Michael Jackson Would Have Stapled His Eyeball to Get Out of The Staples Center

In my own twisted fantasy world...Beyonce Knowles would have started off the Michael Jackson memorial. She would have taken the stage in a low cut, yet tasteful, black Vera Wang number. With tears glistening in her eyes, just on the edge of falling, she would have looked down at Michael's casket and sang:

"To the left, to the left, Michael Jackson's body is in the box to the left."

I know. There is something terribly warped about my mind. I think my Mother smoked and drank while she was pregnant, and I know my Daddy's sperm were drunk and high when they accidentally bumped into my Mother's ova and conceived me.

That was the cheesiest fucking memorial service that I have ever seen in my entire life.

Now, I will say...the opening number of "Soon and Very Soon," was very tasteful. It was a beautiful rendition of a song that I grew up singing at Calvary Baptist Church in Duluth, Minnesota. But the intervening grand standing and sermonizing about made me teleport to the Staples Center, dressed as Linda Blair from the Exorcist, and, as Mariah Carey squawked her way through her duet, shouted, "YOUR MOTHER SUCKS COCKS IN HELL," and then projectile vomited directly into her open mouth.

And don't get me started on Brooke Shields crazy ass. First of all, I was like..."What the hell is Maria Shriver doing speaking at Michael Jackson's funeral?" Then I thought...damn...Lisa Marie has had work done to make her look like Maria Shriver. And finally, after reading my friend Ebony's facebook page, I realized it was Brooke Shields lookin' like Lisa Marie lookin' like Maria Shriver...and I was over it.

Now I love Michael Jackson more than your average bear. I paid him and his influence on my childhood (have you seen it?) in a post in this very blog. But Lord Have Mercy...the over the top dramatics by people that were less concerned about sending Michael off right and more concerned with the fact that at least 3 billion people would see their crazy asses during the side show extravaganza was enough to send me into a fit of inappropriate Facebook status posts.

(The best of which was "Brandon Lacy is Talkin' to the Man in the Coffin...I'm asking what happened to his Face! No message could have been any clearer...if you get plastic surgery and look like an alien you done made a crazy change!")

Wrong? Perhaps. Funny. You bet your plastic surgeon's stock of silicon it was.

And don't get me started on that whack ass rendition of "We Are the World." First of all, save for Michael Jackson, most of the rest of the artists that sang the damn song are still alive, half of them were there, and they couldn't get even one of their asses up on stage to sing the song? Shit. Lionel Richie was ON stage, and he didn't chime in until somewhere in the chorus. It was the most bootleg version of that song I have ever heard. That little Korean girl on YouTube that sings Michael Jackson songs and memorizes them phonetically would have done a better job than Bubbles the Chimp's retarded cousins that got up there and hacked it apart.

But I will admit I did cry at the end.

When his brother got up there and let the entire globe have it for havin' the nerve to talk shit about how strange and wierd Michael was while, at the same time, making the man live under so much scrutiny until he got so fed up that he moved to the Middle East and started wearing a burqa, I clapped. When little Paris Michael got up there and said she loved her Daddy and missed him, I was a big old crying mess in the kitchen.

And, for the record, I believe that little girl is actually biologically his. I got a niece that is mixed and has the same skin color. Plus, I heard she is the only one that can sing and dance. I bet she came out the womb with a sparkle glove and a zipper jacket. She didn't cry when they slapped her on the ass, she said, "Heeee heeee...OW!"

Michael is on his way to his dirt nap. The man is probably in Heaven right now thinking he should have possessed his own corpse, crawled up out the coffin, done the Thriller dance, flipped Latoya the bird, and moonwalked the fuck up out of the Staples Center.

Rest in peace Michael. These fools done turned your funeral into the biggest PR bonanza in the history of the Earth.

The King of Pop is Dead! There Will Be No Other King.

