In the culmination of the most star-studded, avidly watched trial of the century this month, musical phenomenon and alleged pedophile Michael Jackson was completely acquitted of all counts. I hope you won’t think less of me when I say I’m disappointed.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I think he was guilty of child molestation, giving alcohol to a minor, the deliberate release of “HIStory,” and the other equally heinous charges. I have absolutely no clue if he did any of it – I’m pretty sure I wasn’t there, unless someone got me really drunk — and so I have to assume the jury found sufficient reason to doubt the accusations. Fair enough.
Nor is it because this verdict was a surprising, almost unprecedented refutation of the most hallowed law of American jurisprudence, “Dude’s a freakjob with a monkey, right? Of course he’s guilty!” (Cited by Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, 2002, United States v. That Guy Over There).
It’s not because I think Mr. Jackson desperately needs a visit from the 50-ton Clue Hammer to teach him what every good teacher, priest, and scout leader already knows: whatever your motivations, never, ever get seen around kids without someone else around. Someone other than a future prosecuting witness, I mean.
It’s not even because any trial that can be described as “star-studded” deserves to end in prison time one way or another. After O.J. and Robert Blake, America needed someone to go down.
No, I’m disappointed because I was already looking forward to what would happen if Michael Jackson went to jail. I don’t mean the exciting suicide watch and the inevitable network countdown to see when his nose would fall off, but because Michael Jackson is an insanely talented musical prodigy. Surrounded by violent offenders, drug dealers, and littering rapists, pressured and tortured, pushed to the limits of human endurance, the unstoppable creativity that guided him to the Billboard charts time and time again would take that experience, internalize it, and ultimately burst out to take the world by storm with the next big musical genre: Gangsta Pop.
Imagine, bland and peppy hip-hop music (also known as “hip-pop” or “bubble gun music”) without offensive language, without any sort of smacking or shooting or &%#@ing whatsoever. Elevator rap.
I’m picturing a muscular Michael with a sequined do-rag and a sleeveless silk prison shirt that shows off his new gang tattoos. He’s tougher now, more world-weary, and his trademark “hee hee” squeals now carry more than a trace of irony. But he’s still the King of Pop and the other inmates in the yard fall behind him in perfect step as he makes his MTV broadcast debut.
I was scouting for an outing when she came right down my street
Hid my gun, cuz it’s fun for me to smile at her and meet
With her ladies, acting shady, all my boys will think I’m crazy
But I never knew a woman who could deck me like Scorsese.
Did the drama, met her momma, and her dad in his pajama
Made ’em think I was the greatest thing since Mr. Dalai Lama
Now we’re dating, roller skating, reading poems and debating
She’s just waiting, tolerating, while I’m rehabilitating
Got no taste for crime no more
Or popping with my nine
(HEE hee!)
Swapped my drugs for vitamins
And Pepsi for my wine
(HEE hee!)
My last bling is this gold ring
So would you please be mine?
(HEE hee hee!)
Even in solitary, he’d be on top of the charts. A new era of rapping would dawn. Nonviolent, finger-snapping rap that would unite the world in peaceful, Old Navy-wearing brotherhood. Hip-hop that could be displayed proudly in Wal-Mart, hip-hop that could be cranked all the way in car stereos without bothering anyone else, hip-hop that could be played at political conventions. Like the great musicians before him – Ray Charles, James Brown, the Blues Brothers – Michael would emerge from prison changed, wiser, more soulful, and victorious.
But now, we’ll never know.
Until his next trial, of course.