WARNING: Across the Aisle features a weekly helping of extraordinary, yet exploratory, writing, gratuitous pop culture abuse, and complimentary Funyons. Due to our conscious decision to explore familiar themes in an inimitable, though inherently divisive, manner, such brilliance is solely intended for mature reading audiences. This is Hive Mind 101. That glorious moment when Wonder Twin powers activate. Jay Connor. Alex Hardy. The triumphant return of Voltron. These ain’t no studio tricks. Enjoy.
A million thanks to my partner in crime:
Jay Connor is a prized pupil of the esteemed Professor Xavier and a Los Angeles based freelance writer. When he’s not preoccupied with accruing overdraft fees while chasing the dream, he can be found disseminating terrorist threats on Twitter and on Facebook. Direct all business inquiries, sexual innuendo and Nigerian email scams to deathtoadverbs@gmail.com.
Follow me on Twitter: @chrisalexander_
LIKE me on Facebook: Colored Boy
Episode 04
Melanin (and) Manipulation: The Jackson Legacy
Alex Hardy: Many have tried and few have succeeded in lining their pockets by
aligning their destinies with the legacy born of those birthed by Katherine
“Deity of Deaconess Swag” and Joe “I Beat You Because I Love You” Jackson. It’s
hard out here for those of us not born as an Obama, or as a Jackson, Rowland,
Knowles, Baldwin, Huxtable, Jefferson, or a Hilton. It is, sadly, up to us to
leave our mark in this cruel R. Kelly-loving world by either sucking, fucking,
and hand jiving our way to the top, or suing the assless chaps off of those who
have won the birth lottery by parachuting out of a diamond-encrusted birth
canal versus a regular ol’ linoleum-tiled birth canal with plaid wallpaper.
That, or claim someone famous as your Daddy as the next act in your piss poor
lifelong impersonation. Oh hey, Brandon Howard. Didn’t see you standing there.
Jay Connor: I can only hope and pray that my sperm is as prosperous as Papa Joe’s.
Marlon’s moustache aside, he hit the gene pool jackpot. Ahhh... the homogenized
harmonies of child exploitation. I can’t wait to circumvent Child Labor
Laws and beat the Swiss bank accounts out of my own progenies. I had a wonderful childhood, bereft of public
ridicule and abuse, and what do I have to show for it besides divorced parents
and an unhealthy obsession with Myra Monkhouse?
Bring on the rhinoplasties. Bring on the Jason
Weaver reenactments. Hell, even Tito’s ubiquitous bowler hat is
invited to the party. If the gateway to gold is a flogged ass, then guess who’s
taking one for the team? Nothing some tears, therapy and Vitiligo can’t fix. Besides,
we can always negotiate a formal apology later. Have your people call my
people.
AH: You mean “vitiligo.” Hopefully, the royalties from the international
distribution rights to the DVD of your life story, directed by Spike Lee OR
Debbie Allen, would make all those years of therapy and belt buckles to the
face worthwhile.
 |
| From whence all Jacksons sprang forth |
JC: Remorse is for the weak. Money fixes everything but ugly feet. But on
some real shit, you have to commend Katherine and Papa Joe’s allegiance to the
cause. Pregnancy scares are like virginity, there’s only so many one man can
take, but Papa Joe went to bed every night with a safety harness and an undying
voracity for child support. That nigga had Jedi focus, cuz
that alien baby damn sure didn’t make itself. It was either
Joseph Walter or Krypton. If Katherine was smart, she’d freeze
what’s left of her eggs and flip them shits on eBay. Could you imagine a world
in which they threw in the towel after little big head ass Toriano Adaryll? Who
would’ve recorded this masterpiece?
Who would’ve been adopted by Willona? And most importantly, how the hell would Bubbles get around? The
time-space continuum is eternally grateful for Katherine’s uterus.
AH: Anyone who passes through Katherine’s womb is fortunate enough to stew
in a crockpot of good genes, bay leaves, glitter, hair gel, rhythm, and magic
for nine months. Each Jackson offspring is predisposed to be better than other living creatures and has a 98% chance of being facially fortunate. Downside: Statistically, you are guaranteed a life of sibling comparisons and attempts at “normalizing” yourself. Is that life worth having to deal with a man who can swim, climb trees, and assemble furniture with a belt in his hand? I’d say FUCK YES. What would our lives be about if there were no Off The Wall?!?
