State of shock

Yes, indeed, I am so way overdue for some comments on the death of Michael Jackson. And if you know me and follow my status updates on Facebook or listen to me braying loudly after a few too many Long Island Iced Teas, you would know that I do have quite a number of comments to make.

I have a draft in the works of something longer and more barbed (now, now). I'll get to that . . . eventually.

But I had an encounter today with a friend that got me thinking about Michael Jackson in a completely different way than I have over the last (please, god, when will it end?) two weeks of national and international mourning.

My mental trajectory so far has been along these lines: Overindulged pop star, psychological mess, alleged child molester, inadvertent social activist, superstar, drug-addled parent, and expert media and image finesser--which, frankly, is a lot more thoughtfulness than I've gleaned from 24/7 TV coverage on CNN, HLN, and MSNBC.

Today, however, I had what I think can best be called a paradigm shift. I was talking with a friend of mine, Rocky, about the whole MJ hullabaloo. Sort of a "where were you when the King of Pop's lights went out, and how did the people around you (over)react?" if you will.

We got onto the topic of what the story of Michael Jackson says about American life. "Not anything good," laughed Rocky. "Money can't buy happiness," I added, "nor necessarily good plastic surgery."

Rocky, who identifies as transgendered, seeing himself more as a woman in a man's body, chuckled over this statement, but then added, very subtly, "You know, I sympathize with Michael Jackson to some degree. I empathize with him in many ways, it's just that . . . ."

"He was so out there," I offered.

"Mm-hmm."

We moved onto other points, grabbed our coffees, and got back to work.

But later in the afternoon that term "empathy" kept needling my consciousness. Empathy. Why would someone like my friend Rocky feel empathy for Michael J--?

Oh. My. Goodness.

What if the way to understand Michael Jackson, at least in part, is to view him as a transgendered person, a woman ensnared in a man's body? What if all the surgeries, the hair, the light, feminine voice (something that he didn't have as a child), the makeup, the garb, the persona--what if all of this was an attempt by Michael Jackson to reconcile his true female self inside the shell of his maleness? And to attempt to do so in full public glare?

This has kind of blown my mind, to say the least, and caused me to feel a lot more sympathetic to MJ than I had previously. Despite Michael Jackson's increasingly female persona over the years, despite (now) it being so obvious, it just never occurred to me to think of Michael Jackson as anything other than weird or freakish. It never occurred to me to think of his behavior or appearance in terms of transgenderism or transsexuality. Yet, in many ways, at least on the surface, it makes some sense to do so now.

This isn't something Rocky told me--in fact, savvy, intelligent person that he is (and I continue to say he because he presents as a man in daily life), he led me up to it by being who is he is, dropping a couple of subtle hints, and letting me figure out the rest on my own. I'm grateful to him for that; I am happy to know him, at least in the little ways that I do.

I don't think transgenderism is an easy concept for a lot of gay men, myself included. Oh, Logo may have a TV program on transgenderism and transsexuality every other hour, but talk directly with a lot of gay men and most will claim not to get it and to in fact have some issues with it, even some hostility toward it.

I would have included myself in that group up to even a couple of years ago, prior to knowing Rocky. I wasn't comfortable with the concept (as if I needed it to be all about me!), in part because I think as a gay man, at least a gay man of a certain age, you grow up having to defend yourself from accusations that you really are a woman or want to be a woman or woman-like. You're not even feminine--you're effeminate--and worthy of scorn for not being a "real" man. (By the way, what this says about society's view of women I'll leave to your own judgment.)

It's hard not to internalize this and some of us react by becoming more stereotypically masculine, while others react by becoming more stereotypically feminine. To each his own.

But taking on the feminine doesn't get you a lot of respect in the gay community these days because it is viewed as very old school and self-loathing. For years we've told ourselves we don't have to be "sissies" anymore, we're real men, and we're worthy of equal rights under the law. But we've often done this by conforming to certain ideals or expectations, at the exclusion of other types of gayness or sexual/gender expression. On the one hand, wouldn't we all like to fuck everything that moves? On the other, wouldn't we all like to get married and have children just like our heterosexual brothers and sisters? (Assuming a lot--that they would like the same for themselves, too.) Of course, we would! To both!

Because of this legacy, as gay men perhaps we view transvestism, transgenderism, and transsexuality as something of a cop-out. Add to all this the question of life on the downlow--"I'm not really gay, I'm bisexual" or worse, "I'm not gay, I just occasionally like to fuck guys"--and it can be challenging as a modern, right-on type of gay man to accept much deviation from "the norm."

But who are we denying by doing so? And what understanding and ways of being and consciousness are we denying ourselves?

I've got no answers here. I still think fame, fans, and family warped Michael Jackson in ways we've yet to comprehend, in ways that are totally separate from any question of his possible transgendered identity. I do think there are serious questions about him and his behavior--the child sexual abuse allegations, the manipulation, the victimhood, the excessive amounts of plastic surgery, the physical manifestation of his intent not to spend "life just being a color"--that warrant thoughtful analysis, understanding, and sympathy.

I would not, however, consider the transgenderism part of that warping. Not at all.

There's been a lot said about Michael Jackson these last couple of weeks--some of it excessively critical and caustic (who me?), some it excessively laudatory. Despite the fact that for a while he was the world's biggest music star and pop cultural icon, despite the fact that Michael sold millions of records, I'm not thoroughly convinced that he was the civil rights leader and cultural innovator that now many are quick to label him. He has his place, but does he have more social impact or cultural import than Martin Luther King, Jr., Lena Horne, Bill Cosby and the Huxtables, Rosa Parks, Barack Obama, Wilma Rudolph, Shirley Chisolm, or Prince? I just don't know.

