Like Mike

Michael Jackson was the king of pop at least 10 years before he crowned himself with the title, in my Bronx junior high school senior year, and I made the most out of it. Because, you see, I kinda looked like him. And it’s a head-swelling thing to kinda look like the biggest superstar in the world when you’re 13 years old. LaRonda Davis of the Black Rock Coalition recently asked me, “You know you’re what MJ should look like, right?” and I had old Brooklyn neighbor Hakim from Channel Live once tell me “You’re what MJ would look like if he had kept it real.” It still comes up around once a year; Right On! editor Cynthia Horner once said I could pass for a Jackson, and she should know.

Well in the eighth grade, I was the one sitting in the lunchroom ostentatiously sipping on a 12-ounce can of Pepsi while wearing a single winter glove. I didn’t have the zippered “Beat It” jacket, but I woulda if I coulda. The hottest Puerto Rican chick in my class turned 13 and I couldn’t wait to give her the Michael Jackson birthday card in my bookbag. I didn’t have a jheri curl – yet – but I woulda if I coulda. I just barely lived it all down the next semester at Truman High, that summer after Purple Rain when Prince became the man of the moment (that “moment,” for me, lasting the next 9 years) and looking like Mike was more of a liability than an asset.

What’s the point? Thriller turns 25 this year. Kindly read my essay from The Village Voice last week, and check out Thrillercast, a year-long celebration of the world’s favorite pop album with interviews from D.M.C., Will.i.am, Wyclef Jean and who knows who else eventually. ‘Cause this is Thriller.