worth a squiz nonetheless: The Exiled’s Eileen Jones’ “They’re Dead, Thank God”:
It’s monstrous, lamenting Jackson’s death, wishing him back in his bleached body and up on a stage somewhere wearing a glitter glove and grabbing his skeletal crotch. All that guff from people like Quincy Jones, who ought to know better, saying he had so much more to give. Nobody ever saw such a used-up husk of a person, such a walking corpse, as Michael Jackson. Couldn’t one honest person who knew him stand up and say, “Thank God that’s over!” He’s out of his misery now, and we don’t have to shudder at the sight of him anymore!
And my man-crush, Videogum’s inimitable Gabe Delahaye, with “An Open Letter to Corey Feldman”:
And the pageantry! Dude was buried in a solid gold coffin? Come on, guys. The media didn’t put him in that solid gold coffin, but they certainly put in him in a solid gold coffin of WORDS. And the fact of the matter is that while the man’s musical legacy will live on for decades (or at least until the world is covered in water, in 2011), he was deeply troubled, and wasting away in a personal hell for the past 20 years. That has been briefly mentioned but quickly hidden away. Which is fine. Except if you aren’t going to deal with HALF of his life, then what has TAKEN SO LONG. This memorial feels like it’s been going on forever.
Still feels that way, thanks, thewest.com.au.