Nobody will say it better or be more frank. And I can’t say it often enough — when I was a kid, gun madness was not enflamed. Nobody thought the 2nd Amendment was about anything but long-unnecessary militias. And the NRA was about educating people how to use guns with expertise and safety.
The atmosphere of general sadism that King Donald has officially established has gotten rid of the remnants of a quirk belief that I could not divest until now. I always thought there was something to the argument that if you were going to have a death penalty at all, there should be the possibility that the perps would be killed in the same manner as their victims. Yeah, it increased mindless violence, but there was a rude proper equality to it. Monsters deserved monstrous deaths. (Horror movies I refuse to see kinda wallow in this line of thought.)
Except now the air of brutality and mindless bashing finishes my darkside sympathies. Without a whisper of regret, monsters must be treated with total harshness, but not their own instruments.
In the process of retiring summer wear, now-skinnier me was able to wear the T-shirt I picked up when I covered the first performance of Michael Jackson and the Jacksons’s Victory Tour. Like so much associated with these performers, the shirt itself was a contradiction: beautifully designed and printed, but made of oddly thin, fragile fabric.
(Mine has red sleeves.)
MJ really was the king of pop then. Ten times more alive than even excellent performers on stage, he turned into an enigma the second he walked off. Now I thought how far he had rumbled down and never quite climbed out of the rubble. How it was impossible to have settled feelings about him.
This is a good examination of the whole story, which, to coin a cliche, should be in the dictionary next to “sordid.”
What saddened me most this time, however, is that Michael Jackson has become a King Donald-type symbol.
OF COURSE he was a wicked, guilty monster who bribed his way out of it.
OF COURSE he was an emotionally stunted superstar who showed disgraceful bad judgement and was attacked by evil extortionists because of it.
But either way, on the cross or off the hook, he ain’t gonna be resurrected into the Victory-era life he knew anytime soon.
(Trying for Friday amusement, here.)
A slight down of my post-dentist visit to the music store was that a lunatic showed up and started hassling some French tourists. They handled it like champs and he disappeared. Did remind me …
When I managed a music store in Missoula (before Boston), the kooks were not extremely kooky and it took only one “get out and don’t come back here” to shoo them away.
But in Boston, working the record stores as the Designated Big Guy I had to get troublesome customers out the front door and their Big City Intensity clued me that sooner or later something terrible was likely to happen. A motive to get outta that and into journalism.
I should, though, mention my all-time favorite shoplifter. It was still vinyl in those days and you can’t have everything crowded in the back of the store, though the box sets were always behind the counter. Anyway this speedy ace comes in, grabs a fat armload of LPs and is out the door, with me right behind him.
I’m sure he could outrun me under regular circumstances, but he was bogged down with all those records. After half a block, I was catching up. So he began shedding LPs, dropping one on the sidewalk every couple steps. After he’d gotten rid of more than half his stash, I realized I’d lose more merchandise by continuing to chase him rather than go back and collect the discs dumped on the sidewalk. So it worked out for both of us, man. You got away with some goodies. I got credit for at least mostly foiling a robbery.
And now it will all come out. The walking turd has finally stepped in it.