Here's another personal encounter account, related to the pictures posted yesterday (please see http://shineingrace.blogspot.com/2011/01/mj-history-in-pictures-at-phantasia.html );
By Sabine Wagner
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"He’s always on the run. Hoerzu met him nevertheless. Skin to skin. A child of 33 years. Immeasurably rich. And immeasurably sad. A ghostly encounter in the dark.
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Bruehl, near Cologne, location Phantasialand (= amusement park). At 6.30 p.m. the last visitors leave the park, the heavy gates closing behind them. In silence a small group of employees gather in front of the faked up Brandenburger Tor. Somewhere blares a walkie-talkie. Outside, a huge amount of journalists are gathered, clinging to the gates. Their cameras aim at us like muzzles. If God decided to come down to earth right now, it could hardly be more exciting. But for today, he sends us one his representative aliens: In but a few minutes, Michael Jackson, US megastar of the shyest kind, will arrive.
6.45 p.m.: A convoy of cars is arriving slowly, consisting of three black-shining Mercedes 500 SEL, a dark red van and a bus. All of them have windows with blackened glass and British registration numbers. Those who desire to meet the phantom of the pop scene normally find themselves in a dead-end street. No audiences, no interviews. Wishes for autographs are frowned upon. Managers and bodyguards – twelve massive colored people – guard Jackson and the scars of his eight facial surgeries from audacious curiosity. Perfect and merciless. Even brutal, when called for.
The man who always manages to bewitch his millions of fans suddenly stands right in front of me. In person. Each and every double looks more real than the genuine King of Pop. The black corduroys are clinging to his small hips. The nose is pointed, the small lips are painted in a colour matching his red uniform shirt, under which his slightly lifted shoulders seem very vulnerable. Thin curls are wrestling their way from under the black hat into his face. His cheeks are pale. Mirrored sunglasses prevent the gaze into his eyes.
He is accompanied by 90 men and women from his crew, among them always a number of children. For around four hours Michael Jackson visits the amusement park. I sit two rows behind him during a show which lasts around 45 minutes. Close enough in order to observe him: He massages his neck, passes around peppermint bonbons, giggles loudly, applauds spontaneously, explains the magical tricks to his companions and calms the youngsters when they are frightened because of the loud screams coming from the stage.
The question suggests itself: Does the 33 year-old, of whom they say that his career-addicted father whipped the childhood out of him, need the company of children in order to make up for the childhood he himself lacked? Answer or simply a coincidence: While leaving the theatre, he puts on a red and white coloured jacket. The back of this jacket flaunts the picture of Peter Pan, the boy who never wanted to grow up.
In the meantime, it has begun to rain cats and dogs. An electronic car takes the star through the park. Suddenly I stand directly in front of him. Clearly frightened by this unexpected closeness he stares at me. A helpless expression is on his masked-like puppet face. And I find myself unable to address him. Wordless seconds pass by, agonizingly slow. Then his lips form a tense smile. A bodyguards takes my arm and jerks me aside: “Keep distance! Michael doesn’t like things like that!” His suspicion follows me from now on. Two hours later: Jackson has escaped his crew and visibly perks up. In the pouring rain the photographer and I follow him all through the park. At the old merry-go-round we catch up with him. Brightly, it goes round and round in the dawn. All just for Michael Jacskon, who sits on a swing above. And for me, who sits in a gondola underneath him. His feet, which are moving mechanically in time with the waltz being played, are dangling closely above me.
Shortly after our ride, a miracle happens: The man, who seemingly uses a disinfectant instead of an aftershave, comes to me. His fine, rangy fingers shake my hand carefully. My skin is visibly darker than his. Dutifully he takes my pen and writes his name on the CD which I present to him…
Screeching elation some hundred inches away: Screaming fans cling to a fence. Horror-stricken he covers his ears with his fingers, and runs inside the `casa magnetica´ (= a magnetic house, one of the attractions). I follow him and stand beside him. And see the truth. His skin is smoother than I expected. His cheeks now are feverishly red. No, besides me isn’t a silicone-monster with psychopathic flaws, but an overtaxed child. An overtaxed child in the centre of fame, miles and miles away from happiness.
All of a sudden, he talks with an accentuated voice: “The people are screaming so loud, they are frightening me…” For seconds, I don’t feel addressed, for his gaze is fixed to a point on the wall ahead of him. Only his head is slightly inclined into my direction. “The kids love you”, I simply say, just to say something to him. “But why do they scream, then? I don’t like that, it frightens me”, he repeats. And then, I ask the question: “Why are you so unhappy?” The answer comes out of pressed lips: “I am never alone…”. Having said that, he remains silent and steps a bit away from me. As we leave the house, bodyguards step between him and me, disapproval on their faces: We have come to close to their master. And while the mega – star disappears into a gift shop, we hurriedly buzz of. In the night, we see Michael Jackson once again. At approximately one a.m., a dark silhouette with hat appears at the lightened window of his hotel suite. Absolutely unnoticed. His fans have gone to sleep long ago, laying in the grass, hugged by their sleeping bags, in front of the hotels. Gods do not sleep, Gods wake lonely."
