Michael Jackson, if you love children so much, where are the girls? Miss America / Howard Stern
Tourniquet
Stern's book into one post for anyone searching for it in the future.
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From Miss America by Howard Stern, 1995.
CHAPTER 2
MICHAEL JACKSON, IF YOU LOVE CHILDREN SO MUCH, WHERE ARE THE GIRLS?
And now the story I refused to talk about on the air: my meeting with
Michael Jackson.
Why did I keep my lips sealed about this top secret tete-a-tete?
Did I remain in silence because I will never betray the confidences of
high-level executives who swear me to secrecy?
Do I have a set of ethics that forbids me from opening my mouth when
someone asks me to please keep things confidential?
Hell no, I knew this story was so good that for once I'd keep my big
mouth shut and not talk about it on the radio so I'd have something
totally fresh to put in my new book. I'm always admitting everything
about my life for free. Even though Robin begged me to tell her this
story on the air, I played it smart and now I'm getting paid for my
secrets.
So here it is, the exciting story of how the King of All Media met the
King of Pop or the King of Schween or whatever Michael Jackson calls
himself. How did I end up in Dolly Parton's apartment overlooking
Central Park having a business meeting with one of the biggest
celebrities in the world? Why would a superstar come to Howard Stern
seeking help and guidance? The plain and simple truth is ...desperation.
You would have to have sunk to an all-time low to start crawling
underneath my rock, and Michael had pretty much hit rock bottom. Child
molestation charges! The only thing worse is finding out the National
Enquirer just got tapes of you fucking your brother and not only did you
make him bleed but you broke his crib. Let's face it, when all else
fails why not go to the miracle-maker, Howard Stern. Of course, it's
always risky because Howard Stern can help you but he can also sting you
and write about your meeting in his book.
My entire career has consisted of toilet-bowl radio stations at the
bottom of the barrel that have come to me when their ratings have
disappeared and they needed a nuclear bomb in mornings to jumpstart
their pathetic operations. So Michael Jackson, the disgraced superstar
was ready to talk . . . and so was I. I mean, what else did I have to
do?
LIVE FROM THE CHEVY CHASE THEATRE, IT'S THE HOWARD STERN SHOW
The whole story began about a year ago when I was at a particular high
point in my career. Three television networks were actively courting me
for various programs. About twice a year they call me to save late-night
television, especially after I do something spectacular. When my first
book became the fastest selling book in the history of Simon & Schuster,
I began getting calls from every film executive and television type.
Suddenly, I was a mainstream performer who had real clout in the
marketplace - I was bankable. Immediately they would all forget about my
most controversial material and the fact that I could be real dangerous
as a broadcaster. Hey, let's face it, I've sold a lot of product. If you
totaled all the revenue I've generated in radio, books, video, and
audiotapes, it would be a bigger gross than ET, Jaws, or Indiana Jones.
Of course, Hollywood usually forgets this fact except when it's glaring
them right in their stupid faces.
So, here I had written a bestseller and my old friends at Fox Television
immediately needed me. Fox was always doing a dance with me. The first
time they approached me was years ago when
they wanted me to take over Joan Rivers's show and go head-to-head with
Johnny. They were a new network and the whole proposition seemed like a
disaster with all of the confusion a startup operation brings. Several
years later, when Fox didn't have the rights to NFL Football, they
approached me again about doing a halftime show so they could steal
viewers away from CBS during the Super Bowl. One of the ideas they
suggested was a live interview with Sylvester Stallone, Arnold
Schwarzenegger, and Bruce Willis. The four of us would sit around, and I
could ask them whatever the fuck I wanted. It sounded interesting to me
because in a live situation we could really go wherever we wanted
without any second-guessing from the edit room. I liked the idea, but it
never got off the ground because Fox is always interested in me working
for them as long as there is no big price tag involved.
Now I was hearing from Fox again with frantic daily phone calls. Chevy
Chase had just finished his stint in the Guinness Book of World Records
for the "chump with the shortest late-night television show in history."
You remember The Chevy Chase Show, the one with all the innovations -
like a fish tank behind Chevy's head, a piano keyboard built right into
the desk, a theater named after him. Well, like the Nostrildamus that I
am, I had predicted in my book that the show would last only six weeks,
and I was off by only seven days - Chevy only lasted five.
So here I was, bestselling author and sage, and Fox wanted to talk. They
wanted me to step into Chevy's shoes. I knew that if I took the job, I
would immediately kick ass in the ratings and be the new darling of late
night. The show would be cutting-edge and I would do it from the Chevy
Chase Theatre. How great would that be? Live from the Chevy Chase
Theatre, it's The Howard Stern Show!
The Chevy slot intrigued me because I didn't want to end up competing
with pushovers like Conan or Tom Snyder. My name was always being kicked
around for a late-night slot to compete with Conan, and I considered it
an insult. I'm a little too good to be stuck in a twelve-thirty rut.
Conan and Tom Snyder battling for a 1.2 rating wasn't my idea of a
competition. I wanted a shot at Letterman and Leno, because it was
clear that they were not filling the needs of the audience. It's pitiful
and shocking that Nightline beats the both of them. When fun
entertainment can't beat serious topics at eleven-thirty at night,
something is wrong.
Because of time limitations, it's very hard for me to create original
television programming on a nightly basis. Take a look at guys like
Letterman and Leno-Letterman, particularly, is behaving like a
psychotic. These guys are ready to crack from the pressure. I read that
Jay is hiding in closets eavesdropping on NBC executives, and
Letterman's beating up walls whenever he thinks he did a particularly
bad show.
I firmly believe they are both so beatable that it's ridiculous. For
example, when Salman Rushdie was on, Letterman had him read a top-ten
list. I mean, that's absurd. A top-ten list? Fuck that. Here's a guy who
has been in hiding from Iranian hit men. I want to know what his life is
like. Can he get laid? Are there chicks who find it cool when you're in
hiding? What's his day like? I want to know. I don't want to see him
read a top-ten list. I want him telling me about life on the run.
Letterman should be trounced.
Unfortunately, Jay Leno is not a broadcaster and doesn't understand how
to do it. He's doing okay, but late-night audiences want something more
dynamic. He's doing an imitation of Letterman's show. I truly like both
Jay and Dave, but I know I am a better performer and could fill the
late-night void, no sweat. Did you know that a Jenny Jones rerun on
Channel 9 in New York City beats both of them? Her stupid show is
working because she's giving the audience something real, something to
get worked up about. No monologue, no jokes, no bits, and she wins
consistently.
Anyway, I loved being courted by Fox and was extremely flattered. In my
convoluted logic, if they were willing to pay Chevy nine million a year,
I was worth at least three times that - I'm a proven winner on TV and
radio. Still, I was in no particular rush to sign up with a late-night
show because there were two years left on my radio contracts. The idea
of doing two of these projects a day seemed mind-numbing, but a good
buck can always turn this girl's head.
