As I sit and watch the Jacko experience, I keep thinking that I’ve seen this before. A washed up celebrity is accused of a major crime. An arrest warrent is issued. He lays low, saying he’s going to turn himself in. He doesn’t. Eventually the cops raid his hotel room, and as they bang on the door, he pulls out a gun and shoots himself, or maybe he cuts his wrists in the bathtub, or maybe, after knocking down the door, the cops find his body found surrounded by pills and whiskey. Either way, he’s dead.
That’s the way the story goes. However, I can’t actually see Jacko doing any of those things. I can’t actually see him in a mugshot either. I can see him saying, “I love the children. I’d never do anything to hurt the children. The children are my life. I love the children. Yes, the children sleep with me in my bed, but it’s like a sleep over. I love the children. I’d never do anything to hurt the children. Yes, we take baths together, but it’s because I love bath time almost as much as I love the children. Who doesn’t like to splash in the water and play with the bubbles with children? And this just breaks my heart that anyone would accuse me of doing anything to hurt children, because I love the children. You know, I’m a father, and I’d never do anything to hurt the children, because I love them so very very much.”
While, I can sort of see Jacko on the witness stand in a televised courtroom saying “No. That’s not true. I love the children.”, and then trying to cry but can’t because his tear ducts were removed in ‘96. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jacko is supposed to just whine incessently about how he loves the children, and keep on doing what ever it he does with/to the children of parents stupid enough leave their kids alone with him. 5-8 years from now, Jacko is even more of a tabloid after thought than what he already is. Eventually, the children stop coming because the number “true fans” with prepubescent children has been exhausted. He records an album, but it sells less copies than the worst selling new age hippie indie artist that advertises in the back of “Mother Jones”, “The Nation”, “Utne Reader”, or whatever liberal rag you want. (Oh wait, he was already getting ready to do that.) Perhaps Neverland is sold off/repossessed, to pay off his mountain of debt. He eventually becomes an old man in his bizzare world shuffling around, talking to his mannequins, watching “Peter Pan”, and talking about how much he loves the children to no one in particular, all in a very Baby Jane way. After his dead body is discovered (died of natural causes 24-48 hours before discovery), the videotapes of his exploits with the children he loved so much are discovered, in a Bob Crane kind of way.
The public says, “Damn. Well it’s not like this was suprising. What the was wrong with that nut job? And what the hell was wrong with those kids’ parents?” 2-3 days later, he’s knocked off the front page. Maybe 5-10 years after his death, a television movie is made for basic cable. It gets a .5 share.
