Selections from My Name is Blanket, © 2046 Blanket Jackson
By Paul Ford
Pop star Michael Jackson’s son Blanket has already made headlines because of the bidding war for his story, with //300 million new credits paid by Sony House for audio, film, 3v, interactive, game, expert system, and prose rights. While the book won’t be released until next month (except for privilege copies for the Masters), we were able to secure several tantalizing preview sections. Read on!
My father Michael wanted to protect us, to give us inauspicious, normal lives free of the media spotlight. He accomplished this: by allowing documentary filmmakers to record our childhoods, by dressing us in feathered Mardi Gras masks and gauze when we left the ranch, and by dangling me out of a window with a towel on my head. In retrospect, the logic of his parenting was ambiguous at best. Nonetheless, I had my own giraffe. … more below:
IMAGE ABOVE:
From Episode 24: Father Michael
Michael misspells kids’ names
Countdown with Keith Olbermann
(video)
(continued)
My name was a problem. I had no regular playmates, aside from my siblings and the occasional busload of orphans. But on the occasions when the ranch had any visitors my own age or slightly older, they would call me Pillow, or, if they were French children, Duvet. When I was 9 I developed a bedwetting problem that would not subside, and the housekeepers nicknamed me Wet Blanket, and then, when the special anti-bedwetting system was installed, Rubber Blanket.
. . . . .
From observing the children my father invited to the ranch, I assumed that everyone outside of my family had a terminal disease. I desperately wanted to be as ill as them. When I was about to turn 10, he asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I said, “chemotherapy.”
. . . . .
I realize that many were surprised to learn that, as a man in his 40s, my father liked to cuddle and hold hands with 12-year-old boys. In my house such behavior was the height of normalcy, and it is my belief that it never had a sexual component (although my father’s demands for attention from children were certainly out of the bounds of appropriateness).
What was not clear was whether the populace was so shocked by his behavior because the contact was inappropiate, or because 12-year-old boys are so repulsive that it is sheer perversion simply to enjoy their company.
. . . . .
Uri Geller was my father’s close companion during my childhood and after. His presence was dreaded by Prince, Paris, and I. His constant spoonbending meant that we only had forks for our cereal. And Uri brought awful visitors, like the doddering Ariel Sharon, who talked endlessly of his own Sycamore ranch in Israel, and, too often, a notorious freeloading sham artist known to the staff as “Sixpack Chopra.”
It was Geller who worked with my father to arrange for the design of the device which became known as the “Soul Harvester,” and who arranged for the shipments of orphans. …
I’d keep pasting, but it IS copyrighted, after all. Go here to read the rest.