Fox was coming fast and furious, but when it came to money they were
being ridiculously cheap, as usual. For an unproven commodity like Chase
they were paying nine million and now they were looking at me as cheap
goods. Besides, while I have no love for Chevy, I was shocked at how Fox
treated Chevy when they dumped him. As soon as the critics began
ravaging his show with bad reviews, Fox executives were ripping Chevy a
new asshole in the press. Now that ain't right but it's typical of
broadcasting executives. None of them wanted Chevy's fresh blood on them
so they distanced themselves and blasted him in the newspaper.
Years from now everyone will remember that Chevy bombed, but they won't
remember that Lucie Salhany was the executive in charge of the network.
So I kept turning down the Fox offers. If I was going to go into a long
and arduous schedule, I wanted to be compensated. The Fox execs were
shocked that a lowlife like me wouldn't come begging to them for this
opportunity, but I'm no fool. Who else could pull off this kind of
late-night miracle for them: Greg Kinnear? Rosie O'Donnell? Whoopi
Goldberg? Wrong. I guess word got to Rupert Murdoch that I wasn't
jumping at the late-night offer and he summoned me and my agent, Don
Buchwald, up to his beautiful offices to convince us to take over the
eleven P.M. slot.
I found Murdoch to be a real down-to-earth guy who was anxious to win. I
liked that. After a great pitch by his closest broadcast associates - I
call them the Australian mafia - I leaned in and asked Mr. Murdoch one
question: If I did something on the air that was outrageous or I got in
trouble with the FCC because some listener complained, would he stick by
me or would he feel compelled to fire me? I was honest with Murdoch and
explained that when you truly innovate, the public and critics often
react to an irreverent new show negatively. In essence, I said, you're
sending me in to detonate a nuclear bomb in late night: Will you hang in
there when the going gets tough? With the look of a priest about to
offer absolution he said, "Of course."
Bingo, that was the right answer.
But it didn't matter deep down, I didn't believe him. I don't believe
anyone.
I was hot and everyone was coming at me. NBC was anxious to get involved
in prime time, day time, night time, anytime. Warren Littlefield and I
got chummy and we danced for quite a few months with intense
negotiations and discussions. Once again, the deal wasn't lucrative
because for some reason everyone wants to get me cheaply. I know why
they find it hard to pay me:
they're thinking that if I am too controversial they can ditch me and
pay off a small contract. So I told Warren that I needed some autonomy.
I said, "When I start to do things that don't look like typical boring
television and the critics ravage me, will you stick by me and not
panic?" He, of course, also said "Yes."
I didn't believe him, either.
Next it was CBS and Howard Stringer's turn. I guess I always thought
Letterman and CBS would come to me and offer me the slot after
Letterman. First of all, CBS is desperate for ratings and Dave is a big
fan of mine. Any broadcaster with half a brain would recognize that if
you have a program on after Letterman that is truly original and worth
staying up for, it would be an asset to Dave's ratings. A buzz would
start happening. CBS would look hip.
When Letterman hired Tom Snyder as his follow up, I knew he was doomed
to fail. In fact, Snyder can't even beat Conan O'Bnen. I think Letterman
was too insecure to choose someone like me because I might steal some of
his thunder. The fact of the matter is, I would have added to the
excitement and helped to make a late-night dynasty. Stringer and
Letterman were aware that Fox and NBC were after me and that I could do
serious damage to them on another network.
In order to keep me away from late night, Stringer offered me any other
kind of show I wanted: I could do specials several times a year or a
sitcom. Most of all, Stringer wanted me to develop a show to go up
against Saturday Night Live. He said if I didn't do it he would have to
just run a movie on Saturday nights.
Well, my head was so swollen I could have been mistaken for Rush
Limbaugh. I was dizzy with the power at my fingertips, and it kept on
snowballing. Fox called again because word got out about CBS's Saturday
night offer and they too wanted me for Saturday nights.
Actually, CBS was really starting to interest me. I had just set up the
Howard Stern production company. I truly believe that with films, books,
and TV I could develop a comedy franchise, much like National Lampoon
did in the seventies and eighties. I had already begun developing
scripts and had been talking to many people about a bunch of ideas. With
CBS, I could start to create specials. I discussed this with Stringer
and he loved my ideas. I wanted my first CBS special to be a
blockbuster, something that would blow the minds of the industry.
THE NEVERLAND VALLEY FAIRY TALE RANCH
I had always considered doing a Barbara Walters type special because
BARBARA WALTERS IS SUCH A KISS-ASS, i could really shake up that world
of the celebrity prime-time interview. I would profile four
celebrities, but in no way would it resemble those lightweight,
suck-ass interviews that everyone does. I want to know how Bruce Willis
fucks Demi Moore - in what position and how many times a week. I could
give a shit about his next movie.
Anyway , God must truly be on my side because while I was putting
together this production company and coming up with ideas, my agent, Don
Buchwald, calls me and says that Michael Jackson's manager. Sandy
Gallin, called him. Michael Jackson wanted to come on my radio show, but
Sandy needed to talk to me first because certain issues needed to be
discussed.
DON," I said, "THERE MUST BE SOME SHIT IN MY EARS - I thought you just
said that the reclusive bizarro I've been goofing on for the past year
wants to come on my radio show."
Don said I had heard him correctly. I was shocked. What did Michael
Jackson want from me? If he wanted to talk he must really want to kill
me, because I hadn't exactly been kind to him over the years. In fact, I
never really got the whole Michael Jackson thing anyway. His music never
seemed particularly interesting or innovative to me. I was a fan of some
of his videos, and I recognized that he was instrumental in elevating
the look of rock videos. But mostly I considered him to be PATHETIC AND
FREAKISH.
I first started goofing on Michael Jackson when he started showing up in
the tabloids and doing wacky stuff like living in a hyperbolic chamber.
Once it was reported that he had been trying to buy the remains of the
Elephant Man from a London hospital for $1 million. I was so incensed at
Michael's crass behavior that I called up the hospital on the air and
bid $2 million.
"He's not for sale," a stodgy representative of the hospital told me.
"It's for research in the medical college. It's not up for bids."
"Haven't you guys done enough work on him? All I really want is an arm
or a leg. Or his hump," I pleaded.
I kept this woman on the line for a good ten minutes. Those English are
so polite they can't even hang up on a jerk like me.
"We wouldn't sell him no matter how much we need the money. He's not for
sale!"
"We can take care of the remains better than Michael Jackson. He's
quirky, he's wacked out," I said.
"We're not selling it," she stood firm.
"All right, do you have any other remains that are ugly that I can buy?"
I asked her.
"That is sick," she huffed.
"But I have a museum," I explained.
"That is really sick. I'm awfully sorry, I haven't got the time." Even
she had reached her limit.
"No weird remains? Sheep boy? Chicken girl?"
She hung up on me. Those British - no sense of humor.
So I really wasn't surprised when Robin announced that Michael Jackson
had been accused of child molestation and that the L.A. police
department was investigating the charges. My first reaction was that
this guy was incredibly ripe for a blackmail situation. After all, we
never heard Webster or Macaulay Culkin say anything about being
molested. But if you're so concerned about helping sick kids, donate
money to a hospital. Build a freaking hospital, don't build a zoo in
your backyard.
