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.


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