Would Justin Timberlake, having no disco-pop musical bible as the wind beneath
his honky tonky wings, be a waiter at Joe’s Crab Shack in 2014? Would I be the
man I am today if La Toya never dropped Camp
Kutchi Kaiai with baby Janet on the hook?!? I don’t dare imagine
such an existence. *weeps at the thought*
JC: And to think, had The Thriller Maker™ not escaped Narnia, we
wouldn’t be able to tell the Jacksons from El’s underlings in a police lineup. Only
so much sugar can be culled from shit and the great St. Damita Jo would’ve been
too young to reverse course and turn the genetic tides. Will and Jada are
pummeling the panic button as we speak.
AH: Well, luckily, Joe’s tough love-infused brand of “character building”
wasn’t all for naught. Who’s your favorite among The Not Michaels?
 |
| Hard Living. |
JC: Gotta be Jermaine. Outside of Siohvaughn Wade, has there ever been
anyone so hopelessly devoted to derailing their gravy train? Is it that hard
to knock down wide open treys while The Thriller Maker™ enjoys another
fifty point explosion? It takes a special kind of wonderful to rise above
such wretched skin texture and ether
your breadwinner. Sure, brothers bark on each other and throw hands,
but “Once you were made you changed your shade” is one noogie that
should’ve been tested for performance enhancing drugs. Then there’s that whole
Hazel Gordy debacle, in which Leatherface mistook “bros before hoes” for an
April Fool’s prank and begat a fruitful
career as an Emergency Broadcast System transmission. And as if that
wasn’t enough shit in the pool, nothing makes Thanksgiving more harmonious than knocking up your little brother’s ex-wife,
because what’s life without brother-cousins and step-nephews? Beneath that
tragic flat top is a God amongst men, a real American hero. Respect fucking
due. And yours?
AH: Aside
from Saint Damita Jo, The Alpha And the Omega, I’m going to have to go with
House Mother Madame La Toya Yvonne Jackson, The Great. More fascinating
gobsmacking than an Ice JJ Fish MTV Unplugged concert
featuring a post-Marley Dick Lauryn Hill. Nuttier than Diddy’s rectum. La Toya
is THE Looney Tune and I can’t look away. Now, granted, she has gone through
hell along with the other humans who simmered in Katherine’s Glory Box. She
escaped abuse at the hands of a mind-controlling, life-ruining husband and made
her Playboy cover work for her in the end. Toy has dominated the
industry been better than everyone known for almost five decades and will go
down in history is known among peers and music historians her fans as the
Duchess of Dance and the Pope of Pop. Yeah. I don’t fucking know, either. But
does Michael have his own shake at Millions
of Milkshakes? Does Damita Jo have an “Outstanding Song Award” from
the 1985 World Popular Song Awards in Tokyo? Was Rebbie able to drop an average
of one music video every 6.5 years AND nine albums, none of which sold over
500,000 copies? Didn’t think so.
JC: La Toya’s crowning achievement (no pun intended) was her headband. In a decade riddled with
neon spandex, Rick Astley, and boomboxes moonlighting as
shoulder pads, La Toya defied the odds and made the ultimate fashion statement
with her umbilical cord. In fact, had Mrs. Jack Gordon shared her world
renowned fashion tips with The Thriller Maker™ beforehand, Pepsi’s assassination attempt on his life
would’ve concluded with a celebratory round of rhinoplasty instead of a fire
extinguisher. Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, this
was happening.
AH: Randy Jackson & The Gypsys. Wow. I vaguely remember a block of
videos on MTV before Poetic Justice came out with videos from Rhythm
Nation 1814, Dangerous, whatever La Toya did in the late 1980s….and
Randy’s video, which I heard was eventually stuffed into a small rocket and
launched into outer space with Judy Winslow never to be seen again. It appears
that the pool of Jackson boychild talent dried up after Michael Joseph Jackson
parachuted out of Narnia. As such, he’s the Black, bepenised Jan Brady: he's
eternally referred to as the sibling of someone with more profitable
reproductive organs and his artistic achievements can be packed into a 30-second
award show montage with 21 seconds to spare. Thanks for reminding me that this
(and he) exists in the universe.
JC: Don’t thank me, thank Norton Anti-Virus. But speaking of Poetic
Justice, why exactly do we hold the great St. Damita Jo in such high regard
again? I mean, sure. Anyone who forces Humpty
Hump’s towel boy to take an AIDS test deserves a national holiday,
but kindly remove Tina Landon, the
chair we all wanted to be when we grew up, the Cleo
Hewitt blunder years, and Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis from the
equation and what’s left? “Dream
Street”? The misadventures of Denise Gaines? And before you respond, allow
me to lay my ace on the table: But Jermaine Dupri!
