Like A Sunset Dying With The Rising Of The Moon...

It may seem both opportunistic and churlish to resume my bloggage with a delineation of my thoughts surrounding the death of Big MJ.

It is.

Yesterday, at 2:26 PST, Michael Joseph Jackson died following a cardiac arrest. He was 50 years old.

Following this, the internet all but collapsed. Social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter suffered severe server issues upon being inundated with messages from around the globe. The world's media have discussed it at great length already. The world, it seems, has gone ever so slightly mad.

Is this justified? Entirely.

Few figures of our time have provoked such strong and divergent reactions from the populace. For every one obsessive fan clamouring to lick the sweat from Jackson's malleable face, there is one vocal opponent who decries him as a scheming paedophile. He is revered and vilified in almost equal measure. He instilled hope and wonderment in many, but cynicism and revulsion in others. So reactions to news of his death are bound to be as dichotomous as they were to news of his life.

Jackson was endlessly fascinating. His transformation from cute black prodigy to grotesque white "King of Pop" happened gradually - and frighteningly - before the public's eyes. Never before had a celebrity's rise and fall been documented so publically - and visually. His mental disintegration was reflected in his continually decomposing face. He was ripe for parody because of this, with people revelling in his ever-degenerating look. Sympathisers willed him to stop, but to no avail. Procedure followed procedure followed procedure. Yet the most fascinating aspect of his mutable appearance was his continual refutations of cosmetic surgery. What was apparent to the world at large was not to Jackson himself, and this, sadly, was a motif that would recur in his unfortunate life.

Ironically, for someone so blatantly in the public eye, Jackson was notoriously mysterious. Fond of masks and disguises, MJ seemed intent on keeping something of himself hidden from view. Perhaps to retain some semblance of self amongst the preposterous cavalcade of interest that surrounded him. Perhaps for some darker reason. We'll never know. But whatever Jackson's reasons, his desire for a degree of opacity was well-founded. Indeed, when we were offered glimpses into his secret world (notably 2003's difficult-to-watch Living With Michael Jackson), it became apparent that he had severe mental issues that the media were all-too-glad to exploit for the ravenous public's consumption.

Which brings us to the most unsavoury aspect of Jackson's anima: his disturbing self-infantilism. Jackson's refusal to be a grown-up was easily construed by the more misanthropic as disingenuous. When his childlike nature and fondness of the company of young boys became apparent, naturally, people talked. Was he a child molester? In my opinion, probably not. Whilst I generally take any innocent verdict with a pinch of salt, and sundry allegations were stacked against him, it is my view that despite his wealth and fame, Jackson lacked power. I feel that his early fame and relationship with his tyrannical father truly did inhibit his mental growth and stability. Therefore, he was easily manipulated and fooled into trusting those who sought only to discredit him (and win a few Neverland carousels in a healthy out-of-court settlement).

He wanted friends of similar mental age. Instead, he gained status as a predatory bogeyman, luring kids in a Caligariesque manner to his sinister fairground. Therefore, the Jackson fiasco (or "fiJackso") is both a cause and effect of our overvigilance today regarding children's safety. Whilst I applaud the desire to shield children from harm, I feel that forbidding parents from recording their children's nativity plays in case they decide they'd like to chug one out over one of the Wise Men may be somewhat gilding the lily. But I digress. In short, I feel Jackson was, for the reasons noted above, an easier target than a limbless Nazi. He posed no great threat to the safety of the world's children. Well, unless he felt like dangling them over a balcony...

Sorry, couldn't resist. NB: sad as all this is, people are perfectly entitled to joke about it. Spirit of the gallows and all that. Lay off the Haterade.

For all the mentions of disintegration and decay in this post, one thing remains untarnishable, and that is Jackson's musical legacy. Whilst by no means a rabid fan, I am fully aware and appreciative of the influence Jacko had on shaping pop in the seventies and eighties. His blend of disco, funk and soul paved the way for countless other artists, and will continue to do so for generations. Today, his big crazy ghost has well and truly possessed the airwaves, and d'you know what? I don't hate it. In light of his death, the secondary and tertiary aspects of his life and work should be sidelined: his contribution to music history is unquestionable.

Therefore, it is both tragic and appropriate that his death should fall when he was on the brink of a comeback. It is the final sad grace note on a life lived bizarrely. There are those who will say that the stress of the upcoming concert dates was what killed him. That may be so. But he lived long enough to see tickets for his concerts sell out insanely quickly. Despite everything that happened, his fans were still clamouring for his eventual Messianic return. This time, thought, it wasn't just his disciples that were intrigued. We all were. The world was ready for him again. We wanted him back. Perhaps, therefore, he had finally found what he sought in life: simple, guileless acceptance. And that, my friends, is fitting.

I realise that this post has been, at times, maudlin, trite and downright unfunny. Fear not, underlings. My cuntishness is merely being MOTed. It's coming back from the garage very soon, and it's gonna have some bitchin' alloys. So I'll be round your house to give you a lift in the next week or so. With my cunt. Or something. Clearly I didn't think this metaphor through.

