Michael Jackson's 50th Birthday Party WHEN MICHAEL JACKSON ANNOUNCED THAT HE WOULD SHORTLY BE CELEBRATING HIS 50TH BIRTHDAY WITH A PARTY OF SPECIAL MAGNIFIENCE, THERE was much talk and excitement in Hollywood. Jackson was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of the world for more than 40 years, ever since his pre-teen debut. He had churned out hits on a fairly regular basis since then, each album a bigger spectacular than the last. And if that was not enough for fame, there was also his prolonged vigour to marvel at. Time wore on, but it seemed to have little effect on Mr Jackson. At 40 he looked much the same as at 25. At 45 they began to call him well-preserved; but finely-sculpted would have been nearer the mark. There were some who shook their heads and thought this was too much of a good thing; it seemed unfair that anyone should possess (apparently) perpetual youth as well as (reputedly) inexhaustible wealth. <<It will have to be paid for>> they said. <<It isn't natural, and trouble will come of it.>>22 BUT SO FAR TROUBLE HAD NOT come of it, unless you counted the resurgent allegations of child abuse, the business with his collapsing face and the bounty on his ass imposed by the Reformed Black Panthers. Jackson released a new record every three years, promoted them with ever-more outrageous global concert tours, got married about twice as often. Apart from that, he kept to himself. Magda Maria had been hidden from public view too, but unlike Jackson she was frantic for some scrutiny. She'd pimped her portfolio to every agent in Tinseltown, attended umpteen auditions, even snuck into the occasional industry party. It had all been for nought. Then there was the Iishi factor. While the courtship had proceeded smoothly, she couldn't help but worry now and then about his motives. After all, he was the stylist for the stars, and she was just a hopeful bum. Like what was in it for him? <<Have you heard of that>> Maria asked her friend Su one day <<have you heard of that artist who makes bikinis out of her cloned skin?>> <<It sounds like the perfect disguise>> Su said. Maria burst out laughing, amazed at the implications. <<You could design a whole suit>> she speculated. <<And you wouldn't have to limit yourself to your own skin.>> <<Do you think you could change your appearance so much you could fool your closest friends?>> Su wondered, and that was how Maria's next adventure began. Maria couldn't grow a new suit of skin, but she did have access to epidermal dye through her contacts in the studios. She painted her hide an olive shade, straightened her hair and secured a short skirt which would have shamed most of North Africa. She dabbed herself with a scent "engineered from synthetic blue whales", plucked her eyelashes and strutted into Iishi's Beverly Hills salon. They were playing a derivative of the Chucky Poong Show in his waiting room, a Vietnamese refugee with an amusingly poor grasp of English. She watched Iishi instead... along with half the waiting room. <<He's so gorgeous>> the man sitting beside her said. Maria couldn't be sure, but he looked like a redrawn Leonardo DiCapprio. Then it was Magda's turn to get serviced. He started shampooing her hair and she gazed lovingly up into his eyes. <<You're wearing the scent of musk>> he observed. <<Made from the glands of blue whales. It's very mellow.>> His hands cradled her head, a little too intimately, she thought. <<They say musk is an aphrodisiac>> he said. <<It turns all men into sex-crazed animals.>> <<Brings out the animal in male>> Maria said wistfully, adopting a cute Chicano accent. Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one going undercover that day. Without further ado Iishi slipped a hand under a gown, made a tentative paw for her propped breasts. Maria flinched, terrified. She elbowed him in the face; he backed away, blushing. <<You started it>> he growled. <<You came in here wearing musk perfume.>> JACKSON HADN'T BEEN SEEN for all of 2008AD (-3Terran Reckoning), his 50th year. Right after the release of his E.T.