Robin then reported that the full name of Michael Jackson's ranch was
the Neverland Valley Fairy Tale Ranch.
"Guilty," I announced.
"I like to bring the boys there and we watch movies," I said, imitating
Michael's voice. "Where do you watch the movies?" I said taking the
part of the D.A. "In seats?" "No, I built a special bedroom for little
boys to watch the movies in case they're sick." "Mr. Jackson, the jury
is back."
"But they never left."
"They don't need any more time to decide. Count their hands. Twenty-four
guilty votes."
"But there's only twelve members of the jury."
"They all raised both hands."
I suggested the LAPD set up a sting operation to determine Michael's
guilt. They should parade a bunch of nude children around him and see
what happens.
"You think Michael Jackson wears a white glove so he won't leave
fingerprints on anybody?" I wondered. "But I don't believe the
accusations. I think they'll find it's a blackmail attempt."
When it came out the next day that the parents of the allegedly abused
kid were wealthy, I began to change my tune. After all, it was extremely
weird for a grown man like Jackson to traipse around the world lavishing
attention and presents on prepubescent boys. If any other adult started
hanging around a neighborhood and calling a kid up four, five times a
day and buying him expensive gifts, the parents would flip out.
Take a woman to the Bahamas. Don't take a ten-year-old boy there.
Then Robin read an article by syndicated columnist Lisa Robinson. She
defended Michael because she had known him for years and when her mother
was dying he sent her flowers. Lisa said that Michael's so innocent and
childlike, his favorite TV show is Sesame Street. SESAME STREET?! That's
the Playboy Channel for child molesters.
By the third day of the scandal, as details of the allegations surfaced,
I had a new theory: Michael had had his face continually changed so each
young boy wouldn't recognize him in a lineup.
It seems to me that Michael Jackson would fit the textbook description
of a child molester: All of the neighborhood kids love him. Michael
Jackson raises money for kids with pediatric AIDS and stuff like that.
These guys always have really cool kid gear set up in their houses -
like video game arcades or toys or movies to show the kids.
With Michael's wealth he doesn't just have movies - he has a theater. He
doesn't have a pet dog - he has a zoo. He doesn't have a video game - he
has an arcade.
Now I ask you: Has everyone out there lost their minds? What the hell is
he doing with these boys?
Then Ryan White's mom comes on TV and says, "Michael Jackson was a
lovely man and he didn't touch Ryan." What do you expect? Ryan had AIDS!
I had child star Corey Feldman on my show to defend Michael. Under
intense cross-examination he wound up admitting that Michael and he had
spent a night together in the same hotel room after a day trip to
Disneyland, but nothing sexual had happened. Then Michael's sister
LaToya disclosed that she had observed over fifty boys who had spent the
night in Michael's bedroom when she and her brother were living under
the same roof as their parents.
Everybody started getting into the act: former cooks, housekeepers, and
security guards all surfaced to report that Michael had a fondness for
sleepovers. LAT0YA got into the act again, revealing on my show that her
mother hated the fact that Michael kept these young boys around. She had
told LaToya in disgust that Michael was a "fag."
By the middle of September 1993, the kid had filed a civil suit against
Michael, alleging activities that included oral sex and masturbation.
"Throw him in jail," I thundered. "This is turning into the evil clown
story. The guy who's a friend to all children. It all fits together. I
wouldn't spend five minutes with kids. He rents entire amusement parks
just to be with them."
Even Paul McCartney, who hasn't written a hit song in decades, opened
his yap. (Well, at least it wasn't that hag wife of his, Linda, the
veggie. Can you believe their marriage has lasted? She must tie him up
every night and fuck him up the ass real good.) So Paul McCartney says
he doesn't think Michael Jackson is capable of child molestation.
"Why doesn't he leave his grand-children with him?" I asked the wall,
which I often talk to.
After police raids on Neverland and his parents' home, Michael remained
in seclusion in Mexico. Then that other pillar of mental stability,
Elizabeth Taylor, flew to meet with him.
"Liz, could you come here," I said in my best wimpy Michael voice, "AND
BRING A CUB SCOUT."
Over the weekend, Michael made a taped statement that he was addicted to
painkillers and he would seek treatment abroad.
I read my own version of that statement, again, in my best Michael
Jackson voice: "I need painkillers. I need some young sphincter. You
would be on painkillers too if every time you got horny someone accused
you of greasing up a first grader. That's painful. I do miss my animals
in California. At least Liz is here - she's a pig. I love boy children.
That's not wrong. I guess sliding into a Jell-0 tub with some Cub Scouts
is probably against the law, right?"
On the thirteenth of December, 1993, Michael returned to the States,
with two young New Jersey boys in tow - what balls! And a few days
later, it was announced that Michael would make a live two-minute
statement to the press. And he would not entertain questions.
Of course, we beat him to the punch.
"MANY PEOPLE HAVE ACCUSED ME OF SEXUAL MOLESTATION WITH THEIR CHILDREN.
I HAVE BEEN ADVISED - NOT ONLY BY ELIZABETH TAYLOR'S PEOPLE BUT I'VE
ALSO BEEN IN TOUCH WITH CAPTAIN KANGAROO AND MR. ROGERS. SHARI LEWIS WAS
NOT AVAILABLE FOR CONSULTATION - SHE WAS ON THE ROAD WITH THAT SMELLY
SOCK SHE CALLS A PUPPET. ARE THE TWO MINUTES UP YET? THIS STATEMENT WILL
CLEAR MY NAME SO WE CAN GET ON WITH THE BUSINESS OF MAKING MUSIC AND
MONEY. AS SURE AS MY PENIS IS SPECKLED, I TELL YOU I AM TELLING THE
TRUTH. NUMBER ONE, I'D LIKE TO SAY TO MY SISTER LATOYA, 'SHUT YOUR BIG
BLACK MOUTH WITH THAT JEW HUSBAND OF YOURS.' NUMBER ONE, I AM INNOCENT.
NUMBER TWO, I AM A GENTLE MAN-BOY. NUMBER THREE, PM NOT GUILTY. NUMBER
FOUR, I NEED A SIX-YEAR-OLD TO FRENCH KISS - JUST KIDDING. NUMBER FOUR,
GREASE UP MY GIRAFFE. A LOT OF CHILDREN DO COME TO MY HOUSE FOR CANDY,
PEZ, CHOCOLATE, AND CHECKS. I STILL PLAN TO ADOPT MANY OF MY LITTLE
FRIENDS. I WANT TO GO BACK TO TYING BALLOONS TO MY GENITALS. I WILL NOW
START THE ENGINE OF MY CAMOUFLAGE PLANE SO THAT I CAN LEAVE THE COUNTRY
WITHOUT BEING DETECTED. DO I HAVE ANY TIME LEFT?
When Michael himself met the press, it was an anticlimax, compared to my
statement.
After his statement, Michael laid low, but we didn't. We opened our New
Year's Eve Pay-Per-View Pageant with a skit featuring Michael Jackson
and one of his little friends, played by a midget.
