The Michael Jackson Tapes (35 page)

Michael gave birth to an entirely new kind of celebrity, the damaged celebrity, being famous not for one's virtues but for one's blemishes. Usually people try to hide their mistakes and their character defects. They want to be famous for the good things and not the bad. Michael's life became the first reality TV show. Before him, we had never heard of someone wanting to be celebrated for their defects. Who has ever heard of desiring to be famous for one's ugliness? Since when is infamous the equal of famous? Since when was facing humiliation and public ridicule considered a valid means to recognition? But basking in the warm glow of the cameras, we don't even notice that we are naked—until, that is, the lights go off. In the darkness of our dignity, we discover what precious commodities we have lost.

Whereas in previous generations, dignity and celebrity were partners, Michael Jackson may one day be best remembered as the man who set them permanently at odds, who took fame and substance and put them in conflict with one another. A man who could have been happy to have risen to the highest ranks of music stardom but decided to intentionally act weird to sustain public interest. As I watched Ed Bradley of
60 Minutes
ask Michael why his album
Invincible
had not even broken into the
top ten of the billboard charts, Michael, oblivious to how he was now famous as a freak show rather than as an entertainer, responded: “It's a conspiracy.” Michael long ago confused fame with infamy and lived in the twilight zone between those two poles.

Not that he is entirely to blame. Michael's desperation for attention at any cost was presaged by his extreme deprivation of love and attention in the most tender years of his life. His decision, however, to fill the empty pool of love with the poisonous wellspring of tabloid fodder is that for which he must be held accountable.

It is the thesis of this book that Michael Jackson, whom people find so easy to revile, is the ultimate victim of the age of celebrity, a man caught up in something that he could not understand and could not control until it ultimately consumed everything he once was. The Michael Jackson we saw toward the end of his life was but a sinister shadow of a once healthy man. That Michael became stranger than almost any celebrity who preceded him was directly linked to him having become more famous than almost anyone who preceded him. The damage was more extensive and more intense.

It is also the contention of this book that this tragedy could have been prevented, not by Michael choosing to be a steel worker like his father before him, but by retaining the wholesome ingredients of a healthy life that could have counterbalanced the emptiness of celebrity. Michael began life with many of those very ingredients—a strong religious faith, deep attachment to family and siblings, a desire to use one's talents for a higher good—and they originally ensured that he did not rot and decay amid his fame.

Unfortunately, as he became a bigger and bigger star, Michael first lost touch with and then consciously repudiated those things and tragically ended up destitute, discredited, and dead. Finally, it is the contention of this book that Michael Jackson serves as a warning to all of us of the damaging effects of the
age
of celebrity, something we are all caught up in.

And herein lies the crux of the problem. Every human being wants to be special, everyone wants to be the center of attention—at least part of the time. It is what the German philosopher Hegel called the thymotic urge, or “the will to recognition.” But in days gone by, it was family and human relationships that made one feel like the center of attention. It was the authentic love of relatives and friends that rescued humans from the pain of anonymity. Children had their parents' attention, just as if they were celebrities. Their parents commented on everything they did, as if they were Julia Roberts or Russell Crowe. But a whole generation has now grown up like Michael Jackson, pushed to achieve too early, made to feel by parents that they were machines of productivity at too young an age. Deprived of the wholesome attention that is their birthright, they have grown up lusting for the spotlight and will do almost anything to get it.

Having missed a childhood where he was both his parents' center of affection, Michael had to devote his life to attention-getting measures in order to compensate. Having grown into adulthood without anything wholesome, such as a wife or life partner, to make him feel noticed, he had to do whatever he could to make sure that
we
noticed. Cut off from the family that should have adored him, Michael invented the artificial family of fans that could give him the fix he needed, even if it was a mere shadow of the real thing.

We are all at risk of becoming, or desiring to become, Michael Jacksons—albeit in much lesser keys.
American Idol
works on the premise that
you
can be the next Michael Jackson. Children are sorely neglected in favor of their parents' commercial pursuits. Married couples struggle to hear one another over the din of each other's harried lives. Parents come home from a long day of work and their kids don't run over to greet them, consumed as they are with watching their favorite TV show. The result is that everyone is feeling neglected.

Relationships lack passion and intimacy, and to compensate we seek to make love to the crowds. We want acceptance and even adoration from our friends, families, people we work with, and whatever audience we can find. In the absence of healthy, caring, consistent attention, too many of us
have become shameless attention-seekers, even when it is an affront to our dignity. In an impersonal world dominated by the Internet and films, feeling bereft of an inner dignity, people are driven to broadcast their woes or triumphs however they can. (One man in Wisconsin who killed eight people wrote to the police to say that he continued killing because after the first two murders his name had not appeared in the newspapers.)

If we are “lucky” enough to have our fifteen minutes, when it is all over we have to endure the indignity of walking around draped in our dirty laundry, which has become a kind of squalid second skin.

It is my belief that it is our resistance to taking heed, more than anything else, which explains why we are so infatuated with Michael Joseph Jackson. Watching the train wreck of his life and now death, we are watching ourselves in the form of a man who took his pursuit for recognition to an extreme. If James Brown is the godfather of soul, we can see Michael Jackson as the godfather of celebrity without substance, fame without foundation, representing in his sad and damaged life where society was led into the abyss. Watching Michael Jackson's tragedy we are witnessing our own transfiguration. Watching Michael slowly decay we bear witness to our own corruption.

In this respect, let Michael—tragic as his life has become—be a warning to the rest of us.

