One of the first real jobs I ever had was bar backing at a little bar called Minx. It was a popular spot for drinkers and carousers. It was the eighties and nobody gave a shit.
The drinks would flow, the Human League was blasting over the speakers, and cocaine was considered one of the four food groups. Needless to say, sometimes things got a little out of hand. I mean, it’s not as if people were doing lines of cocaine off of the tables or anything. Okay, once in a while an occasional person would do an occasional line of cocaine off of one of tables and then go back to work behind the bar . . . occasionally.
One night, we were all gathered around a television watching a tribute to Mowtown Records on CBS. Michael Jackson was scheduled to appear. I was always a fan of the Jackson Five and still am, but never really into Michael Jackson as a solo act.
People used to like to talk to each other back then. This was long before texting. Add loud voices to loud music and a bar can become a very loud place. But, when Michael Jackson took that stage and the opening bars of Billie Jean kicked in, save for the volume on the TV set, the place went completely silent. All eyes were transfixed on Jackson. He busted out the “moonwalk” and everyone in the place went crazy. Grown men wept. Women screamed. Children were born. Neil Armstrong actually walked on the fucking moon and this was somehow ten times cooler! One small step for man . . . one giant leap to boogie! Watch her get down watch her get down!
All of America witnessed a moment in entertainment history. And they knew it. That was all anybody talked about for weeks. I have to admit that even I was moved by his performance. It was truly unbelievable. The Prince of Pop was born.
Then came the litany of crazy shit. Pretend marriages, buying giraffes, those thirty-three rhinoplastys and last but not least, allegations of sexually abusing children. I don’t care how well you can dance, when a grown man is in a bed with a little boy . . . the whole world has to answer right now just to tell you once again . . . who’s bad?
When I read that Michael Jackson had turned fifty years old, I could hardly believe it. It was one of those “what the fuck did that just say” moments. It was like finding out that Peter Pan has lupus! Did you hear about Ronald McDonald? He’s got McParkinson’s! Somebody left the back gate open again. The good news is Scooby Doo is fine . . . the bad news is Scrappy Doo got hit by a car!
Whether you believe he is crazy or not, you cannot deny that his career has suffered as a result of his indiscretions with minors. And that’s fine with me. For those who are interested, Michael Jackson is available for children’s parties. Unfortunately he’s more readily available to party with children.
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