have they buried michael jackson yet?

he’s dead, in case you hadn’t heard. as much as i’ve tried to refrain from commenting about it, trying my hardest to not be a tweet-ard, naively believing the general public actually cares what i think about life and it’s mundane events, i can’t withhold myself any longer.
even growing up in the u.k., i knew michael Jackson was the greatest; fourth in the line of god-like entertainers, the game changers: sinatra, elvis, john-paul-george-ringo, then michael… with no one to replace him. i call him michael and you know who i mean. simply because he was so brilliant for so long. there is no other michael like him. he, much like myself, deserves first name only treatment. besides, i can’t bring myself  to use any of his other nick names. king of pop, white mike, boy bugger, wacho jacko, bla, bla. and i certainly can’t use m.j. there’s only one m.j. in my life. mimi jenkins, who gave me the nickname juice. she had a fantastic set of fun bags, letting me enjoy them as often as i chose. believe me, I chose, often. we never actually had sex, me and m.j., but I fit her with many a pearl necklace. she was a bit on the silly side, referring to my sperms as “juice.” the mates got wind of my fetish and the name never left. she will forever be my m.j.
michael’s timeline to greatness is significantly aligned with mine. He was born whenever, made his brother’s famous soon after. then, in 1979, released the most amazing of albums, “off the wall.” as my mother tells it, i was conceived in the back a coke den turned night club, while shagging to “don’t stop til you get enough.” she said it was either that night or the next night, when she was acting out led zeppelin’s 1979 swan song, “in through the out door.” since i’m quite certain you can’t get a stork visit by doing a f~*k in a lady’s bum, i think it was her first inclination upon which i entered the world.
btw, have you ever seen the video for “don’t stop?” pure magic. this is full on young black michael, dancing by himself in front of some crap late seventies video effect (or is it affect? never quite remember that one). he’s in a tuxedo, sleeves pulled up, trademark short pants, white socks revealed. really! name one person who can pull off black trousers and white socks. name one! right, well there was that one kid in my used to do it, but he got the shit punched out of him daily. michael did it for twenty years and people thought he was cool for it. a special nod to that, i say.
in 1980, the year i’m born, michael wins a grammy. in 1982, “thriller” is released, selling some fifty million copies. coincidentally, more than twenty men in the greater london area dedicate the song “billy jean” to my mum (“the kiiiiiiiiiiid is not my son!”). not such a good feeling, actually. thank you, michael (insert sarcastic tone here). but he redeemed himself by giving me the life anthem p.y.t. (pretty young thing). yes, i was young when i first heard it, but i knew what it meant. and if i had two pence for every time i thought/sang, “i want to love you, pyt, pretty young thing, i’ll violate you, pyt, pretty young thing, i’ll make you suffer, pyt, I’ll take you theeeeeere…” i quite like it still to this day. thank you., michael.
in 1988, on my eighth birthday, i received a copy of “bad” from a nancy uncle. i didn’t much care for it, if i’m honest. had a flare for the rock n’ roll coming from the states- guns n’ roses, motley crue, anvil, you name it.  however, i have to say, when i eventually saw the video for “the way you make me feel,” i gave it another listen. actually, truth be told, i gave it another watch, again and again and again.
the heavenly femme in that video! god have mercy on my genitals. yes, micheal looked good, no doubt. little white sash belt, the blue button down opened up on a white tee, and, not to be redundant, the short black pants revealing the white socks (turns out he had me paying attention to fashion and performance as well). the girl, that video, changed everything- my whole life, upside down. without a doubt, my sexuality was born that day. it’s the only video where i viewed michael’s dancing as a distraction. it might be safe to say that all my addictions to beautiful women started right there, when i was just eight years old. it was monumental, to say the least. in short, it was the first time in my life i understood why a man would want to give a woman a polish bike ride.
    i used to have this reoccurring daydream that put me in the middle of the chorus for the “free are the whirls,” video that all the great pop stars of the eighties were in. i’d pretend I was standing between kenny loggins and bob dylan, and me and bob were making fun of kenny (i was like, “nice mullet, kenny.” and bob was like, “yeah, no it’s not.” and we would laugh, cause we was stoned off our asses.). but then kenny roger’s turned around and thought we was makin’ fun of him. (i was like, “no way, mate. you’re the gambler!” and bob was like, “hey, juice, let’s go smoke more pot.” and i was like, “yeah, mate, sukit mike.”) and then everyone started singing, “free are the whirls!”
i kind of stopped paying mind to older crazy white michael, which i’m quite glad for. look around your own life. i bet you can put a keen eye on quite a number of people who went nutter as they got older, and they weren’t even famous. fame does f~*ked up shit to people. look at johnnie (he’s the talented guitarist in my rock band, the SEXually).  a few big hits in the u.k., a side bar blurb from “guitar one” magazine, and all of a sudden he’s the next coming of jimmy f~*king page. Soon thereafter, he developed a new found pension for drugs and trannies. my point is, unless you’ve been globally famous, don’t judge a man for changing the color of skin, buying the bones of the elephant man, getting at least five nose jobs, and dangling his infant son from a four story balcony. what’s the big deal about that anyhow? we once dangled dylan from the eiffel tower, which people thought was quite funny (and by people, i mean me and julian).
so, here i am, acknowledging the man’s greatness. he was a powerful influence on my life. i’ll be forever grateful to young black michael! and i’m somewhat thankful for white mike as well. actually, i learned from him three vital things: 1. talent is born, not created. 2. if you’re lucky enough to be born with said talent, you can wear whatever the hell you want, including surgical masks and pajamas in public. 3. if your natural talent brings you immense wealth, there’s no end to the amount of crazy people will tolerate.
thanks, michael!

