Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Debbie Rowe

Michael Jackson's ex. One of his exes. The dude went through chicks like a wolf through the fold. Debbie Rowe must have been just one of his innumerable female sexual conquests. He just had a well-known passion for privacy. Homie was a piston engine. Freakin oil derrick. Ah, I see Debbie went to Hollywood High. Why, so did I. On my. She was in my grade. Hmm. That's odd. Hmm.

Dammit. I knew her. I took her out a few times in 11th grade. I took her to see Suspiria, a truly awful slasher movie -- the one, in fact, that made me decide never to see that sort of movie again. I apologized to her for the experience. I took her to Pinks, the world-famous chili dog place on Fairfax, or maybe La Brea. I chased after her dog who'd gotten away, and who died later that week of a heart attack. It was very fat. So was she. But she was sweet.

No. Wait. I think I'm thinking of Shelly Reiff. But I knew a Debbie Rowe. I went to her house once late at night with a buddy and knocked on her bedroom door -- she had an outside door -- and her boyfriend answered through it and said he had a baseball bat. Well, I hadn't given my right name. Then we went and looked for some more trouble. I was the one with the car. But I'm thinking now this was a different Debbie.

Ah, yes. Now I remember Debbie. Not a pleasant girl. I had her in a number of classes. Tenth grade Accelerated English, with Miss Stern. She must have been gifted. Stringy two-toned blond hair. I think I'd known her since elementary school. Very JAP. Just someone who was in the same classes -- not a friend at all. No chemistry. Sort of unlikeable. Well, maybe I did take her to Suspiria. But no, I've decided it shall not be so.

Whew. That was freaky. I went all cold when I thought, well, when I thought what I thought. Too close a brush with semi-celebrity. Especially in the given context.

I looked her up to see how old the Jackson kids are now. Eleven and twelve. At the LA memorial Tues they put this little girl up to talk about how wonderful a dad her dad was. "Dad." Still, maybe he was a good dad. Not much of a role model, but love matters. If he loved them, and wasn't just using them the way some parents do. It's not the biology that makes us love. I had sons who were not my biology.

There's a lot of talk that Jackson's dermatologist was the sperm donor. Didn't Jackson have sperm? The kids share no racial characteristic with him. How much did he hate his racialness, not only to mutilate himself beyond recognition as he did, but to refuse to breed. Vitiligo? What a very obvious lie. It's blotchy. The product he used to bleach himself is known, a powerful cream called Benoquin per Vanity Fair. When his effects were seized during one of his various trials, tubes of Eldopaque were found -- another skin bleach. It's not that he bleached himself, it's did he have vitiligo. Of course not. He had Peter Pan Syndrome. If he had vitiligo, why did he bleach out the dark tone, rather than color in the white spots? We have the answer by what he did to his nose and lips and hair. The boy wanted to be white. What a racist. Be what you are. It's a good thing. Black or white -- isn't that his song? Songs are mostly lies, I've come to believe. And Jackson was nothing if not a liar. A racist, self-loathing, self-mutilating, child-molesting liar.

As for Rowe, rumor has it that she was a surrogate. That would explain why she took only $8 million and a house for the deal. That's less than being molested would earn. But she doesn't think of them as hers. The kids are genetic icebergs, calved off some unknown glacier. Maybe a Jewish skin doctor as a father, who cannot comment on the matter because of doctor-patient confidentiality. An unknown egg donor, and a rented womb from a convenient and complicit female that I went to school with. I haven't seen the kids, save a few pictures. I hope they can find a blessing.

Jackson is an utter irrelevance now. He's Kool & the Gang. He didn't have a new idea since the 70s. He is an idol, which is appropriate since pagans need idols, but his legacy is harmless -- his professional legacy. The Children's Crusade of boys who trooped through his various bedrooms must tend to their own wounds -- even those who did receive multimillion dollar payoffs. We know money doesn't cure anything, or else we'd expect Debbie Rowe to be a better person now than when we first were introduced to her. The harping harridan we might see on the gossip shows does not argue for such a conclusion.

It's a story about victims. But I've decided to promulgate a new slogan. No sympathy, only respect. What we should want, and work for. It's not the bad thing that happens to us, it's how we handle it. Bad things will happen. We still have choices. Jackson's story is over, for all that the news ghouls will be tearing at the corpse, and the victims of his molestations will have to find their own way through his infecting madness.

Why are there freaks? So there can be freak shows. It's the modern American art form.


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