Remembering the Happier M.J.

One of my cousins was way into Michael Jackson. She had a poster hanging in her room that caused a profound short circuit in my developing brain.

On the poster, which she kissed every night, Michael is posing as E.T.'s girlfriend in a classic Olan Mills-style portrait. E.T. is standing behind a seated Michael, knobby claws cupping his shoulders and index finger lit in arousal.

What is that about? Childhood superstardom may have started it, but I think the E.T. photo shoot was the tipping point of Michael's slide. After that, Michael started dressing like Captain Crunch and putting small black children on his knee like a ventriloquist. First it was Webster, and then later it was unknown kids with litigious parents who had no appreciation for ventriloquism.

Poor Michael. I hated those allegations. And I hated that there was so much about him that made so little sense to me for so long.

I could never make sense of the Lisa Marie thing. She had no reason to marry him except for True Love and free amusement park rides. And what about his veiled white children? They look more like they were the offspring of a bee keepers brother than a Jackson brother. And that marriage to the matronly dental assistant? Surely the only thing tighter than Michael's nostrils was his prenup with Debbie Rowe.

In his final years, he was the source of jokes, not ground-breaking music, and the world made fun of Michael Jackson because it was so uncomfortable to contemplate the guy any other way. He was the stuff of nightmares, with the transforming face and his shuffling, drug zombie demeanor.

Left without a focus on necessity, the mind begins to consume itself. Michael Jackson is the supreme example. Humans weren't designed for that kind of power and isolation, coupled with the means to indulge in it. You die slowly, or quickly.

Now that he's gone, I don't like to think of Michael Jackson as an alleged molester, or a walking Scream mask. I prefer to think of him on his happiest day, as the glowing bride of E.T.

Somewhere, up in heaven, I hope Michael Jackson, Elvis and Howard Hughes all have to share a rented apartment, and all have to hold down a 9 to 5 job. It may be their final shot at sanity.