Tuesday, July 7, 2009


Note: for those first-time visitors, Michael Jackson's Glove is a gift to the universe. Its sole puprose is to provide guidance to those seeking a path to greatness. Though this project was orphaned in its infancy, MJG now returns to help heal a weird and grieving public.

Oh slobs,

I don't really want to get in to where I've been or what I've been doing for the last year, but let's just say that someone got elected to the highest office in the land and made it through his first 100 days in office because of me. For now - I'm back - though I don't know for how long and I'm not really even sure what I'm going to say in this post so maybe it's easier if I just start talking and see where it goes.

Michael is gone. Nothing could ever prove to me that the world is a machine gone completely haywire quite like the public reaction to Mike's passing. It's true that he and I have lost touch over the years but...for real though, how come no one reads this shit? I was just looking at some of the older posts on this site and my advice is incredibly helpful. Maybe I should've posted more than three entries, but I go where I'm called and at the time, no one around here was calling. So...

You know what? Never mind. I'm forgetting what's important and why you're here. You've come for my unique perspective on the passing of a legend. What can I say? The guy just reached a point where he believed anything anyone told him. He thought that his daily Dilaudid injections allowed the cast of The Young and the Restless to hear his thoughts so that he could warn them each of the myriad conspiracies against them. He would get so frustrated when they ignored his advice. His last real friend was an OnStar operator who would read him Judy Blume books late at night when he couldn't sleep. He used to sneak out to the Suburban and push the magic friend button begging to hear what adventures Fudge was up to. "Jermaine is such a Peter" he would often mutter to himself.

The fact is, we should've been mourning the death of this guy in 1990. If you blame me for abandoning him in his hour(s) of need, you won't be the first, though I've certainly made peace with my decisions. The last time that we spoke was about a year ago- right after B.O. won the Democratic primary. He called me out of the blue around 4:30 in the morning on a Sunday. I saw that it was him and let it ring a few times while I decided if I wanted to answer it. Even thinking about that conversation now, I get chills. I guess that he had somehow heard that I was involved in the campaign and called to say that he was accepting "the repeated transmitted offers to co-preside along with his spiritual twin, Baron Olifan [sic]". I had only gone to sleep a couple hours before this happened so it took me a minute to figure out what the fuck he was talking about. As I laid there trying to explain the many reasons this option would not be made available to him, he kept interrupting me by saying, "don't you think he looks like me?" and "I hope they don't eat rabbits in the White House. I could never eat a rabbit." This went on for about twenty minutes before I hung up and after promising to take this up with the candidate.

As I type this, the world is offering a tribute to the man that is not the least bit surprising in its failure to truly honor the nobler aspects of his life. Elephants, Al Sharpton and John Mayer? Shut up, Staples Center! A more fitting tribute would be to give the guy the quiet bit of dignity he was never able to obtain in life - to simply acknowledge that a deeply flawed man of extraordinary talent has fled this plane of existence and that both he and those left behind are probably better off because of it. I'll offer nothing new by pointing out that the kid never stood a chance. Put a child under that kind of sustained pressure and allow that amount of responsibility to rest on his shoulders and the result is the freak we prepare to bury.

So this is the last I'll speak of this. Like I said, for now, I'm still here and if you're interested, still offering invaluable (which actually means valuable, Red States) advice to those marching on the paths toward their shallow, impossible dreams. Sleep tight, Mike.


Monday, March 31, 2008

Choosing to be chosen

Today's question might read a little more like an after-school special than what you're used to seeing here at The Glove because it touches on some very tough issues that face many Americans today. I won't say much else about it except to point out that that the very fact that I'm willing to take on such a delicate issue demonstrates what a brave, macho hero I've become.

Dear MJG,

Both of my parents are Jewish, yet I can't seem to break six figures. WTF?

Meyer Lemon


Dear Dr. Lemon, Esq.,

First, I want to commend you for mustering the guts to ask the question that must have been haunting you your entire adult life. It's never easy to acknowledge our shortcomings and it's even harder to ask for help.

As Michael Jackson's Glove, I can honestly say - that apart from Michael himself (Jehovah's Witness of all things!) - every single other person that we worked with was Jewish and you'd better believe that they were all clearing $100k!