We had an announcer do a disclaimer:
"We don't know what's going on with Michael Jackson, but the stories
that people are coming up with are getting wilder and wilder. What's
next? Something like this?"
I was dressed and made up like Michael. I was playing with a young boy.
I waved goodbye to his parents.
"Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Stupid."
Then I closed the door, did a 360-degree spin move, and threw my stupid
Indiana Jones hat off. I grabbed the kid and we both moonwalked.
"Ooh, we're having fun on New Year's Eve."
I hugged him.
"Look at you, you little pecker. Roseanne Barr takes bigger shits than
you. What shall we play? I want this New Year's Eve to be the best of
your life, little Dexter. You know what little children like to play?
They like to play chain-the-white-boy-to-the-bed-and-shock-his-balls."
I picked up the midget and threw him onto a bare mattress frame.
"Come on, little boy, there you go." I tied him down, gagged his mouth,
pulled his pants off, and ripped his shirt off. He was left with only
his underpants on.
"Oh, look at all this hair." I ran my fingers lovingly across his legs.
"Ooh, you got more male hormone than I do."
I got up and went over to the wall. I hit a secret panel, and the wall
turned around.
On the other side, there was a huge assortment of S&M paraphernalia.
"Look at this wall, we have everything. Hey, Dexter, do you like
Barney?"
The midget nodded. I pulled a Barney doll off the wall. I walked back
and began stroking his body with the doll.
"You like him, right? He's going to feel real good when I SHOVE HIM UP
YOUR ASS!"
I rammed the doll into his rear. Then I held up two battery booster
cables.
"How would you like to make friends with Mr. Negative and Mr. Positive?"
The midget's eyes widened and he shook his head no. I touched the two
cable ends and they sparked.
"Mr. Wizard can kiss my ass," I said as I clamped the cables onto his
nipples. His whole body began jerking. Suddenly, his parents walked in.
"What is going on here?" his mother screamed.
"Ooh, ooh, uh, well I was just writing you a check for . . ."
I did some Kung Fu special effects moves with my hands and suddenly a
check magically materialized.
". . . fifty thousand dollars." I handed them the check. His
mother stuck it down her dress.
"Well, you boys have fun," she said. They waved goodbye and left again.
"Ooh, where were we? It's about time for me to plug my TV set right into
your ass."
I plugged it into his butt and he started screaming and shaking.
"Now stop being such a baby, little Dexter. I'll get better reception
this way. Look!" I pointed to the screen. "It's that sick, perverted
show I ordered for New Year's Eve. I've been waiting all year for this.
It's Howard Stern's New Year's Rotten Eve!"
PIMP-ASS PARENTS
Except for me, everyone seemed to forget about Michael and his troubles.
Until a month later, when lawyers for Jackson and the boy settled the
civil suit out of court. There were rumors of a $20 million settlement.
"I wish I had a son," I announced on the air. "I'd say, 'Boy, here's the
deal. I introduce you to Michael Jackson. You spend a weekend with him.
First night, you play hard to get. Jump in the tub naked but don't let
him get in with you. By Sunday night, he'll want something off you.
Probably digital manipulation. Some fondling and petting. Sleep in the
same bed with him. Then we sue him for twenty million."
"Okay, Dad, you're the boss."
Quite frankly, I don't blame Michael Jackson that much. I blame the
star-fucking pimp-ass parents of these kids who, let's face it, wouldn't
be sending their precious prepubescent to spend a weekend in Harlem with
just any guy. And, believe me, Macaulay Culkin's parents only let their
cash cow out for the weekend because of Michael Jackson's superstar
status. Why do you think more boys haven't stepped forward? Because the
parents would be prosecuted.
With the settlement, Michael's troubles seemed to have faded away. Under
California law, the boy could not be compelled to testify. Without the
boy's testimony there was no way to prosecute. Now it was time to
rehabilitate Michael's tarnished image. And believe it or not, after
all of my Michael-bashing, after months of my unbelievable tirades
against him, what did this space cadet do? He turned to me, proving, by
the way, that he lived on another planet.
HALFTIME, WITH MICHAEL AND ME
So Michael Jackson wanted to come on my radio show. Frankly, I was
shocked. Forget that I had been hammering him on the air for the last
year-the pay-per-view skit alone should have been a huge embarrassment
to him.
So, with all the ballbusting and crap I had been dishing out about
Michael Jackson, I was truly shocked when Sandy Gallin, Michael
Jackson's manager, made a pitch for a meeting. I got the impression that
Sandy and Michael were completely out of it, so caught up in their
Hollywood ivory towers that they only had a vague notion of what I was
about. The only thing they knew about me was that I attracted large
crowds when I signed books.
I don't think either one of them had actually bothered to listen to a
broadcast of mine. Sandy had seen the footage of me outside of a New
York bookstore and believed that I was someone who could attract the
same massive crowds for Michael. Sandy's vibe was that I was a man of
the people, and he wanted me to tell my radio audience Michael was okay,
that he wasn't a child molester. He wanted me to urge everyone to come
out onto the street, leave their homes, and show support for Michael
Jackson by staging massive demonstrations across the country.
We would begin spontaneous mass demonstrations that would show public
support for Michael. For three days they would need me to scream on the
air about poor Michael Jackson and how the press and the public had
abused him with these false molestation charges.
"Okay, people! Let's take to the street, and demonstrate for Michael
Jackson." Those words sounded like they could come out of my mouth . . .
if there was a gun up my ass.
There was more to the plan: After days of massive demonstrations,
Michael would come on the radio show unannounced and thank me and my
audience for standing by him while the media continued to try to frame
him. I guess their thinking was that because I'm sort of a
counterculture type, they would be able to reach out to that white
earth-dog audience of mine and receive mass acceptance of Michael from
the white middle class that worshipped me.
They were missing the point: the reason I had credibility with my
audience was that I was the kind of guy who would never sell out and go
along with a moronic notion like this. But from their point of view I
was the one that could say, "Hey, man, Michael Jackson's no child
molester. He's the real deal. He's a good man."
They actually wanted me to do this!
Of course it was a great plan except for one problem: There was no way
in hell I would go along with this insanity.
I was dumbfounded. What a fucking plan this was. First of all, it was
absolutely absurd. Who in their right mind felt Jackson had been cleared
of all charges? Number two, who in this cynical world would take to the
streets for three days over anything, especially accusations about
Michael Jackson? In Bosnia, there's a holocaust and people don't take to
the streets. And number three . . . why would you approach a sarcastic,
honest-to-a-fault asshole like me with such a cockamamie idea? Maybe
Rick Dees is asshole enough to go along with this - he makes Dick Clark
look hardcore.
Well, when Don finished this story, I started rambling like a mental
patient about how absurd all of this was. Could these guys really think
I was going to go along with this? Did they know anything about my show?
How jive would I sound to my audience as I took to the mean streets of
New York and demanded respect for an all-American looney like Michael
Jackson? In the past I had often thought Michael Jackson's ability to
use the media and hype any project was well thought out. When he was
thinking clearly, he constructed a mysterious aura and leaked out
information slowly. His interview with Oprah was released at just the
right moment to create a publicity bonanza.