AH: Yes, The Jermaine Era is still a shock to me. But if he was able to
help her heal whatever wounds that Rico Suave man inflicted, then I guess I’m
still repulsed at the thought just the same that’s fine. Look. Taking away
those things would still leave Janet, but I appreciate her for being a super
sized combo of BetterThanTheOthers with a side of
ThankYouForProvidingAnAlternativeToLaToya. With a little toy buttplug, if ya
nasty. I’m a visual motherfucker. And a dancer at heart. Most
of my favorite songs and albums evoke a physical
reaction and get my hips and neck all herky jerky and such. And, nigger, aside
from being generally enjoyable, I have dope memories aligned with all of her
projects. And her music (oh, and Michael’s if you insist) motivated a few
generations of dancers, myself included, and will for the next 41 seasons of Extreme
Makeover: Kimberly Jones’ Face Edition. And she’s
prettier than everyone. And. And.
And.
Plus, you can only run “Centipede” back so many times before you
wonder if the lyrics were brought to you by the letters C-O-K-E.
JC: First and foremost, “Centipede” was the knock. Captain EO might be a
lot of things; Jesus Juice enthusiast, Elizabeth Taylor’s
baby momma, but a cokehead he was not. Instead of maligned, such charitable
donations should be lauded. After all, what was “Triumph” sans “This
Place Hotel”? And how soon we forget that whole Victory Tour was
merely a subsidized stimulus package to keep the Other Brothers Jackson
from soiling their jheri curls dumpster diving. The Thriller Maker™ is
the way, the truth, and the life. That said, I suppose the great St. Damita Jo
does have some redeeming qualities. Case in point, was that “Alright”
video even remotely close to fair? It was the perfect union between
visual translation, Anthony Thomas, song and scalpel. But with the bar raised so high, I’m
gonna need these Jackson kids to at least pretend to give a fuck about self-defense carrying the torch. If the second
generation of Wayans can collectively muster an “E” for effort, I
expect more out of Prince Michael, Blanket and that Paris person. I don’t give
a shit how old they are, last time I checked The Thriller
Maker™ moonwalked out the womb. And since Taj, Taryll, and TJ already
struck out at the plate, that cross ain’t gonna carry itself. So
hurry the fuck up already.
 |
| The Yet To Profits |
AH: Yeah, this second generation of bright-skinned Michaelites is obviously
suffering from a lack of contact with the heavy-handed backhand love taps
upside the head with a pool stick of Grandpa Joe Boxer. No singles, yet? Not
even a damn oobie doo wop bop on a The Second Coming: Jackson Progeny Salute
Their Meal Tickets compilation album? Is Paris ‘bout to drop her Dream
Street? If not, why not?!? They need to get their shit together and at
LEAST book a gig as a bescandled politician’s child on The Olivia
Pope Dramatic Reaction Hour. And since Michael’s Official, Recognized
Offspring Tally was recently demoted from “Three and a Possible” to “Just the [Three] of Us,” a bit of panic about
Miniature Jacksons under 40 and their ability to do something other than mooch
is in order. [Plot Twist] Damn. No drug busts or divorces?
The fuck are y’all waiting for? There’s a legacy to uphold. Shit.
JC: I’m officially in my feelings. These kids are about as
useful as Lisa Marie Presley. Hell, even
Ryan White made a name for himself and he only had three t-cells.
All that to say, the Jackson family’s legacy is unparalleled. Hundreds of
millions of records sold, thousands of ass beatings, hundreds of music awards
and nominations, fifty years of Soundscan ubiquity, dozens of cosmetic
surgeons, four innocent bystanders, a
few forays into television, “2300
Jackson Street”, an auspicious Carlton Banks appearance, and
zero vasectomies. Good look trumping that resume in a group interview.
All hail Papa Joe and the divinity that is Katherine’s uterus. May the great
St. Damita Jo’s ovaries be equally as prosperous.
Catch up on all Across The Aisle entries here.
_________________________________________A million thanks to my partner in crime:
Jay Connor is a prized pupil of the esteemed Professor Xavier and a Los Angeles based freelance writer. When he’s not preoccupied with accruing overdraft fees while chasing the dream, he can be found disseminating terrorist threats on Twitter and on Facebook. Direct all business inquiries, sexual innuendo and Nigerian email scams to deathtoadverbs@gmail.com.
LIKE me on Facebook: Colored Boy
Comments
Post a Comment
...and what say you??
Subscribe to coloredboy by Email