I hope Michael Jackson doesn't end up working at the Burger King in Kalamazoo.
I'm only half kidding about that. I started my freshman year at Kalamazoo College in 1988, just a couple of months after the Weekly World News broke the story that Elvis Presley, whom we all thought had died on the shitter in 1977, had in fact faked his own death and was now living the simple life making onion rings in the Kalamazoo Burger King. When people found out I was going to K, I got a lot of "Say hi to Elvis for me!" And we would laugh, because it was silly and absurd and maybe just slightly possible that The King was flipping burgers in blissful anonymity. Elvis was sort of like our class mascot that year.
And Michael Jackson certainly shares a lot with Elvis (not even counting Lisa Marie): prodigious talent and unprecedented fame, retreat to a self-built world of isolation and fantasy as the real world passed them by, surrounded by "loved ones" who would rather indulge and exploit them than get them the help they so obviously needed. And sequins.
But I hope Michael Jackson's death doesn't become fodder for lunacy and rumors that he's working at Burger King, or writing poetry in a Spanish monastery, or that Courtney Love shot him, or any of the other conspiracy theories that people believe when they're not ready to let go of their idols. I hope people can let go of him. I hope he can rest in peace.
I totally understand -- it's hard to keep up that level of dedication and volunteer work year after year -- but I'm bummed. DEPART-ment operated with a fantastic idea: instead of having individual vendor booths, each show was set up like a department store. Jewelry from a dozen different makers at one table, all manner of knitted goods at another, racks of clothing in one corner and stacks of stationery across the room. Neato. Clean. Comparison shopping made easy. And I think I bought something at every event -- the December shows were especially great for doing all the holiday shopping I never actually had time to do while running around DIY Trunk Show every year.
In its place will be the new Coterie Chicago, which will still wave the handmade freak flag but in a more traditional, booth-based format. And hooray for that! The ladies who will be running the show now are all top-notch makers and craftivists and all-around groovy dames. I'm sad to see DEPART-ment go, but I'm excited to see what comes next.
If you have gone to see a concert, or are at least in a room with a bunch of people who have gone to see a concert, two things:
1. Put your fucking phone away. It's not even enough that you are not talking on it. Don't check messages or text or tweet or do anything that sends your bright little phone light into the eyes of people in the dark room who are trying to watch the performer on the stage. That's why we're all here, right? To see the performer on the stage? Be here now, assholes! (And thank you, hipster guy sitting next to me who quit texting when I asked politely. That sure was a bright phone you had there, sonny!)
2. Shut up. Stop talking about your relationship or your job or whatever at high volume. You know why you find yourself needing to yell? BECAUSE THERE'S A CONCERT HAPPENING! And yet, even though the guy on stage has a guitar and a bunch of mics and amps, I can still hear you talking about how shitty your coworkers are. Just stop it!
