Death Becomes You

The King of Pop is dead. And no, I do not mean Coke CEO Muhtar Kent. The carbonated captain is still kicking and of course, delivering high fructose corn syrup to the masses. The only thing Michael Jackson, on the other hand, is delivering to the masses is a giant spoonful of mourning with a side of nostalgia. In the wake of his death, people all over the world who were touched in a special place by MJ are memorializing him by being him--they're dressing up as the hallowed entertainer and doing their best impersonations all over the streets. In the circle of life, his death has birthed millions of dopplegangers. The missing glove look, the tip toe and pelvic thrust, the taped up nostril bat-nose look, the soul glo and whitening cream look, the crotch-grab-air-point-air-kick-HEE-HEE. It's everywhere. It's spread faster and wider than swine flu. It seems as though everyone has been making over the man in the mirror as their way to wave goodbye to the Man in the Mirror. If emulation is the greatest form of flattery, Michael, consider yourself flattened...or should I say flatlined? Too soon?

Could you imagine if imitating the recently deceased in both dress and action became standard protocol for mourning the dead? When Ronald Reagan died, Americans everywhere would've slung on their cowboy boots and then proceed to sling crack rock to inner city black folks. When Charlton Heston died, many mourners would have probably drowned trying to part bodies of water with nothing more than a shepard's staff...or a rifle. And I would just feel bad for people when I kick the bucket, buy the farm, bite the big one, drink the coffee, tickle the monster, feed the chicken, smell the cheese, etc. Mourners would just be at a loss trying to take on these dashing good looks and attempting to crack hilariously absurd one-liners. But I suppose, the copy is never as good as the original. The emulation is remembrance not replacement. And I will always be better than you. So here's to MJ, the King of Pop, and to Boogie Brown, the King of Me. May his work live on and his stupid things forgotten, and may my stupidness continue to work and never be forgotten. Peace.