Honestly, I find your question to be one of the more puzzling queries I've ever been faced with. My first thought is this, and it might sting a bit: You're adopted. Did you grow up with an "Aunt Becky" who's about 15 years older than you - not really your aunt, but a girl who lived up the street - visited a ton and cried every time she left? If so, then you need to stop reading this right now and go have a heart-to-heart with your "parents".

My second theory - and this is where things get a little dicier: Maybe - just maybe - if you want to make loads of dough, it's just not enough to simply be Jewish anymore. If the world is truly flat now, then you might need a little something extra to give you that edge. My suggestion? Marry Asian. Because Jew + Asian = $$$! You may be a doctor now, but it sounds like you're probably working at some inner-city clinic trying to make a difference. News flash: You aren't and you can't! Marry Asian, and suddenly you're Dr. Rosen-Chang: the dermatologist with a three day work week and a nine-month waiting list! If you marry Asian, your kids will be shrewd little un-fucking-stoppable nano-bots! By the time they're nine, they'll have cured cancer or invented the new Google or developed an additive for toothpaste that will render flossing totally unnecessary.

Any way you look at it, your Jewsian future is sounding pretty fucking sweet. Take my advice and the only problem you'll have is finding a vault big enough to hoard all your happiness!




Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Help me help you


Let me be clear: The questions that I've been getting so far do not really speak to my strengths. I am a star maker and stars are not made from stale, aging dough. They are made from 22 year-old-super-human-shaped-diamond-encrusted-wonder fuckers! If you're over 26, barely a 7 and your bottom teeth are kind of crooked - I'm not your guy. You could maybe get work in Canada or some other cruise ship-level-of-entertainment nation, but this is America pal.

I want to hear from Rachel Bilson because she's been chained to a radiator in Peter Jackson's pool house for 3 months and needs to know the six-tiered secret sex code that will grant her access to freedom and a reading for The Hobbit. Here, I can help.

I want to hear from Dakota Fanning on her quest for a homeopathic serum that will pack the necessary years onto her youthful facade so as to allow her the lead in the upcoming Sandra Day O'Connor biopic, Her Honor. Here, again, I can help.

I understand that my offer has been made fairly recently and that the industry might not yet fully realize that I am an available resource. I seriously doubt that anyone assumes that they can simply ask for my sparkle and then actually receive my sparkle! But it's true - so get the word out!

In the mean time, I suppose that I will have to work with what I'm given, which brings us to our next letter sent in from some common boob.

Dear MJ’s Glove,

I’m working on the roof of my house and my hands are aching. What gloves would you recommend for roof repair? There is a huge blister on the inside of my thumb from using a hammer all day. Also, are you supposed to pop blisters?

-Achin’ in Macon

OK Achin'...I can only help here because I have some cousins who toil in the trades. Macon sounds like it must exist somewhere in the south, so let's just assume that you're finally patching the hole that you shot in the roof of your decommissioned school bus/house because you were pissed that your 36 year-old girlfriend's 23 year-old son stole your weed.

To be sure, yours is a swampy climate, no? You're going to want a glove that breathes. Your best bet is a pair of Bionic Gloves, (http://www.bionicgloves.com/) but I'm guessing that the $37.50 price tag places them slightly out of reach, so...Seriously? I have no idea how to talk to you.

Blisters are a peasant's plague. By all means pop them. I think I remember reading that blister puss is like a condiment for you people.

I hope I've helped.



Monday, March 24, 2008


Wow! All of us here at Michael Jackson's Glove are completely overwhelmed by the four of responses that we've received so far. It hasn't even been a full day and already it appears that nearly five people have read this thing. If this is any indication of the mountains upon mountains of servile flattery I can expect, then the future is indeed bright. In fact, I've already hired two assistants and a ghost writer.

Our first question comes from a lonely bachelor all the way from the lonely bachelor capital of the universe, Austin, TX:

Dear Glove,

I’m a lonely 38 year old man who is balding, and slightly obese. It’s been 4 years since I’ve had the company of a female. I feel like my only chance of getting a girl at this point is to become famous. Since you’ve helped MJ come from obscurity, I need your help. What can I be famous for? I’m not very good at sports, and I can’t play music. Please help.