-themed album Phone Home Jacko disappeared from public life, cancelled a global concert tour, hired a squad of lookalikes to roam the airports of the world. Some people said he had finally lost it and gone full recluse, snuggled away with in his oxygen sleeping tank with son-of-Bubbles and all the other bullshit. Some people claimed he was dead. Still others proposed he had been abducted by aliens who figured he'd be more at home on their planet than this one. Jackson's spokespeople were denying all of the above. But rumors got out, between the defamation suits, of a constant coming and going of medical types at his Neverland ranch, and accusations he had been terribly disfigured in a plastic surgery operation. Suspiciously, a photograph surfaced of him being lifted into an ambulance with a bandaged head and chest, only to be ruthlessly retracted (of course, it survived to live a second life online). All controversy aside, Epic Records plodded on with its plan to put out a compilation album, The King of Pop, in the summer of '08. It featured all the saccharine cliches, euphoric stadium anthems, whinnying and whelping, as well as his customary howls and hollers, the obligatory hee-hee-hees. There were, to be honest, some authentic gems too: rare outtakes, and a couple of original songs. The album was to be officially released on Jackson's 50th birthday, which fell on Friday, August 29. Organizers called it a party, but it was really a variety of entertainments rolled into one.23 Practically every A-lister from the world of showbiz was invited to the spectacle, along with the crème de la crème of 21st century society: basketball and baseball stars, presidents and princes, tyrants and tycoons. They were welcomed at the iron gate of his Santa Barbara ranch by a platoon of pirates, fairies and hobbits, as well as Lost Boys of numerous persuasions (was that really Sean Astin looking like a vintage Goonie, or was it just Sean Lennon in double denim?) After clearing customs guests were free to wander the estate ogling at the elephants, giraffes and big cats in his petting zoo, take a ride on the steam train or the carousel, or chill out with Pepsi and popcorn in the 50-seat cinema. He was screening a marathon of his greatest hits and infamous moments there, including some new music videos. Everyone who was anyone was there mingling and having fun... everyone but the host himself. Where was the brother lurking? There were many Jacksons and Rosses percolating around the place, competing dynasties of the black aristocracy, and also a generous helping of Presleys and Taylors, their counterparts on the white; even the odd Kennedy or Clinton. Some of them may well have detested Michael personally, but so magnificent was the invitation card, written in golden ink, had felt it was impossible to refuse.24 Suddenly a murmur swept the crowd: <<The King has been sighted! He is making a speech at the Victorian railway station.>> Not just any speech, mind you, but the Speech, the Speech to end all Speeches. A great roar went up, and there was a mad scrambling of guests evacuating the cinema and petting zoo, piling off the rides, and converging on the railway station. There were, as has been said, many children in attendance, and a formidable phalanx of them were flanking a thin man perched at the top of the station's marble stairs. He was garbed in a red tracksuit with the hood covering his head; he held one hand in the air, while the other was hidden in his trouser-pocket. <<My Dear Children, Sweet Children>> he cried, and it was obvious to all listening that it was Michael speaking. <<My Dear People, the People of Earth.>> <<Hear! Hear!>> the masses responded, rapturously. <<Here we are!>>25 Some of the few paparazzi who had somehow managed to infiltrate the event were flocking to the scene, cameras flashing frantically. The man on the stairs removed the right hand from his pocket, and the crowd ecstatically realized that it was sheathed in one of his trademark white gloves, glittering in the evening sun. <<My Dear People>> he began anew. <<My Dear People, the People of Earth...>> Neither Magda nor Iishi were there to bear witness, but this is what went down. Jackson tore off his bejeweled glove and tossed in into the throng, who unsurprisingly went berserk. <<My People, time is coming to an end. We've run out of time. It's time to go... it's time to go home!>> He flung back his hood, evoking shudders which rippled visibly through the startled audience. His famous hair was gone and his cranium remolded into a brown, bulbous lump dominated by thick brows and cartoonish, blinking blue eyes. He then unzipped his jacket, revealing a stalklike neck radiating from a squat, wrinkled torso. In fact, his entire breast was starting to pulse an otherworldly reddish glow. Several women screamed in unison, and even the paparazzi froze, terrified. <<My Dear... Children>> the alien announced, in a queer, halting voice. <<Dear People, it's time to... phone... home.>> As he rose his elongated, spindly finger to point skyward, it began glowing the same otherworldly reddish hue as his chest. In a low growl, he intoned to the heavens: <<Phone... home! Phone... home! PHONE HOME!!!>>26 FIRST CONTACT (c)opyright Rob Sullivan 1988-2024. Contact the author for all your criticisms and feedbacks.