I miss the old Michael Jackson.
Today I was thinking about the whole “We Are the World” thing, trying to understand from Quincy Jones’s perspective why on Earth he would allow Kim Carnes and Sheila E to perform in that song, when suddenly the grief hit me like a smack in the face:
The Michael Jackson that I used to love is dead.
Like most of you, I also purchased a pair of white cotton gloves and a spool of iridescent sequins. Do you remember the patience and devotion it took to replicate the moniker of the Gloved One, sewing one sequin at a time? Can you recall how totally awesome it felt to slip it on your hand and moonwalk in front of the mirror?
I remember it like it was 20 years ago.
Just like every other teenaged girl, I saved all my babysitting money to buy the Thriller album (along with spare needles for the record player) and played it until I could recite from memory the words to “Wanna Be Startin’ Something”- including the brilliant refrain of “Mama-se, mama-sa, ma-ma-coo-sa”.
That was six minutes and three seconds of pure genius.
And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Do you remember the photo from the album jacket- how Michael’s tendons protruded from his wrist as he laid on his side? Oh man!
But here’s something you might not know- the song Michael sang with Paul McCartney “The Girl Is Mine” was written for me.
It’s true. I was the “doggone girl”.
And for the record, I had every intention of making good on my promise to visit Michael in the nursing home when he was old and everyone else had forgotten him.
I would have rocked with him if only he hadn’t gone Off the Wall.
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