Yo, King of Pop--

I think one looks at you and we can understand each other on some level. Peter Pan eh? That was a fun story. But it was for children and wistful adults who looked back at a merry 12 year old with a knowing "wink". That "Star Wars Kid" did his best impression of Peter Pan, flying around that video with a broomstick, and fell down to earth where he splattered like a hot sack of shit dropped off a building. After-all, he wanted "to be a super-star". . . . .

If we want to be overly-dramatic "post-impact", we'll liken ourselves to "The Elephant Man"-- perhaps the most accursed misfit of all Victorian England who limped along with a hideous bone deformity that caused him to grow all sorts of tumors as he stumbled through the streets, gawkers following him as they pointed and laughed at his gnarled, twisting misfortune.

Well, to the extent we add to our own self-imposed exile by doing really stupid things besides the blameless sin of having ankliospinosis. For instance, as consummate performers, we do a stunt "to seek attention". If that fails or does not have "the desired effect", we do another one-- hoping to clear the wreckage of the previous failure. But with our balance off, we ruin that one. But then we try another stunt. . . . . and on the cycle goes until we're in the kind of situation when we look like Rodney King trying to get back up, but then get beat back down by the guardians of society, notwithstanding "the punks in the press" or the tormentors on the school yard.

And then as wounded "Peter Pan's", we hide. You can say we are extremely sensitive, wounded, and generous creatures. . . . . if not self-indulgent to a fault. And we respond so overwhelmingly to all overtures of allegiance and friendship, not quite understanding that in our rank vulnerability that all sorts of bottom-feeders will sense an opportunity "to move in" and "take advantage" of our need for emotional-confirmation. . . . . turning around at the worst moment and disemboweling us with the ultimate betrayal.

Suspect all overtures, looking over them closely.

Don't bargain with blackmailers because ultimately a smart sociopath knows never to surrender "their ultimate bargaining chip". Besides, the information has a way of getting out regardless. Form a firm perimeter of defense that demonstrates that you have nothing to hide and public curiosity will dissipate like so many clouds in a bright, blue sky of honesty and openness.

I fell into a trap back in high school when I kept having a mental image of the film "Cool Hand Luke"-- the message being that "they couldn't break him". But the difference between myself and Luke was that this fictional character was living down on the absolute Paleolithic slab of existence--a chain-gang in the deep south-- and didn't have a "Neverland Ranch" to retreat to with a sheltered world of sub-reality which "had the space" to act so foolish.

Yes, avoiding the ultimate issue of where this 14 year-old stood in the cosmos as the scene was reflected off the no-nonsense glare of a sentry's eyes gripping a shotgun "and holding the line".

Was I "bad"?

More like "sad". Very sad because I was refusing to face the consequences of "not growing up" and seeing the world for what it was. Though I didn't have millions and millions of dollars and a distorted celebrity existence to enable my behavior, I had enough of "a cushion" put up by my parents to go down some very strange roads. And they weren't happy ones.

So "turn it down". Your public will thank you and eventually, you'll thank yourself for making the right change. "Neverland" never was.

Next I'm going to knock on the gate of "Prince". . . . .

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

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(Rheeee of Crickets)

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