Quit It

Woody Allen has been, and still is one of the people I admire most. He has a grasp on humor, the meaninglessness of life, the oddities of love, and an existential romanticism that most certainly helped shape my adolescence and adulthood. With the buzz and tabloids, I refuse to see one of my idols go down like this. Some of my co-millenials started quoting Dylan Farrow's letter to me as a sort of joke; "What's your favorite Woody Allen movie?..." Now apparently has a new meaning: he's a sex-offender. Can we remember another mega-influential artist that went down with a cloak of shame? Certainly. I had Mono when all the Michael Jackson allegations were bombarding the TV. I was sad. I remembered the year the Michael Jackson performed at the Superbowl and had choreographed a dance routine to do for my parent's friends. "Ben" still tugs at my heart strings like no other. And now we move to attack a respected artist, one incredibly deserving of a lifetime achievement award, at the age of 78. My friends prod, "How can you love him? He's sick." Aside from the fact I do not find him "sick", it's useful to operationally define "sick" in this sense. If he truly is a sex-offender, he is "sick", with a diagnosable mental illness. Allen spent half his life in psychotherapy, if someone wants to label him as "sick" in all literal meaning, I'm sure he has a diagnosis or two. And Michael Jackson. Is he "sick"? Probably, his childhood was a mess--so much so that he spent his adult life in a practical state of full regression. This shame and disgust cloak has to stop shrouding some of the most talented artists of our time. It's fun to rant and hashtag, but these two men deserve to be remembered as brilliant. If you have doubts, watch Play it Again, Sam, and then listen to The Jackson 5. Maybe I sound a little "leave Britney alone," but seriously, quit it.