Bad

By Crispin Sartwell

The other day - as is my habit and indeed my responsibility as the most eminent pundit of my generation - I was sitting on the couch staring vaguely at CNN. I was half hoping to obtain information about the train explosion in North Korea. Initial reports had been horrific, suggesting that thousands may have died.

I didn't really learn much about Korea until the next day. This is partly due to the fact that North Korea, as I think anchor Kyra Phillips cogently pointed out, "may be the most closed society in the world." But the other factor was the closedness of our own society, where the whole of the wondrous universe seems to have been narrowed down to Michael Jackson.

An argument could be made for some fraction of this coverage if Michael Jackson were a profound or original artist. Were he Bob Marley, for example, the aesthetic oomph might sustain us through some months of degradation. Rather, Mike was at one time a reasonably good pop singer whose records were produced and marketed with extreme professionalism.

Bob Marley recorded "Redemption Song." Michael Jackson recorded "Bad" (which, as you may recall, featured Jackson chirping in this wise: "hoothe bad? hoothe bad?") That was an artistic high point. Since then, it's been downhill. At his best moments, Michael Jackson made dull, conventional pop.

His descent into megalomania, isolation, self-loathing, self-mutilation, and possibly child sexual abuse is a sad tale. It is in many ways similar to the derailment of a train carrying explosives. But it's infinitely less important.

I am cursed: destined to be stalked continuously for the rest of my life, despite all evasive maneuvers, by omnipresent pop mediocrities. Somewhere out there in the ether, Phil Collins lurks still, waiting to emote at me when I least expect it, leaving me torn between suicide and homicide. Every time Sting becomes audible, say, on the sound system of a restaurant where I've already ordered lunch, "the most closed society on earth" begins to sound paradisiacal.

Admittedly, non-stop coverage of the Beloved Leader would be annoying. But bad state propaganda is funny. Wall-to-wall Jackson is just mind-numbing. Throw in a big old dose of Kobe and you have television that is as dull as a bowling ball. Indeed, celebrity justice is more boring than the last Sting album, if such a thing is possible.

Like you, I frown on middle-aged men who have sex with children. But apparently unlike you, I have had my fill of proto-military garb, hair relaxer abuse, stirring testimonials by Elizabeth Taylor, even moonwalking on SUVs.

I don't care who Michael Jackson's lawyer is, or what motions he's filed today. I don't care what twenty-seven former prosecutors and defense attorneys think about it, supposing for a moment that they think at all. To be completely honest, I don't even care how proceeds the FCC examination of Janet's breast.

I notice that there's less Martha Stewart since her conviction. Stepping down now from the exalted level of my punditry to the level of simple human decency, in my heart of hearts I'm hoping for Michael to be convicted, even if he's innocent.

Crispin Sartwell's latest book is "Extreme Virtue: Truth and Leadership in Five Great American Lives" (SUNY 2003).