Parting Glances: And no moon walking

I'm willing to bet that a month ago few of us – myself included – had ever heard of Edward Moss, who now finds himself in the curious limelight of both fame and misfortune.
At 27, he's an actor standing in for the world's most famous – or, some might say, infamous – pop star. But it's hard to tell if Edward, a relatively unknown talent commodity, has much of a future.
His current role is limited to pursing his lips thoughtfully, brushing aside shoulder-length hair, smiling fleetingly, and jotting down pretend thoughts on yellow note pads. No singing, no dancing, no one-glove waving to press, critics, and cheering fans.
Edward's courtroom appearances hardly merit accolades. But it sure beats previous jobs held in fast-food emporiums for minimum wages and long hours. For the time being, Edward's a star – if only a cosmetic reflection of a gigantic nova that may soon implode.
He's also one of that curious breed who make a living cloning the rich, famous, and often odious. (Now that Elvis has been canonized, there are hundreds of gyrating dittoes around, who, for whatever reason of ego deficiency, bask in the sequined glory of the unending sunset of The King's posthumous fame.)
But I'll give Edward Moss credit. The role he's now playing before millions has the seal of approval of none other than Michael Jackson himself, and a Jocko in drag, at that. Six years ago while tinker-belleing about in disguise in front of – appropriately – the Hollywood Wax Museum, the eternal Peter Pandorable saw himself being impersonated by the personable look-alike.
According to Edward – who admits to mimicking Jackson since age four (after learning his ABCs, numbers, colors, and importantly, shades) – the pop star told him, with a parting wink and a whisper, he was "real good."
Now Edward's using said goodness for TV trial reenactments. As cameras are barred from the actual courtroom, his performance is – catering to the nonstop interest of American voyeurs – the next best thing. (Jocko's been self-recreated so many times, that one more helping of the porcelain patty cake surely can't mar his image.)
But whatever the trial's outcome, I find myself completely indifferent to what happens to Jocko. Having initially sidestepped prosecution on similar allegations with another 13-year-old (allegedly to the tune of several million dollars), Jackson should have learned an important lesson. He didn't. What can the Royal We, the editorial plural, say?
The wise thing for Jocko back then would have been to disappear quietly and quickly from our rocky shores, possibly relocate to landscapes lunar, or join a monastery. (On second thought: that's not a good suggestion, given the scandals involving canny priests and – in retrospect – their cornered acolytes.)
Nor am I overly concerned about the brothers and sister testifying against Jackson. With years and years of professional counseling – and perhaps an annual settlement from the Never-Say-Neverland ATM – they'll somehow muddle through life OK, street wiser to be sure. And, like the rest of us 9-to-5 earthlings, they'll soon pass unnoticed from center stage. Notoriety – however brief or strangely bestowed – turns the unattended corner when you least expect it to.
It's poor Edward Moss I stew over. What's to become of his fledgling career? Will he star in an epic Jocko bio? Will he open a Courtroom Drama School? Will he endorse vitamin-enriched cornflakes? Will he serve as a jocular reminder that the show must go on? Good luck, Edward. As they say in the biz: Break a leg!
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