To finish, here's the most appropriate send-off I can imagine to the bad, dangerous, (almost) invincible mothafucka we all knew and...had an opinion on. Ladies and gentlemen, Ms Liza Minelli!

Chamone, you crazy diamond.

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Choons!

Being that tonight is my workplace's sophomore Silent Disco, I felt that it now was an appropriate time to select the five songs I want them to play...which they won't. The following make my soul sing to varying degrees. They are deep, meaningful, spiritual pieces that have shaped my life greatly. They are, without question, works of importance comparable to Mendelssohn or Tchaikovsky.

How did they achieve such greatness? By being danceable as fuck.

Prepare to be donked.

1. MARGARET BERGER - ROBOT SONG

The fact that this wonderful Scandinavian songstress is not more well known globally is, frankly, insane. She's a one-woman Girls Aloud with the glacial mystery of Annie Lennox and the weird synthiness of Roisin Murphy! She's all you could want in an electropopper! And speaking of poppers, the above song was made for them. In short, it's about robo-human love and the familial disdain that stems from it. So fairly cookie-cutter stuff. But the robotic nature of the track is at once fresh, dancetastic and - oddly - quite heartbreaking. This comes from her second album Pretty Scary Silver Fairy (out in 2006) and still sounds brand-spanking two years later. She deserves to be right up there with the Kellys and Leonas of the reality-pop world, not languishing in the seventh layer of the Woolies skip with the Eoghans and the Leons! I pray this will change. Nightly.

2. THE SHAMEN - DESTINATION ESCHATON

Another underrated gem. Built for big-fish-little-fish. It's the throbbing, whirring anthem for some future revolution. In space, probably. It's exciting. It's bleepy. It's utterly unintelligible. Seriously, what the fuck is any of it supposed to mean? It doesn't matter. But for those of you who - like me - are intrigued, here, here and here. Kinda blunts its danceability a tad, hmm? On second thoughts, ignore the links! IGNOOOORE!

3. JOHN WILLIAMS VS JUSTICE - IMPERIAL STRESS

One of the most ingenious mashups in history. Taking Justice's Stress and mating it with the Imperial March from Star Wars shouldn't work. But by Christ it does. It's everything a good club song should be: energising, a little terrifying, and a touch insane. Kudos to DJ Beloki for smacking Darth Vader full in the face with a gated synth. Take that, the Force! And thanks to whoever created that picture of those female Vadergimps looking severely in need of a slash. In conclusion: Glowsticks? Lightsabers? Terribly similar, no? And I've certainly never seen them in the same room together. Hmm...

4. GARBAGE - CHERRY LIPS

Another entry in the chart from us über-cool Scots. Well...ish. A proper departure for Garbage, and one their hardcore fanbase really really hated. Luckily for mid-densitycore fans like me, it's a bit of a laugh! Lightweight and chirpy in tone, despite the fact that it's about some form of child prostitute. Hence the name. Hmm. Also, ignore Shirley's invisipiss at the end. Frankly confusing.

5. GIRLS ALOUD - LOVE IS PAIN

Arguably the best track from Girls Aloud's most recent album, Out of Control, yet looks unlikely to get a single release. This is why the video above is half-heartedly cobbled together from bits of The Loving Kind. A pity. Nonetheless, this song, like the four above it is both catchy enough to sing along to and opaque enough to mean it's nigh-on impossible to understand. Simply, it seems to be about heartbreak (Cheryl and Ashley, ooh how personal, scandal scandal etc.), but when it starts banging on about secret codes and shit, it's best to switch off your mind and throw some dodecahedrons. Structurally unorthodox, as most GA tracks are, Love Is Pain is the number seven single that never was or will be. *sniff*

So there we have it. The five songs I would like to have in my ears tonight that almost certainly won't. They may not all be to your taste, or indeed particularly credible, but it's my blog and I'm in charge, so you can fuck off. Thanks for reading!

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Dis-Bar-ment

Anyone lucky enough to know me personally will know that a lack of common courtesy in others is liable to make me as mad as crickets. Unfortunately, folks, it's a rude, rude world that we live in populated with stupid, stupid cunts.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in my work in the customer service industry. Gentlemen and their respective wives, I am a barman. There. I said it. Frequently I am faced with an irritating level of abuse and - more frequently still - an infuriating level of stupidity. In the interests of both of us, I have compiled a handy list of what not to do when ordering your tipple of choice. Follow them, and I'll kiss you full on the mouth. Ignore them at your peril.

1. "HO! I'M NEXT, MATE!"
Not any more, you're not. The above sentence is bellowed frequently by what can only be described as reprobates. Usually male. I am, by and large, fully aware of who is awaiting service. I garner this awareness through the use of my eyes. I do not need you to tell my ears of your place in the queue, particularly when you've just arrived at the bar fresh from your latest date-rape. So kindly, Sir, shut the fuck up and wait patiently on your Midori and lemonade, you hard-ticket, you!