Juice reviews band of horses (acoustic)

because my guitar player still qualifies as psychologically inept and we haven’t started recording a new album yet, let alone play live gigs, i’ve been forced to write for this crap blog, reviewing live shows. a few weeks back i went to see band of horses, acoustic, at carnegie hall.
band of horses (great). carnegie hall (cool for them). acoustic (lies!) every member of the eight person band was plugged into something. there were cords and pedals everywhere. stacks of amps, roadies running in and out; so much so, they could of billed it as an anti-acoustic show. it only occurs to me now, that maybe it was the american hipster irony at work. makes sense, the hall was filled to the teeth with “hipsters,” the self-righteous, indie culture mavens from brooklyn. half the bars in williamsburg must have been empty that night. but rightfully so! the band of horses deserve to be listened to live, and doing so at carnegie hall was quite a treat. despite the fact that it was incorrectly billed, i loved the show.

they started off a bit slow for my taste, and it continued to go that way through the first half of the set. in fact, ‘bout six songs in, one of williamsburg’s finest yelped, “pick up the pace.” to which horses front man, ben bridwell, replied, “this one’s for you,” and proceeded to play their slowest, saddest song. i liked that move. F the audience, i say. and to that wanker who dared dictate the band’s set, i hope you come to a SEXually show one day. if you do, try and get to the front row. i’d like to have a piss on your head.

rest of the show was brilliant, as they eventually did pick up the pace. they even had a real nice look about them, all bearded, wearing skinny jeans and flannels. they got this whole brooklyn jesus thing going. there was bridwell, the lead brooklyn jesus. and the other guy, fat brooklyn jesus (sorry, “heavy set” brooklyn jesus is what i meant). they had drummer brooklyn jesus, several back up brooklyn jesus. they even had a cowboy brooklyn jesus. made me want to do a whole punk brooklyn jesus thing. [note to stylist: potato sacks, sewn into butt tight pants. wooden cross as a back satchel. crown of thorns, but made from heroine needles.] i wish i could grow a beard the way johnnie can. [note to doctor: can full body laser hair removal be reversed? i’ve grown bored with that fetish anyhow.]

it was a bit stuffy to watch a show at c hall. all of it was sitting down, even during the encore. and there was a phone nazi, making sure we didn’t communicate to the outside world. “not even so much as a tweet,” he said to me, waggin his finger back and forth like a sex toy. worst of all, no booze at the seats. really? I mean, come on! quite the stupid little rule, no? I was about to pull my alcohol handicap card, which allows me to drink anywhere i need to, but there was this guy in front of me, a drunk brooklyn jesus, who brought his own pint of whiskey. he got so drunk, i was able to snatch his bottle and convince him the phone nazi took it.
i have to admit, it’d be really grand to play carnegie hall one day. [note to self: play carnegie hall. vomit on stage. might be a first.] it wasn’t until half way through the show that I noticed that the entire band (of horses) was standing on asian carpets. Is that a hall thing, or horses thing? [note to evelyn: a rider in all my contracts that I must perform on asain carpets. this includes ALL concerts, interviews (even with police), and the many various appearances, even if it’s just in my apartment, pretending in front of the mirror.] thank you.