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Michael Jackson and the Piranhas of the Media

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    michael jacksonby John Maxwell
    The horror, the horror. The ghastly ugliness oozes from the bestial media, feasting on death. “To the imperial media Jackson was guilty of everything of which he had ever been accused, like Jack Johnson, Muhammad Ali and Martin Luther King, Elvis Presley and John Lennon.” The true significance of these lives is that “they connected in a fundamental way with ordinary people, and that, to the rulers of our world and their servile media, is supremely dangerous.”
    Michael Jackson and the Piranhas of the Media
    by John Maxwell
    This article originally appeared in the Jamaica Observer.
    “The death of Michael Jackson is the biggest money-making opportunity since the death of Diana.”
    “They ate her alive” was the opening sentence of my 1997 column following the death of Diana, the ex-wife of the heir to the British throne. It continued:
    “As she lay broken and covered in blood, as she lay helpless and mortally wounded, they were, as always, professional, shooting fast, furious and careful of camera angle, hoping perhaps to capture her last breath, to profit one last time from her suffering, to take the million dollar photograph which would put them at last on the same level as their prey, enjoying a life of ease and big money.
    “They always wanted to make a killing from Diana.
    “Last Sunday morning in Paris, they succeeded
    “It is horrible to imagine that Diana’s last view of this world might have been the flashing cameras of the cockroaches of the Press.”
    Michael Jackson was luckier. He died at home, apparently of a heart attack, although if you read the British newspapers the day after – tabloid or “quality” – you might believe that Michael Jackson was murdered or died of a drug overdose. There was no more evidence of those things than there is that Jackson was a child molester, but to say that is to court ferocious hostility and hate because there are people in this world who KNOW the truth and are not to be contradicted by evidence unless delivered by divine messenger. Jackson died without permission from the media.
    If one looks carefully at the mass media of the western world it soon becomes apparent that the death of Michael Jackson is the biggest money-making opportunity for them since the death of Diana.The Daily Mirror makes it explicit with a tag-line following every Mirror story on the web. It reads:
    “Michael Jackson dead at 50. All you need to know about the King of Pop.”
    And, if like the Times, most of their stuff is second or third or fourth hand, or invented, malicious and libelous, who cares?
    “There was so much crap in the air that it was impossible for anyone – perhaps even Jackson himself – to disentangle truth from fantasy.”
    Jackson is dead and can't sue, and under American libel standards set by their Supreme Court 42 years ago, were he alive he couldn’t sue even if he wanted to, because as a public figure, and a public figure more public than any other in history, it would have been almost impossible for him to sue even if he could prove that his maligner knew that what he was saying was untrue but said it anyway with reckless disregard for the truth. With Jackson surrounded by bloodsuckers of every breed, rank and description, from crooked district attorneys to suborned employees and journalistic moles, there was so much crap in the air that it was impossible for anyone – perhaps even Jackson himself – to disentangle truth from fantasy.
    Public personalities and particularly show business personalities are, ipso facto, all creatures of fantasy. Canute, king of England, Denmark and Norway more than 900 years ago faced a smaller but no less intractable problem. His courtiers may have seen the ocean's tides disobeying the king, but that was no doubt because the King was playing a game.
    What the Nanny ‘saw’
    As the old nursery rhyme says:
    “Big fleas have little fleas
    Upon their backs to bite 'em
    And little fleas have lesser fleas
    And so on ad infinitum”
    I was reminded of this by a bizarre story in the Sunday Times of London. The beginning of the story should prepare you for whoppers to come:
    "Grace Rwaramba who cared for King of Pop and his children has shocking secrets of his addictions and bizarre nomadic life."
    This elaborate work of art details how Grace the Nanny, fired by Jackson in 2008, was “working through her phone calls to LA on Friday, desperately trying to ensure that the children were comforted after losing their father, she sobbed and screamed and became more incoherent.
    “Yes, this is it . . . because (crying) this is it . . . because he started avoiding everything. We were trying to help him and they fired me because of this (sobs).”
    Yet, not knowing where the children were and not having spoken to them, Grace Rwaramba, in a London hotel, informs the credulous Times reporter that –
    “the children had been anxious about their father and had been trying to care for him — he hasn’t been eating and the kids have been so scared for him.”
    “Worried by the endless goings on in the Jackson compound Grace turned to me at the end and said: “The youngest one has been saying, ‘God should have taken me not him’.”
