Caomhan Loves Michael Jackson

January 31, 2010

So the great man is dead. But as the dust settles and we contemplate what the loss of Michael Jackson will mean for music, what everyone really wants to know is how long we have to wait before we can crack jokes about it.

Not long at all. Sickipedia, home of the crudest, rudest and most inappropriate jokes on the internet has already crashed, such is the thirst for slags about the King of Pop. Facebook statuses, at first professing shock, have started to mock. As the sun rises on each Jacksonless dawn, mobile phones alight with witty one-liners about the Peter Pan of Pop. And has finally got round to mattering.

The public deals with the death of a celebrity in three stages. At first there’s shock and sadness that another human being has passed on, no matter what the circumstance. Notes are taken of present surroundings, stored up to be unleashed in faux tragic voices when asked: “where were you when…?”

Then there’s the morbid fascination. Eyes are Pritt Sticked to the TV, afraid we’ll miss the money shot of a sobbing spouse, sentimental superstar or bulging body bag. Every new nugget of information is dispersed in whispered tones as if the person beside you hasn’t heard what’s just been said.

Then come the claws and the comments. A visceral fray to be the first with the pun or the put down that, despite the wails of “too soon” from titillated colleagues, opens the flood gates and drowns common decency in a sea of sarcastic shit-stirring.

They say laughter is the best medicine, and I’m usually the first with my arse out for a shot. But there’s something about the death of Wacko that catches in my throat. Is it that it’s the first truly iconic legend that’s died in my lifetime? (If you mention Diana in the same breath I’ll smash my novelty memorial plate over your head). Or could it be that it was all so horribly inevitable?

Perhaps it’s just that now the king is dead, there’s no sign of a new one to carry on the legacy. With Jackson gone and Prince in serious need of surgery, it seems our generation has spent so much time looking over their shoulder that there is no one to fill the shoes of those gone by.

The most innovative work Justin Timberlake’s done is sticking his dick in a box. And the only remarkable thing about him and other contenders for the throne, is the sheer commonality of their personas. You just can’t imagine them sleeping in oxygen tanks, dicking Brooke Shields and shaving a monkey’s arse.

I guess that’s the problem with the youth of today.


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