It was now apparent that all of his previous publicity plans had
happened quite by accident.
Don and I decided to present a better idea, an idea that could
capitalize on our new relationships with the networks, especially CBS. I
didn't want Michael for a radio show. I had bigger plans. Howard Stern
and Michael Jackson meeting together was more important than just radio.
Michael Jackson coming in unannounced was not grand enough for the great
King of All Pop.
WHAT WAS REQUIRED WAS A FACE-TO-FACE MEETING, LIVE ON WORLDWIDE
TELEVISION. LIVE! NO DELAY.
Think of the danger, the anticipation, as meek little Michael got in the
ring with raving lunatic Howard Stern. No rules and no question off
limits. Since CBS was waiting for a list of specials, what better
kickoff than a live Howard Stern-Michael Jackson broadcast? I never
would have believed that I had a shot to deliver such a show, but now I
had Michael's and Sandy's ears and I was gonna chew on them till
something happened. I knew all of this was a long shot. Even if Michael
agreed to do this, eventually he would listen to my show and get the
shit scared out of him. But I was willing to try.
I knew CBS would jump at the chance, especially when Don and I laid out
our master plan for the special. CBS had recently received a crushing
blow when Fox stole the rights to NFL broadcasts. Imagine how Howard
Stringer and CBS would salivate as we announced a special of this
magnitude to go on halftime against Fox TV's first broadcast of the
Super Bowl. Do you love it? What a pitch! What a special! The King of
All Media does it again!!
Don waited a few days to hear back from Sandy. We didn't want to seem
too pushy. Finally, Sandy called and was all jazzed up about the
radio-taking-to-the-streets-totally-out-of-touch-bull-shit interview
idea. Don told him that we were not interested in the radio concept
under any circumstances, because it wasn't special enough. If we were
going to help Michael with his credibility problem, we were looking for
something special, something exciting, and, of course, a big payday. We
needed to do a TV special. This was probably very frustrating to Gallim
because he was used to getting his own way when it came to representing
these high-profile performers. But it was incredibly arrogant that he
thought I would ruin my entire reputation and career by kissing the ass
of Michael Jackson with a parade in the streets just for a stupid
interview.
Sandy said he would think about it and if there was any interest in the
TV interview, he would call.
AFTER A WEEK OR SO I FIGURED THE IDEA WAS AS DEAD AS THE DICK IN MY
DAD'S PANTS. But then Sandy called Don and requested a meeting to be
attended by Sandy, Michael, Don, and me. The meeting would take place
after my radio show at Sandy's incredible New York apartment that he
shares with one of his other clients, Dolly Parton. Sandy was coming
there to talk about the radio and we were there to push for the live TV
interview.
The day of the meeting I rushed off the air to be there on time. I said
nothing on the air about it, which is amazing because I'm always looking
for shit to talk about. But I knew that talking about it would kill the
whole deal. I was so good about keeping my mouth shut that I told no
one. Thoughts raced through my head about how weird Jackson is. Fucking
Never NEverland! If I had his money and I was single, I'd have Pussy
Pussyland. No time for children's rides.
Anyway, Don and I go to the meeting. On the way over I'm plotting and
planning my pitch and going over it with Don. I've got to get through to
this wackjob to get him on live television. Motherfucker has to go along
with it. The fucking scumbag is real quiet so I'll probably have to
schmooze him and make him trust me. Oh, fuck!
With Ronnie driving the limo, we pull up to this really nice building,
and the doorman is expecting us. Don is talking in the elevator but damn
if I know what he's talking about. I'm lost in my own world. I'm getting
one shot at this and I better be good. Would Jackson be there or will we
arrive first? Will he be a quiet little mouse? Will it be like pulling
teeth? Oh fuck, am I gonna have to kiss his ass?
Gallin greets us at the door and explains Michael isn't here yet. Good!
Gives me time to feel out the situation. Gallin gives us the tour of the
apartment. It's a really classy place with lots of dough poured into the
decorating. There is some guy in the kitchen who is an assistant and
he's washing some dishes in the sink and looks like he's doing the shit
work. We sit down and we're bullshitting, and Sandy's telling us all
about how he shares the apartment with Dolly, and all his clients and
blah, blah, blah. Sandy drops Barbra Streisand's name a couple of
hundred times and how she wants to buy Sandy's house but she won't pay
the price. You get the idea.
Meanwhile, no Michael Jackson. I knew it. The fucker won't show up.
We're waiting fifteen, twenty minutes. That fucking mousse-haired,
white-skinned, needlenose scumbag better show up, 'cause I'm getting
bummed. About twenty-five minutes into this, there's a knock at the
door. I've got to admit, my heart is pounding, because it's probably Mr.
Wonderful, and no matter how sophisticated and blase you think you are,
you're about to meet the biggest star in the world. This guy's huge and
he is so fucking famous and so bizarre - what the hell is this gonna be
like? He will probably be wheeled in, in an oxygen tank.
It suddenly occurs to me when Sandy gets up from this couch that costs
more than Guam, that Jackson will probably be wearing that stupid glove.
I've always felt he was obsessive-compulsive and that's why he wore the
glove, so he wouldn't get germs on his hands. He'd probably appreciate
it if we didn't shake hands, and I'm sensitive to that. Fuck 'im. I'm
gonna shake his hand anyway. That's the way I do business.
HE'S MELTING! HE'S MELTING!
So in walks Jackson and he's dressed up in that big fucking hat he wears
- the Indiana Jones hat - and he's wearing military garb. Damn, he even
dresses up on days off. He's living the Michael Jackson character
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The great star. He looks
like he's in the gay militia.
There's a lot to take in: the pants, the penny loafers. Sheesh, what a
mess! I'm sizing him up and I am surprised by how tall he is. We stretch
our arms out and I give him a strong, manly handshake. Hmmm, no glove.
Just some . . . surgical tape rolled perfectly around each finger tip. I
say, "Pleasure to meet you," and he is silent. I hate that: Ooohhh! Wait
till I get him on TV . . . live, in front of the world! I'll tell him he
should speak up when spoken to. Damn, I'm having weird thoughts. I
better clear my mind and stop staring at the dude or I'll get lost in
the wacky clothes and blow the whole deal.
After we shake hands, Michael plops down on a chair, kind of falls
backward, and sinks in. Sandy starts to talk about how Michael is in a
bad situation because he's still being persecuted by the media even
though he's been cleared. Fuck, is that an absurd statement. No one has
been cleared, just paid off, that's all. Some kid's parents were paid
off, but I'm not really listening to Sandy anyway. I'm focusing in on
Michael's face. I get a close look. He's sitting no more than two feet
from me, directly across, schlumped up in the chair and he's looking
strange. So strange that I want to stand up, glue Sandy's mouth shut,
and scream, "Let's be quiet for at least five minutes so I can stare at
the mess on Michael's face!" I don't want to be caught staring so I try
to catch him in my peripheral vision.