    Clearly, Grace is either telepathic or psychopathic.
    “The intention was to dish up as much dirt as possible to coincide with what would have been a triumphal return for the King of Pop in 50 concerts.”
    Why was the Times interviewing the nanny in the first place? They are silent about this, but clearly the intention was to dish up as much dirt as possible to coincide with what would have been a triumphal return for the King of Pop in 50 concertssold out almost as soon as they were announced.
    It’s a dirty job, but hey! someone has to do it.
    The Times is owned by the world's voyeur in chief, Rupert Murdoch, who owns the Sun, the News of the World and the New York Post a well as the unfair and unbalanced Fox TV news network.
    Other newspapers were not much better except that most of them seemed somewhat more discreet with rumours and hearsay.
    Blaming the fans
    In the Times the lady who wrote "What the Nanny saw" followed up with a learned disquisition entitled "The fans killed their idol; they always do."
    Disingenuously she tries to turn the blame onto the fans and away from the real criminals:
    "We know how the stars loathe the paparazzi, smash their lenses, call them — as Hugh Grant did this week — wankers and losers. But what they can’t, daren’t, say is how deeply they loathe their fans — their pestering, cloying, snatching, the demand for photos amid a private dinner, the sneaky snapping with their crummy mobile cameras while a star is buying a latte, pushing his kid on a swing, their high-horse outrage when a demand is politely refused."
    She blames the fans when it’s the media voyeurs and intruders who manage the lunacy. She carps at Angelina Jolie whose "fanbase are the reason, as much as great wealth, that Angelina Jolie feels she can demand a no-fly zone over part of Namibia while she gave birth there …." Guess what, the no-fly zone was to protect the mother and child from paparazzi who hired planes to try to peep into the most private moments of a family's life. If one had crashed into the house, obliterating mother child and father-to-be Brad Pitt, it would, no doubt, have been ascribed to the onerous responsibilities due to Freedom of the Press.
    Fans don't kill their idols; the murderers are in my so-called profession – now, more than ever – a refuge for pimps, prostitutes, sexually dysfunctional and psychopathic reporters and editors, peeping toms and frotteurs, who are the guys who can gaze at a trembling, shattered human being, on the verge of suicide, and yell "Jump! Jump!" as they make sure their cameras are correctly focused.
    “The murderers are in my so-called profession – now, more than ever – a refuge for pimps, prostitutes, sexually dysfunctional and psychopathic reporters and editors, peeping toms and frotteurs.”
    I once met Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton and when I told someone at work the next day the girls gathered round. It was Burton they were interested in.
    “Did you shake his hand?" one asked.
    “Which hand?" she asked.
    “Why, the right one of course,” at which the young woman took my right hand and kissed it.
    This happened in the BBC World Service newsroom, not among a gaggle of semiliterate hysterics.
    This week Elizabeth Taylor herself, in whose violet eyes I would have drowned given time, declared that she cannot imagine life without her friend Michael Jackson. His ex-wife, Lisa Marie Presley, Quincy Jones, Diana Ross, Oprah Winfrey, Paul McCartney, Dionne Warwick, Beyonce, Martin Scorcese, Donna Summer, Stephen Spielberg, Mariah Carey, Uri Geller, Cher, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jane Fonda, Lisa Minelli, Sophia Loren, Celine Dion, Madonna, and many many others famous and noteworthy, who knew him and loved him, grieved at his death, along with millions more round the world. They grieved because they had lost someone important to them. Crusty steelworkers in Gary,Indiana, his hometown, grieved, as did millions more young and old, rich and poor, famous and unknown, people in prisons and Nancy Reagan and Kim Dae Jung, former president of South Korea, Imelda Marcos, black, white and every shade in between, and their grief propelled several of Jackson's hits back into top spots on music charts all over the world, causing, among other things, a near 2,000 percent increase in demand for his songs on US radio stations and the slowing down of the Internet itself.
    To the imperial media Jackson was guilty of everything of which he had ever been accused, like Jack Johnson, Muhammad Ali and Martin Luther King, Elvis Presley and John Lennon. The problem with all of these and with Bob Marley, Patrice Lumumba and Jean Bertrand Aristide is that they connected in a fundamental way with ordinary people, and that, to the rulers of our world and their servile media, is supremely dangerous.
    Lennon said "All we need is Love"; Jackson sang "We are the world"; Martin Luther King, Bob Marley and Aristide preached “Get up, Stand up! Stand up for your rights!”
    All of them clearly reckoned without the Imperial Media and the new Lords of the Earth.
    John Maxwell a veteran Jamaican journalist. He has covered Caribbean affairs for more than 40 years and is currently a columnist for The Jamaica Observer. He can be contacted at
    Copyright 2009 John Maxwell


