Michael J.

I am struggling to reignite the feelings that Michael Jackson lit in me '82-83. My brain reminds me that I was a dance club rat at that time, that the height of ecstasy on a Saturday night at The Paradise always came at the end of the intrumental break on the extended remix of 'Wanna Be Startin Something' when confetti and white foam stars and pink foam hearts flew into the air, shot from air cannons located above the floor. I remember it, but it seems almost impossible that such a strange, creep-infested man could once have had such an effect on me.

What I remember more strongly is standing in line at Walgreens around the time of the Victory tour. As I waited I realized that there were 10 different Jackson-related products within my reach at the checkout line. 8 of them were targetted to a demographic 20 years my junior. And that was the day the music died.

Might I suggest that you track down Warren Zevon's 'Porcelain Monkey' for an alternative take on the expiration of long-dead genius. Elvis (sadly) lived on...