HOLLA! i'm watching larry king where a bunch of snarky lawyers are debating whether or not they think michael will take the stand in his own defense. fucking hell, luvs. as far as i can tell the case against him is pretty flimsy--the main issue being a lack of credible witnesses. but that's ok. it doesn't matter how famous or how luved you once were in this hrrrrr CUNTry: if you're a total effeminate weirdo or a black man or god forbid BOTH and you stand accused of a major crime then your ass is good as sizzled in this crap-izzle. we sho' loves ourselves some black men goin down the toilet kinda ennertainment. uh-huh. innocent before proven guilty, yeah right, that's like the plaque on my fave, puddle o' piss dive bar that reads, "Free Beer Tomorrow".

the thing is, if you watch the clips of michael coming in and out of the courtroom, you can totally still catch a digital whiff of that ineffable something that is the trademark of a superstar. he walks along, cloistered by bodyguards, covered with a hat and shades and face mask--the very picture of inaccessibility, and yet, when he hears his loyal fans scream and call out to him ("Angelface! Angelface!") he can't help but turn and look in their direction, straining his neck, waving like a shy schoolgirl until he's pressed back by his own bodyguards.

it's this give and take...the way he lets his fans brush up against the hem of his veil of mystery that still makes him great.

i remember reading somewhere when i was little that michael used to fast every sunday, drinking fruit juice and dancing all day. this gave him clarity. it seemed to also be tied to some notion of worship, or church. i decided i was going to do the same, each and every sunday i wouldn't eat a thing and dance my way into nirvana instead. there i was, lil ol me, on the very first sunday with my clam digger vinyl pants and my bass penny loafers with the droopy white socks and one of my mothers white dinner gloves on my hand, dancing like a maniac in my room while the smells of sunday breakfast wafted up through the floorboards...familiar, soothing scents. fuck that. eggs and bacon and bread. i refused to let such ordinary things control me. i was off the wall, i was a thriller...i looked in the mirror and caught myself as a moonwalking blur and knew with a certainty i have not had since that i was made for better things.

oh well.

fuck heroes.

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