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    I truly believe that if the

    I truly believe that if the media hadn’t hounded Michael Jackson, he would still be with us today. I was a huge fan of his during the 80s and part of the 90s (basically until I’d outgrown that level of fandom) and everyday at school and college, people would give me newspaper clippings about MJ – some from UK, some from imported mags. I saw the media change almost overnight. He was saying that he didn’t want to give interviews because he was tired of being misquoted and he went from being portrayed as a sensitive and shy enigma to Wacko Jacko wearing masks, sleeping in oxygen chambers, and having extensive plastic surgery. And I’m ashamed to say it came from the British tabloids (the snickering schoolboys that they are).
    I feel that if that hadn’t happened and if the public hadn’t been so happy to join in kicking him, then individuals wouldn’t have felt there was enough public support to take him to court with false allegations, and he wouldn’t have spent the rest of his final years defending himself over and over again. Since his death, I’ve been looking at some of the coverage I’ve ‘missed’ over the last decade. What a horrible way to live. I’m surprised he made it this far. Once you call someone mad, you can get away with saying pretty much anything about them and people will think at the very least, “Hmm, well maybe. I mean he is crazy after all.” I’m really pleased to see here that there are some people who are questioning what they told and not just engaging in some bizarre public execution.

    Finally his soul is at rest

    Artist - Stevie Wonder
    Lyrics - They Won't Go When I Go

    No more lying friends
    Wanting tragic ends
    Though they do pretend
    They won't go when I go

    All those bleeding hearts
    With sorrows to impart
    Were right here from the start
    And they won't go when I go

    And I'll go where I've longed
    To go so long
    Away from tears

    Gone from painful cries
    Away from saddened eyes
    Along with him I'll bide
    Because they won't go when I go

    Big men feeling small
    Weak ones standing tall
    I will watch them fall
    They won't go when I go

    And I'll go where I've longed
    To go so long
    Away from tears

    Unclean minds mislead the pure
    The innocent will leave for sure
    For them there is a resting place
    People sinning just for fun
    They will never see the sun
    For they can never show their faces
    There ain't no room for the hopeless sinner
    Who will take more than he will give
    He ain't hardly gonna give

    The greed of man will be
    Far away from me
    And my soul will be free
    They won't go when I go

    Since my soul conceived
    All that I believe
    The kingdom I will see
    'Cause they won't go when I go

    When I go
    Where I'll go
    No one can keep me
    From my destiny.
    When Stevie Wonder sang that song at the memorial, he set the right response for all the self-righteous, sactimonious, self serving hypocrites who see what they want to see and believe what they want to believe despite evidence to the contrary. It really drives them to a raging fit to see Michael Jackson recieve his just accolades in death that he never recieved in life. My response to those narcissistic sociopaths is this:
    Die in Your Rage

    "Die in your rage:" I luv it

    All you Michael Jackson, playa hatin M.F.s can "die in your rage."  Yes, he got his just recognition in connection with his passing.  For the record, the only thing he was guility of was loving this shithole world too much, of demonstrating the ultimate in humility, of giving of himself and his riches til it hurt, and of creating some of the most inspiring, uplifiting, soulful music of all time.  He is not the greatest entertainer of all time, he is one of the greatest musical forces of all time.  Michael took jazz, blues, pop, rock, R &B, and Soul and created and recreated in his own unique voice. In the words of MC Hammer, "You can't touch this."  His musical gift moved people to tears and higher places in addition to making them dance their asses off, it was and remains, transformative and eternal.
    Frankly, most Blacks ( I won't be so arrogant to assume I speak for all)  don't give a rats ass about critics of Michael Jackson, especially coming from the MSM White Male dominated press.  And to their chagrin, and the chagrin of all you playa hatin M.F.s,  Michael Jackson proved in his passing that he was so much bigger, so much better, than anything, anyone imagined. .  That really f**ks with people, the asses who want to put him down but can't.  In the end their criticisms come off as whimpers and pissing in the wind.  Yes indeed.  "Die, ... die in your rage!" you bastards. Haaaaa

    I Pity you Dosamuno

    You have an evil heart and soul to:
    1. Even to read the hate-filled rant you are so agreeing with,
    2. You have the audacity of ugliness to post such trash on Black Agenda report.
    3. Next time you might want to think of your own words to say something about someone who has touched more hearts than you and the hero whose writing you support come never imagine if you lived forever.

