"This Is It! This Is It!"

Michael Jackson's 'This Is It' is a horrific piece of work. I'm not a fan of the man-- I've said as much before, in previous blogage. But I do believe he was the one and only King of Pop, and from what I've seen of his interaction with the members of the ensemble he had arranged for the blow out final tour known as 'This Is It'. He brought people out into the spotlight, and I'm sure stars would have been born if the tour actually happened. But he's a broken man in this thing. He spouts religious rhetoric as if he's had a stroke, repeating the same sentence-- "God bless you."-- again and again, so people can hear him.

But here's the thing-- he was the King of Pop. And I don't know if 'This Is It' was always intended to be released but... it shows him at his weakest. At his lowest. This was rehearsal footage, was it not? Not him being the brilliant entertainer we know him capable of being. This him going through the motions of getting a tour together. This isn't what people want to see, is it? Well, actually, it is, more than likely. I sometimes forget that I'm apart in my opinions from the general populous.

I have celebrity, or, to be more specific, our celebrity-obsessed culture. So this piece of exploitation is something bound to get on my wick, is it not? I have to admit, hearing the songs is a delight, but his voice quality isn't what it was. No way. It's depressing to see a once great performer slumming it through songs, so he doesn't 'strain his voice' for the actual performances.

Boo.

Here's what I would have preferred to see-- a retrospective. A collection of concert footage, videos, etc, that showed him at his best, not his worst. 00s Jackson was never going to surpass 70s/80s Jackson, and that's plain to see for those watching. But people won't care. They'll just want to 'meet the man you never did/will' or whatever the film's tagline is. People want a piece. Constantly, unrelentingly, and it's sick. It's like trying to get bits of his body from the open casket, hair and skin and fingers and rings and stuff, just like they used to do with Popes.

The one good thing to come out of this though, is that I got to hear the Vincent Price Thriller rap in a cinema screen. That shit is sexy HOT. God love the man.

"Tell me what you've seen, tell me where you've gone, tell me where you've been, tell me what you saw."

I know what Rives was talking about.

I'm ill. Swallowing feels like downing razor blades, my throat feelred and raw and unbelieably previous in it's position of "there". My throat feels like it could topple down at any time, and fall into the pit of my uneasy stomach and stay there. I'm listening to Blonde Redhead to make me feel better (a thought I think I feel is ridiculous, considering).

I can't stop thinking.

I promised myself I'd keep my work at work but I keep thinking about work and thinking about work is counterproductive toward sleep, but I can't help it. I'm thinking about getting told off for losing 3d glasses (we have non-disposable ones) when I next go into work. I'm thinking about how Michael Jackson's This Is It is already one of the highest grossing films of all time, beating Star Wars no less, on presales. I'm thinking about how that's going to be a rough one when it opens on Wednesday. I'm thinking about my twelve hour shift then, and how I'll deal with it. I'm thinking about "Bear Flu" and how awesome a concept that is. Because come on. It is.

My dreams have a narrative tonight. All fevered and disjointed but a narrative none the less. There's a game running in there, something about fighting zombies. But at least I'm not talking in my sleep... that's counterproductive to Life. The concept, not the amazing television show starring Damien Lewis. I'm thinking about DVDs. I'm thinking about sleep.

But I can't.

I found out I'm up for promotion, but so are three, maybe four other people, and they're all stabbing each other and me in the back. I don't know if I want to know who they are to gauge my competition, or to back stab them as well. It's not in my nature to betray, so why would they do it to me? And why would I start making mistakes when I'm up for promotion and people are paying attention to me. What's up with that? I mean, apparently it's good. Healthy. But I don't know. I really don't.

Anyway, it's 4am, and I'm awake. Laptop battery will die soon. So that'll be that. And I'll be here again. Rudderless. Brr.

Obligatory "Michael Jackson Is Dead" Entry

Who cares that Michael Jackson is dead? Why are people making him out to be some kind of saint? People seem to have forgotten that he endangered his child (out of a window!), the allegations of him being a paedophile that were only quashed in court by savvy OJ-esque legal wrangling, and that he had a monkey love-mate called Bubbles. A MONKEY LOVE-MATE!! He should have died, say, twenty years ago, when his career did. And to those saying it's too soon for horrific and crude MJ-related jokes? I say to you no. Nothing's changed. He's still an example of a celebrity breakdown, shown in excruciating detail by our modern media juggernaut. Respect his children, sure, but he was no Mother Teresa.


I'm also intrigued about the Ofcom rules* that purportedly state that you can't say anything negative about a passed celebrity 24 hours after his death. So, what does this mean? That bang on 11pm (or whenever), the insults are going to start rolling in? Is this a form of censorship? Because it's reporting like that which ensures that people *aren't* honest, doesn't it? So have Ofcom overstepped their position in the world?

*Apparently more of a guideline.

This entire situation is one I've watched keenly-- I've recently become more and more aware of how the media outlets report these events, and with that knowledge I realised how... how disgusting everyone is. The BBC, for instance, wheeled out the same specialists, called the same old people, and kept repeating the same two segments last night, as they scrambled for the death-porn that was the footage of the ambulance leaving Jackson's residence.

The world is going to shit.