To me, Janet Jackson’s Escapade is a flood of turquoise Lycra and gold sequins. Somewhere between ’91 and ’93, Escapade was the jam I performed a baton/dance routine to in a local parade. My mom—a former Baltimore Colts choreographer—managed to herd a bunch of 7 to 9-year-olds down a main street parade in Oro Valley, AZ to Janet on repeat. It was too cold of a morning to wear turquoise leotards with sequined stars, but who cares. Not only did I nail my routine, but I dodged any and all horse poop from the parade float ahead of us.