The Wrong Black Guy

When I was ten, Michael Jackson's music finally made its way to Cache Valley in Utah. My 5th grade elementary school teacher actually introduced me, but that's a story for a different time.

For Christmas 1983 I asked my parents for Thriller--and what to my wondering eyes should appear Christmas morning in my stocking? Lionel Richie's Can't Slow Down.

To this day I accuse my parents of not being able to figure out which black guy's album I wanted, and of course they picked the wrong one.

Fortunately, however, Lionel's music was a fine substitute, and probably helped me become the connoisseur of music that I am today, in a round about sort of way.

Last year, Ciria bought me my first copy of Thriller. I guess I didn't really need it as bad as my ten year old self had thought.

Anyway, I would feel quite comfortable saying Michael Jackson possessed the same feel for the music and entertainment requirements of his time as Mozart or Beethoven or Elvis had for theirs. The world lost a remarkable genius today. He was every bit as flawed and or damaged as any in of his predecessors. Can we not praise and adore the fruits of his labor, and yet ignore the sour grapes of his behavior? I think for today I can, how about you?

After all, to die on the same day as Farrah Fawcett. What a sly dog!

So, goodbye, Mr. Jackson, and Farrah too. Enjoy your stay on that island for entertainers and wealthy people who convincingly, or unconvincingly, fake his or her own death, to live out the rest of his or her "natural" lives in a fully catered Paradise on Earth away from the public's glaring eye.

Ciria hates it when I bring up that conveniently hidden island located somewhere in the Indian Ocean, that has remained a secret for hundreds, if not thousands of years.