-Out of Ideas in Austin

Dear Out of Ideas,

Since you're 38, balding, live with your mother, smell like ham, are fat and have a myspace page full of lies, I think one can safely assume that you are a Circuit City employee - in which case, I have the same singular piece of advice for you that I gave your co-worker who called to ask if I wished to extend my premium warranty: You should kill everybody that you work with.

Seriously - on top of the $1200 I laid out for an Onkyo receiver and a sweet set of JBL Surrounds, you con me out of $150 for a guarantee that I will never have to live a day without my premium sound system, but, four months later, when my receiver gets struck by lightning - only then am I told that Circuit City is entitled to three attempts and an unlimited amount of time with which they are allowed to repair my receiver before they are required to offer a replacement. In the six music-free months of near silence that followed, I felt my insides crumble as the reality of what a sucker I am took root and spread through my guts like kudzu.

Then, at the end of our two-year contract, you call to to see if I want to extend the deal for an additional two years for another $150? Fuck that Circuit City! Seriously, you and your corporate trickery are what's killing America. Personally, I can't wait until your storefronts are boarded up or converted into a chain of Mexican grocery stores because Amazon.com has put your miserable asses out of business.

So thanks Out of Ideas. Thanks for killing America.



Contact: mjglove@gmail.com

Find your inner gimmick!

Bless you. Bless you for taking that first step toward achieving greatness. Bless you for reaching into the great unknown and asking, "Am I good enough?". Bless you for trusting a semi-anonymous online source for life-guidance; because let's face it: You're not doing such a hot job, are you?

I'm Michael Jackson's Glove and I know what you need. My qualifications? I made the whole of humanity embrace a little album called Thriller. I took themes considered controversial in any era - but especially in the era of Reagan's America - themes such as child illegitimacy, gang violence and werewolf aggression - and turned them into piping hot apple-pie vignettes that mothers and grandmothers around the world were proud to feed their young.

All too often, people point to Michael Jackson or Quincy Jones to explain the cultural phenomenon that was Thriller, and actually doubt my impact on the project. To my detractors, I only make one small request: Please examine Bad. While considered a commercial success, Bad is hardly the zeitgeist that was/is/will always be Thriller. What's the difference you ask? The difference is me or rather, the absence of me.

Think about it. With the glove: Michael takes Emanuel Lewis to the Grammies - America giggles. Without the glove: Curiosity turns to concern when rumors arise that Michael sleeps in a hyperbaric chamber while in a 3-way with the Elephant Man's remains and Macaulay Caulken.

I know to leave a party while it's still fun and toward the end of my time with Jackson, things started to get a little creepy. I won't get into details because whoever you are - when you work with The Glove, you get two things: Discretion and Sparkle! But let's just say that I saw some shit that changed me.

After I left, I thought that I could use my talents to help the poor and starving, but most of those people couldn't give a shit about being famous. They just want parasite-free water and the least oppressive ruling regime they can get.

I understand this, but it's not what I do. I was talking with my good friend Hamburger Helper about this and he gave me some excellent advice. "Michael Jackson's Glove," he said, "Your purpose in life is to help the fame-obsessed get over the bubble and plant themselves squarely at the intersection of Stardom Street and Awesomeness Avenue." He continued, "Look at me - I help hamburger reach its fullest potential. Sometimes I can help tuna or chicken, but I know that hamburger is where I really shine. Could I help spaghetti? Probably, but shit man - I'm Hamburger fucking Helper and that's all I ever need to be!"

I thought about those words for a long time people and that's why I'm here today. Do you have a hole in your soul that can only be filled with the approval and acknowledgement of strangers? Do you have a yearning to feel what it's like to suffocate against a wall of applause? Let me help you, you poor huddled mass. You miserable piece of shit.

Talk to me. Tell me why you're failing or better yet - let me tell you why you're failing. I can fix you. Why? Because I'm Michael Jackson's fucking Glove and I'm listening America (and English speaking Canadians and Europeans).



Contact: mjglove@gmail.com