    Michael Jackson

    This comment sums up my feeling about the ghastly Mr. Jackson:
    The Man in the Mirror
    By James Howard Kunstler
    on June 29, 2009 6:01 AM

    As America entered the horse latitudes of summer, befogged in a muffling stillness on deceptively calm seas, we were distracted for a while by visions of a pale death angel moonwalking across the deck of collective consciousness. Eerie parallels resound between the sordid demise of pop singer Michael Jackson and the fate of the nation.
    Like the United States, Michael Jackson was spectacularly bankrupt, reportedly in the range of $800-million, which is rather a lot for an individual. Had he lived on a few more years, he might have qualified for his own TARP program -- another piece of expensive dead-weight down in the economy's bilges -- since it is our established policy now to throw immense sums of so-called "money" at gigantic failing enterprises (while millions of ordinary citizens wash overboard, without so much as a life-preserver). Anyway, Michael Jackson was on the receiving end of one huge bank loan after another long after his pattern of profligacy was set and obvious. They threw money at him for the same reason that the federal government throws money at entities like CitiBank: the desperate hope that some miracle will allow debt servicing to resume. Michael could burn through $50-million in half a year. It didn't seem to affect his credibility as a borrower. When his heart stopped last week, he was living in a Hollywood mansion that rented for several hundred thousand dollars a month. You wonder how the landlord cashed those checks.
    Like the USA, Michael Jackson was a has-been. He hadn't recorded a song worth listening to in over two decades. He had done almost nothing but spin his wheels, hop around the globe from one place to another at enormous expense, and make himself available for award ceremonies to stoke his ego (and give advertisers a reason to promote some televised award show). He existed strictly on image, an anorectic figure nourished by moonbeams of attention, famous for saying that he loved his worshippers when the truth was he merely sucked the life out of them. In his last years, he even looked a bit like Nosferatu, the personification of the un-dead, and his fascination with ghouls was the basis for his biggest hit way back in the last century. A zombie nation deserves a zombie mascot.
    He was a poseur, vamping in weird military outfits as though he were a five-star general in the Honduran army, or a character from a melodrama by the reprobate Jean Genet. He once materialized during halftime at the Superbowl in a shower of sparks, thrilling the multitudes while grabbing and stroking his sex organs, as though that was a heroic activity -- and indeed the nation seemed to emulate him as its culture became dedicated more and more to acting out masturbation fantasies. America was a fat man jerking off on the sofa watching a vampire of no particular sex vogue deliriously on the boob tube.
    More than once the authorities tried to pin charges of child molestation on him for suspicious activities at his boy-trap, Neverland Ranch, with its carnival rides, private zoo, video game galleries, and inexhaustible supplies of sugary treats. The first time he settled with the alleged victim's family for $22-million. They just walked away with the loot and happily shut up. The second time, he moonwalked out of a court-of-law while weeks later jurors mysteriously went on TV to say, well, they did kind of think after-the-fact that he really did those things he was accused of, but, you know.... The defendant himself behaved as though his trial were a TV celebrity challenge show on another planet, arriving on one occasion twenty minutes late in pajamas with some lame excuse about a backache. He spent the last years of his life wandering a few steps ahead of his creditors, gulling concert promoters into "comeback" schemes (with walking-around money up front), and with three bought-and-paid-for children, obviously not his own, for consolation.
    When he dropped dead last week, the nation's morbidly maudlin response suggested a cover story for the relief of being rid of him and all the embarrassment he provoked. One CNN reporter called him a genius the equal of Mozart. That's a little like calling Rachel Maddow the reincarnation of Eleanor Roosevelt. A nation addicted to lying to itself tells itself fairy tales instead of facing a pathology report. Yet, like Michael Jackson, the undertone of horror story still pulses darkly in the background. The little boy who grew up to be the simulation of a girl was really a werewolf. The nation that defeated manifest evil in World War Two woke up one day years later to find itself stripped of its manhood, mentally enslaved to cheap entertainments, and hostage to its own grandiosity. Maybe in grieving so exorbitantly over this freak America is grieving for itself. All the loose talk about "love" from the media and the fans gives off the odor of self-love. America is "the man in the mirror," the gigantic, floundering Narcissus, sailing into the stormy seas of history.

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