If, however, Michael Jackson was trying to figure out who he was and how he should live as a woman inside a man's form, and attempting to do so in the brightest of limelights, known by nearly every person on the planet, that could well be the most important, impactful thing about him.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Palmetto Road

Now what was that I was saying about almost feeling sorry for Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina? Hmmm, lemme think. It all seems so long ago.

His recent announcement that he had found his "soul mate" but was "trying to fall back in love with his wife" (thus, Mrs. Sanford, is his cell mate?), however, brings my cynicism back into clear focus.

Wow. I mean, WOW. First of all, who among us in the sentient being class, doesn't already try to avoid describing our loved ones and life partners in language other than that used by the desperate twenty-something bimbos who inhabit the landscape of The Bachelor? Second of all, you might think something like that--I love my girlfriend but will take my wife, puh-leez--but no sensible, life-valuing person would ever say that in earshot of anyone he ever claimed to love, the children they hold in common, or a reporter from the Associated Press.

But, then, I'm no expert at assignations, political or otherwise. I know that there must be some advantage to issuing dueling press releases in which one tries to outdo and over-the-top the other with Bible verses and religious imagery. I can't imagine them both being so vacuous that they would keep doing so, with their children and at least two nations in tow, merely to salve their own egos. Surely not.

All in all, though, the whole affair reminds me less of a Bible-thumping melodrama and more of the early '80s nighttime sudser, Flamingo Road. Lots of philandering real estate developers with political aspirations, tired of their wives and taking up with señoritas from the wrong side of the hemisphere. Add some outré plantation imagery and voilá! Grande éxito!

We are still in serious need of a ruthless, small-town sheriff/bubba (c'mon, South Carolina, I know you've got it in ya) and a Morgan Fairchild-like character to sauce up the spot, but, all in all, it's got great potential.

* * *

As I mentioned in my previous post, for one brief, tiny moment, during the first rambling, Harlequin Romance-meets-Nicholas Sparks novel of a press conference, I kinda felt sorry for this schmoe Sanford. Life is way too short to be unhappy and not to be with the one you love. Yes, you need to attend to your responsibilities and adhere to your commitments, but no matter how much you believe in a wrathful, vengeful God, I just can't believe He or She or It would want Us to be so miserable. So why not come clean with your wife earlier in the game, serve out your term, stay close to your children as best as possible, and beat a regular trail down Argentine way as time and income allow? Surely, there is real estate that needs developing in Mar del Plata or Bariloche. Surely, there are possible TV gigs for your girlfriend stateside. Just tell her to dye her hair blond and head over to Univisión.

Just make sure this flavor of en-tango-ment is the one you want, chavo. We know that "hiking the Appalachian Trail" is a euphemism for having an affair with Our Lady of the Pampas. But what exactly is "going down Argentine way" a euphemism for? All I can see from here is that however enjoyable the love, the sex, the whatever may be, you end up crying for five days in a hotel room in Buenos Aires. This can't be good.

In my mind, once I got past the sheer schadenfreude of the moment (the loudest naysayer to Obama's stimulus package has a bit of a problem with an overstimulated package, as it were), I started to wax eloquent about the awfulness we visit upon ourselves in this country by being so binary and rigid, wrapping ourselves in the Shroud of Turin only to end up soiling ourselves in it. We whip ourselves into a frenzy over flag, country, Mom, children, baseball, apple pie, and Chevrolet, only to realize that Dad fed the children some poisoned apple pie, whacked Mom over the head with a baseball bat, loaded them into the family Impala, then drove 'em all straight into the Grand Canyon while singing "God Bless America," while wearing his favorite Kate Smith gown.

But then, when asked some innocuous question about the affair, Sanford actually *whimpered* before responding. Whimpered. Like a 49-year-old lovesick Republican teenager with a penchant for the cheesiest romantic imagery in emails ever. At that moment, all bets were suddenly, irrevocably off. Jeez, Marky Markdown, whimpering's for . . . well, no, not cats or some other pseudonym for the feline persuasion. Whimpering's for dogs.

Specifically, a dog named Bucky.

This whimpering, unfortunately, reminded me of a childhood pet, our ugly terrier mix, Bucky (short for Buckshot, which described the color and style of his fur), the homeliest, horniest little mongrel you could imagine. Way back in the '70s before we gave too much thought to Bob Barker's admonition to spay and neuter all creatures great and small (except ourselves, right Bob?), Bucky ran rampant through our neighborhood, pretty much impregnating anything momentarily stationary--animal, mineral, vegetable.

Nonetheless, Bucky was a sweet dog, so fugly that he was cute as my grandmother used to say (except she didn't say fugly), a good companion, and noteworthy for his obedience. For example, if a female dog passed by and you commanded Bucky to stay put, he would do so.

However, he would also whimper, quiver, and, um, "react" the whole time, until the female dog was out of sight and smell.

It was, to say the least, pathetic. I mean, my goodness, you felt sorry for him, just wanted to set him free and let him fertilize the world--at least until the next-door neighbors came to complain that Bucky had just knocked up their AKC-registered poodle.

Again.

* * *

So Mark Sanford, no sympathy for you, I'm afraid. Once you've got an image of a scruffy, horny mutt in your head, whimpering and crying because he can't be with the one he loves but will try to love the one he's with, well, it's hard to let it go.

When I made this comparison to my sister, recently, she protested: "You're doing a disservice to the memory of Bucky."

Alas, I suspect she's right. Bucky at least knew when to sit down and shut up, a trick that an old dog like Mark Sanford has yet to master.