First of all, he has thick white makeup on, like Bozo the motherfucking
clown. It's so thick you feel like you could take a hunk of it off and
stucco a wall. And there, in the center, is this perfectly square nose,
like a scarecrow wrapped in surgical tape. And his nose is wrapped like
a mummy's except at the tip. At the end of his nose the tape is
unraveling, so it just sort of hangs. Screw the peripheral vision. I'm
looking at this weirdo, 'cause nobody does this to himself unless he
wants to put on a show.
It's a hot summer day and this guy has makeup and heavy clothes, and
damn, I'm getting lost in my thoughts. Better concentrate on what Sandy
is saying 'cause I'm here to convince these guys that they should do a
TV show with me. I'm also here to convince them that I'm a sane guy to
do business with, so I better hold it together and stop staring.
Sandy's going on: "You know, Michael's had some terrible allegations
made against him in the press, but he's clearly innocent." I'm thinking
to myself, He paid off some kid! It doesn't mean he's clearly innocent,
but just nod your head and quit looking at the fucking surgical tape on
the fingers and the nose. Stay focused on the target, Howie baby, get
ready to razzle-dazzle these mothers with the pitch of the century.
Listen to Sandy . . . don't stare at Michael. They are going to want to
hear from me and not Don. Don ain't the guy on the air and they want to
be assured that I'm rational.
While I am staring at Michael I start to become very self-conscious. It
dawns on me that Michael Jackson most likely has no idea who I am. He
was probably expecting a guy who looked like Morley Safer or some disc
jockey type like Rick Dees, and here I am with the schnozz and the hair
stringing into my face. He is probably unnerved by my look - just as
much as I am by his. He is most likely shocked that I look more like a
praying mantis than a journalist. When I get my chance to speak I'll
have to be real clear and show them I'm not some
drug-addicted-rock-star-wannabe but a guy who's pretty levelheaded.
"And what we're thinking here is" - Sandy continues his absurd scenario
- "because your radio show is so powerful, and your listeners and your
fans love you, that starting tomorrow, start to talk about how Michael
has been wronged and how horrible it is."
Okay, Howie, now would be a good time to nod and agree even though you
don't agree at all. These guys must think I'm the world's biggest
asshole if they think I'm buying this shit. Like, why don't they just
bend me over the couch and stick their cocks in my ass. They're crazy,
but you don't want to blow the whole fucking deal right out of the
water. Just look interested and don't interrupt just yet. For once, just
listen!
Sandy drones on with more horseshit in his very serious voice, "And we
should all take to the streets and Michael won't come in at first. No
one will know that Michael is coming in. We'll all take to the streets."
Sandy must be putting me on. No guy could orchestrate major careers and
be serious about this idea. I know I'm supposed to be listening to this,
but I find my thoughts and eyes drifting back to Michael's face. It is
getting hot in Sandy's apartment and every few minutes Michael is wiping
his face. The tape on his fingertips is filthy and all blackened as if
he's been reading a newspaper or something. Michael keeps rubbing his
face, and now there are big black smudge marks running all over it.
Now, this was weird. Michael has yet to say a word. The tape on his nose
is now black because he's been rubbing his nose. The fucker is melting!
Does Don notice? He's got to. The guy notices everything. When I'm on
Letterman, Don criticizes the way I cross my legs and reminds me that I
look awkward in leather pants. How could he not notice this? I know Don
is taking in this whole scene and can't believe it. Don is not a reader
of the tabloids, and he has no idea that Jackson wears the masking tape,
so he must be really unprepared. How the hell is he keeping himself from
laughing? How the hell am I keeping myself from laughing?
Shit, and look at Sandy, he keeps on talking like Michael is normal.
Fuck, I want to stand up and call 911: Come quick; we've got a melting
Michael Jackson on Dolly Parton's chair. Over!
My thoughts are racing and Sandy keeps interrupting the process with the
same pitch in the same monotone: "Your audience will take to the
streets, and then Michael will show up and join you in thanking the
audience, and we'll talk about blah, blah, blah:'
How long would he go on with this drivel? Meanwhile, over in Michael's
corner, the oils from his hair are now dripping onto his face. These two
are a tag team from hell.
THE EMPEROR: NO CLOTHES, NO NOSE
I swear to you, I have never seen anything like this in my life. I want
Sandy to discreetly whisper in Michael's ear that maybe he should excuse
himself and go pull himself together in the bathroom, but obviously this
is a case of the emperor having no clothes. It's tragic that when you
get to be that big a star everyone is so concerned with kissing your ass
that no one tells you the truth. (And by the way, when you read this,
you better tell me this is funny or you're fired.)
Sandy sounds as if he is winding down on the radio pitch, and I am just
about on. My mind is still racing with nose-tape questions. I read in
the tabloids that the guy has had so many nose jobs that his nose caved
in. I've seen pictures of it. And he threatened to sue anyone who says
his nose is crushed. Looks like one too many nose jobs to me. The
cartilage doesn't support the nose, so I guess he wears the tape over
it. It's all wrapped perfect. I wonder if he wraps his own nose? Good
question, I'll ask him that on the TV special.
"Tell me about your day, Michael. At what point do you wrap your nose?
Michael, the thing is in a perfect triangle - how'd you learn to do
that? How come you can't get the last piece of tape to stick?" Only a
rich guy could get away with looking like a mummy. Who the fuck would
leave the house with tape all over his nose?
I mean, the guy has no fucking qualms just sitting there . . .
"Howard, what do you think?" Don says.
Oh shit, I'm on.
Don is sitting next to me, and Michael and Sandy are across from me, and
I focus my attention right in their eyes. I alternately look at Sandy
and Michael.
Sandy has finally come to a halt. Now it is my turn and I had better get
my shit together even though my brain is still locked on Michael
morphing into Freddy Krueger over in the corner. My point is going to be
simple and clear: Their plan is not believable and quite frankly there
isn't another personality on earth who can take Michael and turn him
around with the public, but they will have to trust my instincts. In
order for this to be accomplished, it has to be done in a credible way.
For sure, there is one thing that is true about me, I don't take people
for a ride or try to dupe them. And I wasn't gonna try and hose them by
telling them an idea was good when it wasn't. In fact, if I don't
believe in something, I don't take part in it.
So with the sincerity of Mother Teresa I say, "Look, guys. No one in
their right mind is going to take to the street for Michael Jackson."
Oh, fuck . . . great opening line. Sandy looks disturbed and Michael
looks, uh ... as melted as an ice cream cone.
"That's not true," Sandy protests. "Did you see Michael's fans in
England and Japan?"
"Yes, that's true, Sandy. But those are Michael's hardcore fans. I
assume by coming on my radio show, you are trying to reach people who
are skeptical about Michael Jackson. I don't have twelve-year-olds
listening to my show who are going to storm-troop through America. If my
audience was at a book signing, they were there because they wanted to
have a book signed. Yes, it turned into a big crowd, but storming the
streets over Michael Jackson's innocence is not going to happen. Three
people are going to take to the streets: the guy from the insane asylum
and two other people following with a net."
