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.

The Day After

This morning I woke with my sequins-laden, gloved left hand resting calmly on my chest. I stood up quickly, spun around effortlessly and struck a pose in the mirror. I put on my fedora and an open button down, letting it expose my white v-neck undershirt. I stepped outside and each time my feet made contact with the ground, the concrete beneath would light up with every step. I was suddenly joined by little Carleton Banks, dressed identically, and who pelvic thrusted with me through the streets. We descended into the train station, and were about to hop on the boogie and ride it downtown, until we were confronted by a gruff Wesley Snipes. He demanded I dance and show him who's bad. So I kicked the air in the butt and let out an all-purpose "Hoooo!" through the subway tunnels, while the mist and wind from an open air vent blew threw my hair. Satisfied, we left, left for another time, a time when Eddie Murphy was once a pharaoh. After briefly transforming into sand, I emerged, adorned in gold and ready to King Tut the night away. Suddenly, there were thousands of Philippine prison inmates in bright orange at my back, mimicking in perfect unison my every movement. I welcomed their support. It didn't matter if they were convicted felons or not, and it didn't matter if they were black or white. To prove this latter point, I morphed my face into the face of the unique peoples of the world, both female and male, of every skin color, of every background, but all beautiful. For my last face, I morphed into a longtoothed werewolf. Michael J. Fox, eat your heart out. The inmates ironically morphed into the living dead and they rocked all night long. Before you knew it, we were all dancing while the world danced with us. That's the way I made them feel. Finally, I moonwalked off stage left, and let them all scream for more.