The only cure for a society hell-bent on fame at any price is to increase the amount of genuine love shown in that society. Parents have got to start listening to their kids when they speak. When your kids come running to you to tell you a seemingly insignificant detail about their teacher, turn off the television for a few minutes and give them your undivided attention. The alternative is to turn on the television a few years later and see your own kid on some reality TV show making a fool of himself because the pain of humiliation is not as great as the pain of neglect.

Husbands and wives have to start giving each other the affection they need. The tragic alternative is that they might find that attention in the arms of a stranger, as more than fifty percent of husbands and wives are doing today. Rather than getting into a cab and immediately
getting on your cell phone, speak to the driver. He is not just a means to an end. He was not created by God merely to get you from point A to point B. He is a person with his own dreams, his own ambitions, and his own story.

The essence of a relationship, the essence of marriage, is to be a celebrity. But unlike public celebrity, here you are a celebrity only to one. There is a person to whom you are famous. He or she puts your picture up on the wall and saves your silly mementos and handwritten letters, just like celebrity watchers collect those of Elvis. This person can remember the first time you kissed, and stares at you when you are out in public. When you walk into the room, you immediately become the center of this person's attention, just as if a movie star had walked into the room. And this person is absorbed by your presence.

This is a
real
fan, a devoted fan who will never drop you in favor of the next new thing. If you go bankrupt or develop three chins, this person will stick around. If you suffer public humiliation—even if you are accused of something heinous—this person will stand by you through your trials. Your fame is not ephemeral in this person's eyes. It is eternal. Your share price does not fluctuate in accordance with public demand. The market does not determine your value. This person loves you for your humanity.

Michael Jackson had tens of millions of fans. But what he always lacked was one grand, lifelong admirer—a happy marriage, a stable relationship, a warm embrace to come home to. The same is true with so many of our celebrities in Hollywood. A million fans but not one permanent follower.

Yes, we all want to be a celebrity. But as with an unhealthy celebrity, people only admire you when you are on top of your game. If you lose the Super Bowl, or your looks, or your money, you are abandoned as quickly as you were embraced. Michael Jackson learned this the hard way. Aside from a few thousand die-hard fans, he was, by the end, abandoned by virtually all who once admired him. And the few who stuck with him did so out of pity or for the elusive hunger for a payoff that is the antithesis of meaningful relationship.

Even as I watched Michael eviscerated on the news channels in the years that followed our friendship, I found it painful and lamentable
that America had no compassion for him. The utter disfiguration, the teetering near bankruptcy, the squandering of his precious gifts, and most of all the questions about children generated only contempt.

Even Martha Stewart was shown compassion after her arrest and conviction. But to elicit pity, one must first be perceived to be human. And in the eyes of the public, Michael had become pure caricature.

Martha Stewart could never be completely hated because she was never completely loved. Strong emotions can be flipped, and this is precisely what happened in the case of Michael Jackson. The public once loved him. They grew up with him and in their eyes he was always a boy, an innocent and fun-loving man-child.

In his shyness they believed in his innocence. In his naiveté they still remembered their own youth. In seeing him surrounded by children, they were convinced that he was an adolescent at heart. But hell hath no fury like a public duped. A large percentage of the public believed that Michael was not innocent but corrupt, not clean but calculating. Neverland was built not as a shrine to youthful precociousness, but as a lair to lure the unsuspecting. They thought they were getting a choir boy, but then concluded that they had someone as adept at manipulating the public as he was at moving his feet.

As for me, I strongly believed that Michael did not molest his 2003 accuser who figures so prominently in our conversations and that his acquittal, therefore, was righteous and just. But it almost didn't matter because the inspiration he once provided to so many had all but disappeared. He had become the very thing he always most feared, rejected and reviled. And that led Michael to shut himself off from the world more and more, his shadowy existence now feeding his demons.

Unhealthy fame always leads to reclusiveness. But healthy fame leads to the opposite. It inspires people to become trustful and uninhibited and to come out of their shell. When you enter into a relationship with that one big fan—the person who is committed to cherishing you—rather than hiding, you learn to open up. You are no longer afraid to be vulnerable. Your significant other is not just taking; they are giving. To select you, he or she had to deselect every other member of the opposite sex—publicly and permanently. With such phenomenal sacrifice being undertaken on your behalf, you learn to have faith, both in human beings and
in the world. Your happiness becomes your partner's happiness. And all your partner wants is to bask, not in your star but in your light.

In the final analysis, healthy fame may never get you your own television show. Nor will it get the maitre d' to save you the table by the fireplace. No strangers will come up to you on the street and ask for your autograph. But it will give you the feeling that no matter what you do and where you go, you will always have a fan club in the privacy and comfort of your own home.

Our very civilization is threatened by the cult of celebrity. The court jester has become the king. Those who
play
the heroes have become the culture's actual heroes.

In America today there exists not a single mainstream televised awards ceremony for anything other than movies, television, acting, modeling, and music. Even when brave soldiers are awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for gallantry, it is not broadcast on TV. When the President awards the Presidential Medal of Freedom to our leading thinkers, writers, and civil servants, it is watched by a handful of people on C-Span. That's a major change for a country whose only actor to become an historical figure, before the age of Hollywood, was John Wilkes Booth.

By making fashion models our role models, Hollywood heroines our heroes, and singers into saints, we have created a shallow and vain society, distinguished not by sacrifice but by indulgence. We have created a culture known not for virtue, but for vanity. And our country is becoming therefore not more dedicated but decadent. The consequences are perilous for the individuals who suffer and for all of us caught up in the distorted national obsession.