Rumours Of His Death...

As I write, the death of Michael Jackson has yet to be officially confirmed, although it’s widely reported as being an unquestionable fact.

The reaction of the hard-hearted cynic in me, upon hearing such news, usually goes something like Pshaw! Where’s the body, then? I want conclusive DNA tests!

As distasteful and shameless a stunt as it would be, I’m half hoping that the whole story has been concocted by Michael and his publicity agents to ensure an extended sell-out concert run for his upcoming tour, if only to enjoy watching Karl Stefanovic – drunken tv host unextraordinaire – squirmily back-pedal his way out of another lapse of professional standards. One can’t deny Michael has involved himself in many an ill-advised publicity situation before – think baffling marriages, dangling babies and naively candid documentaries.

On a different tack, if anyone were likely to be a client of Lisle von Rhoman’s, surely Michael Jackson would. Anonymity would be a high price for someone accustomed to revelling in fame, but surely for immortal beauty ’twould be gladly paid by a deeply troubled man dogged by repeated allegations of unsavoury criminal conduct, universally judged to be unfit to care for three innocent children, and addicted to cosmetic procedures beyond the ability of his mortal body to endure.

Am I the only crazy conspiracy theorist who thinks it suspiciously convenient that the very rich seem to die when personal scandal catches up with them? Christopher Skase, Rene Rivkin, Hansie Cronjie – oh yes, they’re all living it up on some exotic tropical island that mere plebs like us are too poor to even know exists, laughing over cigars rolled on virgins’ thighs and brandy distilled in the bellies of unicorns about how they fooled the world. Ol’ Wacko is on his way there now, giggling effeminately and admiring his alabaster skin in a diamond-bordered hand mirror. It all makes perfect sense…

…Except that now it’s been confirmed the reports have not been exaggerated. His three poor, maladjusted children are now to be exposed to the cruel real world with which they doubtless have never been taught to cope, and some slimy opportunists will make millions off the whole affair.

Whaddya know, it is a bloody tragedy after all.

Medicine

I don’t think it’s terribly healthy that I’m developing an aversion to my own blog. I mean, it’s supposed to be a cathartic outlet for my pent-up rantings, right? But if a palpable dread pulsates in my guts at the mere thought of logging on for a look, let alone writing a new post, then it’s not really fulfilling its raison d’être, is it?

Anyone who studied psychology in high school, or ever watched an episode of Dr. Phil, can tell me that it’s some sort of associative aversion stemming from the focus of recent posts on my friend’s sad and untimely death. Understandable, you might say (if you were making generous allowances for the special Lonie brand of irrational mental processes), until I reclined on your leather consulting couch and told you that now even thinking of turning on the laptop gives me the collywobbles.

Enough!

While I needed to scoop the last few entries out of my bubbling brain and deposit them somewhere before they boiled over and caused a messy accident, I can’t let this blog become like my teen-angst-filled diaries: too painful to read, silly and self-absorbed though it may be. This is supposed to be a refuge from polite conversation, a bastion of unrestrained ranting on topics which cannot be visited in real life without unpleasant consequences. If I can’t come here anymore because of psychosomatic gut-churnings, then I may as well sew my mouth shut and administer my own lobotomy to enable me to cope with the petty trials of my family and work.

Besides, though you’re all too kind and polite to say it, you must be getting tired of my morose and downbeat blogging. I’m sincerely grateful for the support I’ve received from my readers during this and other low times, but there are enough personal and communal problems in the world without me contributing to compassion fatigue with my endless and futile musings on her death.

Let me then pour into my blog’s wounded bosom the balm of a humorous song:



Hee hee. I feel better already.

Memento

"Babo will protect you. Having a bad day? Someone giving
you a hard time? Babo's got your back. What Babo lacks in
mind power, he makes up for in love. He's everybody's best
friend. He will stick with you to the end and when something
scary happens, he will send you a nice greeting card from
wherever it is he runs away to.

A very curious, mischievous creature, Babo may need some
guidance and parenting, so make sure to bring him with you to as many places as possible. Leaving him at home is fine, but
please put all cookies and money on the highest shelf."

He helped her through some bad days. He even went to the funeral. I happened upon his twin while wandering aimlessly around the shops, and he happened to be on sale.

When it suits me, I choose to believe in signs – of which, more later – and it makes me happy.

Another She

"So if you wanna burn yourself remember that I LOVE YOU,
And if you wanna cut yourself remember that I LOVE YOU,
And if you wanna kill yourself remember that I LOVE YOU,
Call me up before you're dead, we can make some plans instead.
Send me an IM, I'll be your friend”

From Loose Lips by Kimya Dawson

In a parallel universe, that’s just what happened. The thought makes me smile.