I am not going to tell a lie. I love Michael Jackson. I used to tell folks that I didn't care what he supposedly did...he could put out a record from prison, and I would have bought it. He was a consummate entertainer...anyone that grew up anywhere that received radio waves or a television signal tried to Moonwalk and could do at least one move from Thriller on command. There are whole lost native tribes deep in the Amazon that are doing the Moonwalk right now. I swear to God.

Since Michael falleció yesterday afternoon, the entire Milky Way has been abuzz with commentary on his life and death. Overwhelmingly people remember him fondly. Many folks have shit to say about the man and his life. Let it not be said that I do not support a critical review and recounting of a man's life. Martin Luther King was a womanizer that cheated on his wife. JFK was bangin' Marilyn Monroe in the White House, and Bill Clinton most definitely had sex with that woman. But, those things are not the sum of who they were. Michael Jackson may have touched those children inappropriately. A court said no. The court of public opinion has other ideas. But, in the end, the outpouring of love has not been about Michael Jackson the flawed and flayed man...but Michael Jackson the artist that is inimically tied to the memories of so many of us from the MTV generation and before.

The first piece of music I remember, as a child, was an 8 Track of the Jackson Five that my step-Dad would bump, high on cocaine, as we shot down Lake Street in Minneapolis at 70 to 80 miles an hour. As a child choral star, I often fancied myself as the next MJJ...though I have seven siblings...and my sister Meta and I would have come to blows over who sang lead.

Simply put, there isn't a period of my childhood that doesn't have a Jackson Five or Michael Jackson song as part of its soundtrack. In 1985, my Mom moved us to Kansas City to live with Keith, who would eventually become step-Dad II. We had a lively neighborhood with a number of kids. In the Summer, would all play together in the streets and in each others yards...roller ball...hide and go seek...double dutch...drill team. We would fight, would celebrate, and I saw my first titty when Kenya lifted up her shirt on my back porch. Running through all of that was Michael Jackson. When “We Are the World” was released, you would have thought that Michael and Stevie and Cyndy and the rest were going to swing through Africa and then stop by our neighborhood on their way back to their lives as superstars. It didn't matter what we were doing...when the opening chords of We Are The World floated out of some one's open window...we would scream for Mrs. So and So to turn it up...a hush would fall...and then the entire damn neighborhood would start to sing.

Never in my life before or since has any...and I mean...ANY singer commanded an immediate silence and homage of an entire neighborhood of 8 to 12 year olds engrossed in play time. Michael Jackson belonged to us. When he Moonwalked...all of our asses Moonwalked.

When my sister Meta got to go to the Bad concert...I wanted to kill her, bury her body, die my hair blond, bleach my skin, take her ticket, and go to the show. I thought life in prison was a fair cost for seeing Wacko Jacko live. And when Remember the Time came out...combining my favorite singer with my favorite actor, Eddie Murphy, set in my favorite time period, Ancient Egypt, I thought for sure I had died and gone to Pop Culture Heaven.

Several years ago, the old Sears building on Lake Street in Minneapolis was converted into condos and lofts, and I moved in. It had been the second largest Sears in the world, and my Mom worked there when I was a child. There was one cold, wintry night when we were in the car. Mom went in to get her paycheck, and she left the radio on. On that night, I heard a song so beautiful that I was crying as I was singing because, I too, was “Talking to the Man in the River.” Yes lawd. I thought the man was talking to the Man in the River...and instead of the line being “it couldn't have been any clearer,” I swore (and sang)...”I couldn't bend any quiver.” But damn the words...the song moved me...and to this day it is one of my top five favorite songs.

From “Off the Wall” to “History Part One,” I am a devoted Michael Jackson fan. We may never know who the father of “Billie Jean”'s baby was...but Michael Jackson was a “Thriller”...and, tonight, right now, in his honor...I am a "Dancing Machine.” Michael baby...in Heaven...ain't no such a thing as "Black or White." Say hello to Farrah for me...and Tito...and Celia....Isaac Hayes...and Marvin Gaye...when I get there...we gonna have us a concert that is going to overshadow the Second Coming.

Hey glory.