6.45 p.m.: A convoy of cars is arriving slowly, consisting of three black-shining Mercedes 500 SEL, a dark red van and a bus. All of them have windows with blackened glass and British registration numbers. Those who desire to meet the phantom of the pop scene normally find themselves in a dead-end street. No audiences, no interviews. Wishes for autographs are frowned upon. Managers and bodyguards – twelve massive colored people – guard Jackson and the scars of his eight facial surgeries from audacious curiosity. Perfect and merciless. Even brutal, when called for.
The man who always manages to bewitch his millions of fans suddenly stands right in front of me. In person. Each and every double looks more real than the genuine King of Pop. The black corduroys are clinging to his small hips. The nose is pointed, the small lips are painted in a colour matching his red uniform shirt, under which his slightly lifted shoulders seem very vulnerable. Thin curls are wrestling their way from under the black hat into his face. His cheeks are pale. Mirrored sunglasses prevent the gaze into his eyes.
He is accompanied by 90 men and women from his crew, among them always a number of children. For around four hours Michael Jackson visits the amusement park. I sit two rows behind him during a show which lasts around 45 minutes. Close enough in order to observe him: He massages his neck, passes around peppermint bonbons, giggles loudly, applauds spontaneously, explains the magical tricks to his companions and calms the youngsters when they are frightened because of the loud screams coming from the stage.
The question suggests itself: Does the 33 year-old, of whom they say that his career-addicted father whipped the childhood out of him, need the company of children in order to make up for the childhood he himself lacked? Answer or simply a coincidence: While leaving the theatre, he puts on a red and white coloured jacket. The back of this jacket flaunts the picture of Peter Pan, the boy who never wanted to grow up.
In the meantime, it has begun to rain cats and dogs. An electronic car takes the star through the park. Suddenly I stand directly in front of him. Clearly frightened by this unexpected closeness he stares at me. A helpless expression is on his masked-like puppet face. And I find myself unable to address him. Wordless seconds pass by, agonizingly slow. Then his lips form a tense smile. A bodyguards takes my arm and jerks me aside: “Keep distance! Michael doesn’t like things like that!” His suspicion follows me from now on. Two hours later: Jackson has escaped his crew and visibly perks up. In the pouring rain the photographer and I follow him all through the park. At the old merry-go-round we catch up with him. Brightly, it goes round and round in the dawn. All just for Michael Jacskon, who sits on a swing above. And for me, who sits in a gondola underneath him. His feet, which are moving mechanically in time with the waltz being played, are dangling closely above me.
Shortly after our ride, a miracle happens: The man, who seemingly uses a disinfectant instead of an aftershave, comes to me. His fine, rangy fingers shake my hand carefully. My skin is visibly darker than his. Dutifully he takes my pen and writes his name on the CD which I present to him…
Screeching elation some hundred inches away: Screaming fans cling to a fence. Horror-stricken he covers his ears with his fingers, and runs inside the `casa magnetica´ (= a magnetic house, one of the attractions). I follow him and stand beside him. And see the truth. His skin is smoother than I expected. His cheeks now are feverishly red. No, besides me isn’t a silicone-monster with psychopathic flaws, but an overtaxed child. An overtaxed child in the centre of fame, miles and miles away from happiness.
All of a sudden, he talks with an accentuated voice: “The people are screaming so loud, they are frightening me…” For seconds, I don’t feel addressed, for his gaze is fixed to a point on the wall ahead of him. Only his head is slightly inclined into my direction. “The kids love you”, I simply say, just to say something to him. “But why do they scream, then? I don’t like that, it frightens me”, he repeats. And then, I ask the question: “Why are you so unhappy?” The answer comes out of pressed lips: “I am never alone…”. Having said that, he remains silent and steps a bit away from me. As we leave the house, bodyguards step between him and me, disapproval on their faces: We have come to close to their master. And while the mega – star disappears into a gift shop, we hurriedly buzz of. In the night, we see Michael Jackson once again. At approximately one a.m., a dark silhouette with hat appears at the lightened window of his hotel suite. Absolutely unnoticed. His fans have gone to sleep long ago, laying in the grass, hugged by their sleeping bags, in front of the hotels. Gods do not sleep, Gods wake lonely."
