An Old Indian Custom that Some Motherfuckers Need to Embrace

There is an old American Indian custom (don't ask me what damn tribe because I don't know) that when a person dies, it is respectful not to speak of them AT ALL. Not bad remembrances. Not good remembrances. No words. I think that custom is lovely for a number of reasons, and I think the folks around Michael Jackson and the press ought to learn from it.

I frankly don't want to hear anymore speculation about Mike's marriage to Lisa Marie or the children who stayed with him at Neverland Ranch or how much dough Mike's shiftless family members (not all of them, but some of them) are trying to get their greedy grubby hands on. I also don't want to hear anymore about possible prescription drug abuse. It's all over. Michael is dead, and nobody forced the pills down his gullet. That's the way he chose to live, and there are consequences for the decisions we make in life.

Now some people are probably going to get angry with me for saying this, but I don't give a flying fuck. Mike's private life was between him and God. Nobody else. And I personally don't care to make any judgements about what I don't know. It isn't my damn business or yours or those fuckers over at FOX News (especially Bill O'Reilly).

The issue of the children at Neverland will bring the damn do-gooder idiots out of the woodwork in righteous indignation, but the people who should have been concerned about the welfare of the children (whatever happened) are the damn parents of the children who visited Neverland. It was first and foremost their responsibility. I know my mom and dad never would have let SB's amusement-park loving ass go unaccompanied to Neverland Ranch. NO WAY. NO HOW.

I just wish that the press and MJ's famdamily would embrace the wise old Indian custom and shut the fuck up about Michael's life. It just makes them all look base and cruel to speak about what they don't know for sure. It's indecent and cowardly because Mr. Jackson can't defend himself.

I just pray that Michael is finally at peace somewhere. Wherever. And that's all I personally have to say on the subject. And now, I'm going to let it, and Michael, rest. Poor soul.

Mike Is Dead and I'm Not Feeling So Well Myself

SB is hungover and very down this morning. My dear Aunt Carol wisely used to call the days after the BIG drink, self-hater days.

Mike is dead, I am divorcing a good friend that I spent a lot of my life with, the cows in the field I pass on the way into work have their ears tagged this morning (I assume this means they are about to be sold and shipped, and yes, I am a total fucking hypocrite because I eat meat) and SB is fat, old, and tired. Mike's death just reminds me of how old I really am. If it could happen to him, it could happen to me. Anytime. If you are looking for humor today, you will not find it here.

Ironically, on the way into work this morning, I was playing my new Red House Painters CD, and there was a remake of John Denver's Sorry on it. Perfect. Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself. When I walked into work this morning, I actually had a tear sliding down my cheek. How embarrassing. I just let that sucker roll.

In a recent interview, the philosopher Johnny Depp (and I am not kidding when I say this and I am also paraphrasing) asked where is my generation's Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Well Johnny, he died unexpectedly yesterday. That's my answer, and as I remind you, I am not joking. Not one iota. You, dear readers, can beg to differ. That's your prerogative. I don't give a good goddamn.

Any negative comments about Mike will not be posted.