I go on.
"If I were to interview Michael, it would send out a signal to the
cynics in my audience that Michael was brave enough to face an honest
and tough inquisitor. My audience knows one thing about me, my critics
know one thing about me, even the people who hate me know one thing
about me: I'm honest. I will ask Michael all the questions in a
forthright and simple manner. If you do an interview with an Oprah
Winfrey or a Barbara Walters everyone will just say 'Candy-cane
journalism. Fluff piece.' This interview must be more important than
that. It should be done on television - different from the Oprah
interview. It has to be live and dangerous - no editing, no
falsification of the record. Michael can't be accused of avoiding the
issues. And that's your only hope of convincing America."
THE WOODEN DUMMY
What a pitch. I have won them over. The room is silent. Sandy looks at
me and whines in a monotone, "No, that's not what we had in mind. We
don't want to do that. We don't want to do that. We want to come on the
radio. That's not going to fly. That's not going to work."
And Michael? He just stares off into space. Still hasn't spoken. He's a
fuckin' wooden dummy, and we're putting on a show for him. I've got to
learn how to do that. I've got to learn to sit in a room like a zombie
and have everyone talk around me.
This is going badly. Sandy says they want the radio idea. It will work.
They aren't really even interested in the radio interview. They are
interested in this demonstration stuff. They wanted me to build hype. It
is all so artificial - everything I'm against.
"Look," I say, "I know what I'm talking about. Consider this: Everything
that Michael Jackson does is done in a big way. He's a superstar. If you
come on a local radio show, it's not important enough. What is big is
the Super Bowl. Opposite the Super Bowl ... LIVE! . . . Michael Jackson
and Howard Stern. The anticipation will be great. There will be a sense
of danger. The critics will be guessing and the audience won't know what
to expect. Someone once said that sports is the only really good
television because no one knows the ending, not even the players. A live
interview will have the same effect.
"The credibility you will get from that, Michael, will turn everything
around for you. Because, Michael, if you've got something to say, you're
saying it to me, a broadcaster people trust. It says you're sincere and
not afraid of any question or any interviewer, no matter how tough he
might be. Michael, you say you've been wronged, and if you've been
wronged, it's a horrible thing. Now's your chance to speak out in a
humorous but very honest forum."
All of a sudden Michael stands up. Wow, I really got to him. For the
first time all afternoon the wooden Indian looks excited. He's ready to
take the challenge. God, I'm good.
"WHO is THAT? WHO is THAT?" Michael says in his high, squeaky,
effeminate voice.
Oh shit, I drove the guy over the edge. Now he's hearing voices. Who is
he talking to? The son of a bitch has a voice higher than my wife's.
What kind of comment is "Who is that? Who is that?"
"W h o is that?"
It's the men in the white coats ready to fucking lock you up and throw
away the key, you mental case. What are you talking about?
Michael continues ranting, "WHO is THAT? YOU TOLD ME THAT THERE WAS
GOING TO BE NOBODY IN THIS APARTMENT, SANDY, BESIDES MYSELF AND THESE
TWO GENTLEMEN AND YOU."
Sandy jumps to attention. "Michael, that's just my assistant," he says,
way too apologetically. "He's in the other room. He's here all the time.
He's harmless. He won't do anything. I'll get rid of him."
So Sandy now runs out of the room, and it's me, Don, and Michael. Alone.
Great! This is going real well. The only time PUPPETHEAD has anything to
say is if his super hearing picks up noise from another room. Who the
hell can get a read on Sarah Bernhardt, the brooding artist over here?
Oh shit, now I have to force conversation. I think Jackson would have
just sat there in that trance and waited for Sandy to come back and said
nothing. But maybe I can use this opportunity to build some trust here.
Let me engage the dude in a little light conversation, 'cause otherwise
we won't know if he is still breathing. As Jesse Jerkson would say,
"Let's build a little common ground."
I remember that Michael has gotten involved with an ancient Indian form
of medicine called Ayurveda through his association with Dr. Deepak
Chopra. Chopra was big in the Transcendental Meditation program, so I
know something about him (I've been doing TM for over twenty years),
enough to bullshit my way through a conversation with Michael Jackson. I
have tried Ayurvedic medicine and was even pulse-diagnosed, which is a
form of detecting illness through the pulse.
I figure the key to getting Michael comfortable is to give him the
feeling that I am spiritual. I'm sure he and Liz Taylor must sit around
and talk about their swamis, so I figure I'll razzle-dazzle him with a
little of my own spirituality.
I'm not giving up on this meeting. I want this TV show. I am tasting
this TV show. I can smell it. P.U. That's a strong smell. It is going to
be big!
Let him trust me. Who knows what the hell he knows about me at this
point. Does he know me? Is he familiar with my work? Shit, on New Year's
Eve I was fantasizing that Michael was molesting a midget. I didn't know
what this guy knew, but clearly he was in the ozone. He was busy taping
his nose. He wasn't listening to my show. So I break the silence.
"You know, Michael, I understand that you're a follower of Deepak
Chopra," I say in my most sincere and charming voice, like the one I use
to get a girl in bed.
"OH YES, DEEPAK CHOPRA," MR. BUBBLEHEAD says.
And all of a sudden, he kind of lights up - as much as one can with
fifty pounds of clown makeup caked onto his face. But Michael has
managed four words. Wow, I want to throw him a dog bone for this
incredible feat.
My agent doesn't know what the fuck we are talking about, but you can
tell he is glad somebody is saying something.
"Yeah, Michael, I'm a big fan of Deepak and Ayurvedic medicine, and I've
been doing TM and I just started the Sidhis program."
Michael's mouth starts to move. The makeup is cracking around the lips.
"Yes, Deepak told me how to do TM and the flying technique in the
Sidhis."
I am getting some conversation going. We are rapping about various
Indian foods with healing powers. I throw in a quick story about my
mother, how she changed through spiritualism and TM, how I brought her
back from a deep depression. I figure if I sounded like a wussy momma's
boy, he will trust me. Maybe, if he thinks I helped a depressed person
he will think I am gentle. I want that fucking TV special! This is all
going down in a brief sixty seconds. I HAVE TO MAKE HIM THINK THAT I AM
A HARMLESS PUSSY, AND IT LOOKS LIKE IT IS WORKING.
"Michael, I took care of it," Sandy interrupts, after locking his
assistant in the bedroom or something.
Michael seems satisfied that Sandy has taken care of things. I tell
Sandy that Michael and I have had a great conversation while he's been
out of the room, and I turn to Michael and tell him that these are the
type of things we can talk about on TV. Shit, I certainly wasn't gonna
tell him that once I got him on live TV he'd get a better grilling than
Perry Mason could ever give. I assure them that our conversation will be
as comfortable as the TM discussion.
Whoa, am I a bullshitter? But Sandy and Michael seem to be buying it.
Hell, if they could buy a scenario where everyone is going to parade in
the streets, then they could certainly buy this. I am convinced Michael
had been won over.
