Michael Jackson. My two cents.

Last week (a day after the MJ memorial), the New York Times published an op/ed article by Bob Herbert called “Behind the Façade” which made more-or-less raucously unsubstantiated correlations between the constantly-declining cultural hegemony of the United States’ (spiraling into an escape-from-reality) and the symbolic embodiment of American descent into fantasyland; namely, Michael Jackson.

The dude obviously hasn’t been laid in years. But I digress.

Cross-generationally speaking, the multiple allegations of child abuse and pedophilia will always remain taboo and inextricable from the truly eccentric weirdo that was Michael.

Not to sound intellectually immature and overly-defensive, but I don’t remember too much of a fuss in the classical music world when Maynard Solomon released his equally raucous and highly-substantiated article “Franz Schubert and the Peacocks of Benvenuto Cellini” detailing with unarguably solid proof that yes, Schubert also did take a liking for little boys. Henry Cowell was imprisoned for four years for his sexual relationship with a 17-year old boy.

Of course, Michael Jackson was undoubtedly one of the weirdest fools on the face of the planet. But to Bob Herbert and my classical music colleagues out there attacking MJ, what can I say?

Maynard Solomon said about the music of Beethoven: “masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable energy – an energy that provides a motive force for changes in the relations between human beings – because they contain projections of human desires and goals which have not yet been achieved (which indeed may be unrealizable). It reaches as it does beyond the merely aesthetic dimension to touch the domain of the heart.”

Well, Bob Herbert, here’s my two cents, you cold fuck: for a jaded politico, war veteran, and witness of multiple genocides, the power of music is one that you might not readily comprehend – you are, undoubtedly, of the same camp that believe a $100 million private donation to the arts is gratuitously irresponsible. And for the record, you look almost as strange as Michael Jackson, dude.

It’s been a rough summer for me, in many ways; filled with emotional ups and downs. I wake up in the morning and listen to the emotional breadth of Michael Jackson’s output and I am not being sensationalistically pansy by saying that he gives me the energy to get through the rest of my day, in what-would-otherwise-be a pretty nihilistic existence.