Living Off the Wall

When I first heard the news that Michael Jackson died I didn't think too hard about it. Sure I was sad that a person who made such great music and was so beloved by the world had fallen to such unthinkable depths, an agonizing crawl from the absolute height of worldwide fame that could ever be achieved by a human soul to the subject of near constant ridicule and scorn (even until the end though there was constant love). In many ways the person my parents and my older cousins knew growing up had been dead for damn near twenty years, replaced by something that looked very much like a ghost. As much as people my age hate to admit it or try to pretend otherwise (and by my age I mean anyone who was less than 3 when Thriller came out), we didn't really know who Michael Jackson was. By the time we were cognizant, he had already become something of a circus freak. Bad was released in 1987, a few days before I turned 1, and he'd already completely changed his color and his hair. He still made good music, but when I heard or thought about Michael Jackson during my formative years the negative ("I pledge allegiance to the flag, that Michael Jackson is a fag," the "In Living Color" send-up of the "Black or White" video, the child molestation charges) completely outweighed the positive (my cousins VHS of Moonwalker). Not to say that I wasn't completely entranced by the man, even as a little kid. I knew he was important, an outsized celebrity before I even knew what a celebrity was. When I took my test to get into kindergarten and the proctor told me to draw something, I drew Michael Jackson, albeit with an enormous head (anyone who remembers the Speed Demon video from Moonwalker might get why. Needless to say, they said I did not get into kindergarten). But I can't say that I really knew or loved Mike. Not the way my cousins can, not the way the people I saw at the Apollo can. I can love his music, his history and like to the greats from Motown's past, his undeniable genius and enormous talent surrounded by an equally undeniable pain. But his justfiable heyday as the biggest pop star this planet has ever known is an era that I just missed, and it would be dishonest if I mourned him as if I was a front-row spectator for the creation of a legend, when really, I just watched the re-run.

These past couple of days though as every car that passes blares "Billie Jean" and "Beat It" and every other track from his magnum opus out of half rolled down windows, I've found myself gravitating towards songs from "Off the Wall." It's not to be contrary, I enjoy "Thriller" just like everyone else. It's just that, for some reason, when I listen to "Off the Wall," I feel like I'm listening to Michael's last hope. It's well known that Michael was disappointed after the release of "Off the Wall." Although it was critically lauded, he felt that it hadn't been treated with respect by the Grammy's, and he vowed that it would never happen again. When he released "Thriller" he was a man on a mission, to become the biggest and richest pop star the world had ever known. And he did that, it took him three years, but he accomplished what he set out to do. But what was the ultimate cost? Everybody knows how well hindsight can see, but knowing how damaged Michael's psyche was, would it have been better for him and for his life had he not accomplished his ultimate goal? What if he'd been satisfied with the success of "Off the Wall" (and it was still uber-succesful, ultimately selling 7 million copies in the US and having four top ten hits)? "Off the Wall" sounds like pure joy a man has on gaining his independence. "Thriller" sounds like a man on a mission, and the man became ensnared and trapped by the consequences of that mission's successful completion for the rest of his life. My sister said to me that when she looks at a picture of a young Michael Jackson when he was with the Jackson 5, she wants to give him a hug and tell him everything is going to be okay. I want to walk up to the 21 year old Michael after "Off the Wall," won only one Grammy and tell him how great the album was. Maybe we wouldn't get "Thriller," but we also wouldn't get everything that came after it too. Rest in Peace Mike

The Heart of a Slacker

Back in 11th grade, when I was in pre-calculus, I had a teacher who'd give out homework every night. And every night after I came home from work, I wouldn't do it. I'd lay on the couch or watch something on TV or do something useless on the computer, anything but do my homework. There'd always be a rationalization, usually that 6 hours of pushing carts and cleaning up spills was so tiring that there was no way in hell that pre-calculus could get done. Besides, the work was so easy that I could start it in 2nd period general music class and finish as I was walking to third period. Only of course that's never how it worked out. I'd use my dear time in general music unsuccessfully trying to get with this one chick (who ironically I ended up dating a year and a half later) or laying my head down on one of the cold black music stands that I pulled over from the back of the classroom. So everyday, when my teacher would come around to collect the homework, I wouldn't have anything. And she'd look at my with such disappointment. And for the most part, I wouldn't care, figuring that I aced all my tests so at the very least I'd walk away with a B. But one day after class was dismissed, I was the last person left in the classroom. I was putting my notebook in my bag when my teacher walked up to me.
"Antonio, do you know what you're grade in my class is?"
I really didn't have any idea, hadn't really thought about it.
"Right now you have an 84. And you know what, you're capable of having a 104 if you'd just turn in your homework."
And the way she said it, her voice didn't match the look she'd always given me while collecting everyone elses papers. No, it wasn't that almost maternal disappointment she flashed so often, it was a look that bordered on disdain, as if she couldn't fathom a person such as myself. I was like a lazy bug on the bottom of her New Balances. And it was that look and only that look that got me to do my homework, or at least occasionaly. There were still plenty of days where I'd hand in nothing, but they were outnumbered by the ones that I did. Never got that 104, but a respectable 93 was all I could ask for.

Through my almost 23 years on this planet, I've had a lot of teachers disappointed in me, mostly for the same reasons that my pre-calculus teacher was. Like the mid-90's Mariners or the early 2000's Sacramento Kings, somehow the perceived talent never matched up with the finished product. The conclusion I've come to is that deep in my heart, I am a slacker. Now there's a difference between being a slacker and being lazy. I don't think I'm lazy, because laziness implies an unwillingness to work. It is still very possible to be a slacker and still give enough effort to succeed, to appear as if you're working hard and even have results which imply just as much. I think I fall nice and squarely into the latter category, even if only because of the sense of ambition that was driven into me from every adult that's ever meant anything to me in my life. But the ambition I have is also a result of an inherited ego that's way too large for me to be a grocery store philospher (I've known and worked with a few and I envy them). The traditional barometer of success is something that I believe in though, something that I am more than willing to adhere to, for completely vain-glorious reasons (marry a good woman, have a nice bit of money, and have people think of me as intelligent, interesting, and wise). Because truth be told, the best job I ever had was being the mid-day Drug/GM stocker at Kroger. I was the only person in the department, I got a chance to think, I read political magazines and complex novels on my lunch break, I got to interact with coworkers and customers when I wanted companionship, and I got to conveniently disappear when I didn't. If money was not an object, I'd really consider doing that for the rest of my life. Just because you love intellectual discussions and keep abreast on obscure current events doesn't mean you're a scholar. And I know that I'm not, but the expectation is that I should be.