LISA MARIE: A PIECE OF ASS
Sandy wrapped up the meeting by saying that what I had to say made a lot
of sense but he had to talk to Michael about it. He was very excited
about my honesty and was certainly more intrigued with the TV notion.
With that, Don and I got up to leave and I shook Michael's hand goodbye.
At that point I was feeling good. I knew I'd turned things around
because Jackson was almost smiling. He told me that he hoped we could do
this and I said, "So do I."
Don and I left the apartment. The hallway was lined with about five huge
black guys who bodyguard Michael. Suits, bow ties, shaved heads, the
works. Real stonefaced.
But Don and I got into my car feeling good about the meeting. The point
had been made that I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD HELP MICHAEL JACKSON.
Even though I had made this point and Sandy seemed to buy it, I knew the
real truth: By the end of the interview he'd be dizzy from my questions.
At the end of the hour, I'd probably have gotten some sort of
confession. Maybe not enough for him to spend the rest of his life in
jail, but with good behavior he'd be back on the street in three years.
But seriously, by sitting through my intense interrogation, he would
have achieved Sandy's goal, which was to humanize him.
Don agreed that we had given it our best shot and that a live television
special was now looking like a reasonable idea to Sandy.
Business wasn't the only thing on our minds, though. That face kept
haunting us. We could not believe the mess that lived on Michael
Jackson's head. We were swapping stories on how we kept ourselves from
laughing during this meeting. We also admitted it was pretty sad. Who
was the pathetic plastic surgeon who performed that operation? DR.
MENGELE?
And then we waited for our big deal to come through. We waited. We
waited some two weeks and still there was no word from Sandy. Something
had obviously gone wrong. I decided to take a last shot by sending a
letter to Michael and Sandy. I was sure they had blown off the idea, but
I badly wanted that live TV special so I wrote a quick note.
Dear Michael and Sandy, July 8,1994
It was great meeting with you and I enjoyed our discussion. I had a
thought I'd like to share with you. I believe one of the coolest moves
Michael made was his approach to the Thriller album when he decided to
use Eddie Van Halen on guitar. Up until that point Michael was thought
of as an r&b artist, and by using Eddie on the album it gave Michael
instant acceptance with the MTV generation. The attitude of that
constituency was that if Eddie thinks Michael's happening, we had better
give Michael a chance. The result of that endorsement spoke loudly for
itself.
We know that by sitting down with me, Michael will get a positive
response and the same kind of acceptance. Let's do it!
Regards, Howard Stern
Maybe Michael could see that Eddie Van Halen and various rock stars had
given him acceptance in the music world and maybe Howard Stern had the
ability to get him acceptance in the world of public opinion.
The letter didn't work.
We heard back from Sandy a few weeks later that it was a no go. I
figured that those huge bodyguards of Michael's had told him that I was
an asshole and I'd been fucking him over for years. Who knows? All I do
know is that they decided that they weren't going to restore Michael's
image by having him sit down with me and let me ask him tough questions.
BOY, WERE THEY RIGHT!
What they did do was to take my live unedited interview idea and hand it
to Diane Sawyer. It was hyped as a big deal because Michael had married
Lisa Marie since my meeting with him and the sexuality questions still
needed to be addressed. The interview was supposed to be different
because there would be no editing and no question would be off limits.
Sound familiar?
But of course, Diane Sawyer blew it. Candy-cane journalism. She sold out
and obviously bought into Michael's and Sandy's bullshit. The interview
was pathetic. She did everything but beg the audience to take to the
streets for MJ. It was one long infomercial and the public saw through
it. I had tried to make Michael and Sandy realize that an interview like
this was as good as no interview at all. It accomplished nothing. Fluff!
Diane Sawyer, who's just Sally Jessy Raphael with better skin and hair,
was as bad and gushy as Oprah.
"I don't like young boys. I swear. It's true. Children love me. They
follow me everywhere," the high-voiced wonder told the blonde-bimbo
Sawyer.
"Hey, Michael," I would have said, "why are children sleeping in bed
with you?"
Lisa Marie, who, by the way, turned out to be a piece of ass that I'd
like to fuck, chimes in with, "They follow him into the bathroom and
kick me out of my own bed." Boy, with all that money the Presley estate
has, you'd think they could have sent her to a Swiss finishing school to
teach her how to speak properly.
Hey, Diane, where were your friggin' followup questions?
"Why are these kids running around unsupervised in the house?"
"Where are their parents?"
"Why are kids along on the fucking honeymoon?"
"What about the kid who sued?"
"Why weren't his allegations aired?"
"Why don't these friendships last?"
"Why are these boys dumped as soon as they hit puberty?"
"If he loves children so much, where are the little girls?"
HEY, DIANE, I DON'T HAVE A FANCY JOURNALIST'S BACKGROUND, BUT ANY MORON
ON THE STREET WOULD HAVE ASKED THESE QUESTIONS - YOU SELLOUT!
And what's with the nose?
Diane blew it. She was embarrassed to do the interview and it showed.
"Michael," I would have said, "let's go through your day at home. When
do you tape the schnozz? Where do the parents stay when the kids are
sleeping over?"
I watched the Diane Sawyer interview and laughed when the end credits
came up. You could see the lights go down and Michael jumping up and
down. I could just picture Sandy Gallin and the other salaried spin
doctors standing behind Diane Sawyer going, "Bravo, Michael. Home run.
Home run." And Michael's doing these weird poses and dancing around
thrilled that he's off the hook.
And then I realized that the son of a bitch even got the masses into the
street for him. Of course, he had to pay them, but take a look at that
stupid movie trailer that Diane Sawyer ran during the show. The streets
are lined with weeping fans. They're holding up signs saying KING OF
POP. And here comes Michael, like a conquering monarch. He's got the gay
militia outfit on, with the hockey shinguards, and he marches into town,
surrounded by troops, waving, blowing kisses. The camera is pulled back
so you can't see the melting face. It's a perfect world. There's
confetti and tickertape falling and fans are fainting. And then they
unveil a giant statue of Michael. It's interesting that the only line of
dialogue in that whole video is spoken by an eight-year-old crewcut
white boy who looks at the statue and says, "Michael, I love you." Up
there on the screen is the bizarre scenario I was supposed to create.
Sure. Only in the movies. My fans would have booted me in the ass.
And everybody falls into line. VH-1 does the MJ weekends and MTV
premieres the video and ABC gives free ads and NBC premieres the second
video. They're all sellouts. Not me. I'm pure. I'm the man. I'm the only
asshole who didn't get anything going with Michael Jackson. I'm real
proud of myself. My father was right: I'm a moron. Maybe I'll write
another letter to Michael Jackson. I'm a pitiful schmuck! (But I did get
a chapter in this book out of it, didn't I?)
Meanwhile, Michael's record sales go in the toilet. Why? Well, partly
it's just that the music sucks, and partly it's the nasty smell of those
charges, charges that linger in the public's mind because there are
questions that were never answered, like "Hey, Michael? Why are you
afraid to deal with the Howard Stern inquisition?"
We'll never know.