2. "NAE ICE!"
Now, I understand some of my readers will suffer from sensitive teeth. As do I, on occasion. My advice to you is this: buy some fucking Sensodyne and stop whinging like the little bitch you are. Thanks. The "no ice" quandary has a deeper significance than mere tooth-pain, however. Yes. Y'see, various idiots seem to believe that having no ice in the drink makes the drink more alcoholic. Dear God. A rudimentary knowledge of physics and the rules of displacement absolutely destroys such claims. By having ice, the drink-to-mixer ratio is improved in your favour. Get it? Got it? Good. Other nonsensical behaviour which relates to this includes asking for one ice-cube (which will melt much faster than several would - yet more physics phun!) and removing the ice from a drink and placing it on the bar. Simple etiquette of the bar dictates that you cannot under any circumstances pull something blithely from a wet place and allow it to drip everywhere! Really! My bar is not your mother's bedroom floor!

3. MALAPROPISMS
Put simply, if you can't accurately name the beverage you wish to imbibe, don't order it. A list of examples can be found below:

• WKD - pronounced "wicked", not "doubleyookaydee"
• Kopparberg - not "Koppanbarg", "Koppenberg", "Koopenbarg" or "Kronenbourg"
• VK - not an "orange WKD"
• Miller - not "Millers"
• Dr Pepper (shot) - not "wan ae em mad hings in eh gless"
  

Unacceptable under any circumstances.

4. "RED BULL & VODKA!"
Alcohol first, mixer second, ie "vodka & Red Bull". Honestly.

5. BUDGETARY DISPUTES
Firstly: don't bitch to me about beverage prices or the unheralded alteration of such. More on that later. On another note, 9.99756 times out of 10, I will have given you the correct change. If I haven't, I will notice. I appreciate you telling me how to do my job. I really do. Just as you'd appreciate me accompanying you on one of your many whoring sessions to gently advise you to employ less teeth in your (frankly, amateurish) fellatio technique. However, there is a reason that you're on one side of the bar and I'm on the other. I'm right, you're wrong. And there's nothing you can do about it.

6. GENERAL IGNORANCE
Safety in this area is guaranteed, providing you modify number 3's credo: if you don't know what's in your drink, how to produce it or what it is, don't order it. Thus, if you visit the smaller bar and ask for a pint of lager or beer, I will glare at you with extreme prejudice. Why? Because the wee bar is host to not one, not two, but zero draft taps. Where am I pulling this cider and blackcurrant from? Ask me again and it'll be my bile duct. This happens, on average, once a week. Everyone, just stop it. Similarly, if you order a long vodka and I inform you that, sadly, we're out of bitters, don't stare at me blankly as though I've just told you the world isn't flat and doesn't end at Langbank. Merely take a moment to reflect on your crushing stupidity and order another ridiculous thirstquencher.

7. HUFFING
In a related issue, if I do tell you that we've run out of a certain substance, service, or level of patience, do not huff. I am not in charge of what we stock. I am not in charge of setting the prices. I am not in charge of your misplaced, disproportionate sense of entitlement. Therefore, just as I don't blame you for the moonlit skies or the dream that died with the Eagle's flight, don't blame me for things I can't do anything about. Please. Oh, by the way, that sleeping satellite is your fault. Anybody? No? Damn.

8. "EHH, JUST EH NORMAL WAN!"
When you order, for instance, sambuca in a contemporary establishment, you may find that more than one variety is on offer. When faced with such variety, hear the options out and make your decision. Do not bark this paragraph's titular sentence. It is very rude and upsetting. I've cried myself to sleep over such brusqueness. It makes me sad. So stop it, hmm? Furthermore, why not sample one of the new products? You may just like it! You liked it when your ex-lover put their finger in your arsehole didn't you? You didn't expect that, did you? You didn't think you'd include it regularly in your masturbation sessions, did you? Eh? No. But you liked it, didn't you? Ha! Queer! So try something new! Don't stick to the stuff you know. If you want to be cool, follow one simple rule: mess with the flow! Don't stick to the status quo! Anybody? No? DAMN!

9. "Shphlmknphshthhhhspck"
The above is a rough translation of what you all sound like when you've had twelve too many. If you are in such a diabolical state, I cannot serve you. By law. The Queen forbids it. It makes her cry. So don't fire up your ire, boys and girls, because it's misplaced and uncalled for. Instead of getting angry at me for refusing to serve you, why not focus your anger on yourself, and the fact that you are an intoxicated waster, an affront to your mother and a nuisance to the world at large. For shaaaame. Go and hurt yourself now, please. Also, don't be sick on the bar. One time, it was as thick as a pizza and the same circumference and texture. Abhorrent. If I came in to your place of employment and vomited on your workstation, would you be amused? Hmm? Well, you probably wouldn't care as you don't work. Let me rephrase that. If I vomited on you in the dole queue, would you be amused? No. You'd stab me to death, then kick my holey corpse. Exactly. So don't.

And, finally...

10. ETIQUETTE
...say please and thank you. Every time. Should go without saying that you shouldn't go without saying it, but there you go. A sad sign of the times. Bring back the fifties and nuclear fear!

And that, for now, is it. More shall undoubtedly follow. Have any of you ever perpertrated such transgressions? If so, leave me a comment and I'll inform you of your penance. There may be scourgings. Huzzah!
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