Oct. 9, 2011
In the case of the death of Michael Joseph Jackson (Aug. 29, 1958-June 25, 2009), we are all accessories after the fact.
The fans who fueled his need to keep performing when he wasn't well, who pushed him to be bigger when he was already the greatest, should remember that most of us looked the other way.
Oh, you know when ...
When Jackson announced that he would do 50 straight concerts in London, it was like a piece of science fiction. He looked like he weighed 90 pounds. His wig was as big as his jacket. My first thought was: That could kill him. And we looked the other way.
When he was rehearsing relentlessly, and video leaked of a stick figure in a gray coat singing some of the most enduring pop songs of the past 20 years, we looked the other way.
So when the singer, dancer, songwriter, musician and king of pop was rushed out of his rented Los Angeles mansion, filled with the mixture of drugs he used to make us happy, we looked the other way -- for someone to blame.
And then "This Is It" was released. I didn't see it. I didn't want to watch a grown man die. I still don't.
Selfish fans
Even the previews made clear that the star needed to be in bed, in a hospital, instead of going through the motions of trying to please us one more time -- we insatiable, selfish fans who want more and more, even from someone who wasn't in a position to give.
The previews looked more like news clips of a tragedy waiting to happen. Every day, I expected the announcement that the concerts were off.
So tired was Michael Jackson -- so eager to become universally beloved and relevant for music rather than controversy -- that he put his life in the hands of a man named Conrad Murray (He's no doctor.). Murray, according to prosecutors, started Propofol drips and left the room, then later cleaned up the scene before beginning CPR on his patient.
So giving was Michael Jackson that he put his hope in millions of fans who didn't care how he got to the stage as long as he got there. He needed us to like him one more time. He needed to build a children's hospital, one he told Murray about as he lay dying.
"That will be remembered more than my performances," he told Murray.
I gasped with America when I learned during Murray's trial that Jackson's children watched him die. And I realized that, in the end, Michael was Elvis, dead of drugs and fatigue in his own home with people he thought cared about him, people who probably thought they cared about him.
What if we had known?
In the end, it has become clearer and clearer that Murray did what we all did: looked the other way while we got what we wanted.
Murray was there to place the IV in Jackson's arm. He was there to make those secret recordings of Jackson sounding like the gifted 10-year-old son of Joseph Jackson, desperately trying to please his father, his family, the fans.
Again and again and again.
Conrad Murray is sure to get what's coming to him.
But we need to remember that we were counting the days until the 50-show circus. Would we have done something differently had we known he was killing himself to make us happy?
Yes, Conrad Murray is on trial. But each of us should look in the mirror and demand just a little less than death from our stars, especially those who place our approval above their own lives.
