Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I paid tribute to Michael Jackson yesterday. No, I didn't go to LA nor did I plop down in front of the television to watch the celebrity packed program. My tribute was accidental. I was in a strip club and one of the veterans donned a fedora and danced to "Billie Jean" and it made me sad.
I've known this dancer for years. She used to be flat-chested and ignored by all of the patrons--except for my friend. I used to run through several dancers a night on my visits, and yes, they were frequent, while my friend would loyally sit with this mousy flat chested girl. It was like having a girlfriend--that you paid for. I felt sorry for my friend. I mean, he couldn't even get any lap dance "strange", but he didn't seem to mind. Anyway, she got a spectacular boob job and dropped my friend like a hot potato. She doesn't even speak to him when she walks by these days. It's amazing what a plastic bag full of saline will do for a person.
Okay, I wasn't sad for my jilted friend. I was sad for Michael Jackson. The punchline. Elephant man's bones, surgical masks, whitening, detachable noses, chimpanzees, Macauley Culkin and allegations at Neverland ranch. All of these things were washed away. They don't matter anymore. What matters is the badass, skinny black guy who for a brief time seemed like the coolest guy on the planet. He wasn't, but for a time he could sing and dance like no other. I didn't need Mariah Carey or Stevie Wonder to remind me of this--just a stripper.