As I sit here at my desk, I try maintaining composure with my iPod buds plugged into my ears. I think They frown upon the use of iPod's, but I frown upon complete lack of concentration with the sounds of talking, typing and chaos all around me, so the iPod stays put. Anyway, under most circumstances, I can keep my foot from tapping, keep my head from bobbing, keep my lungs from bursting forth with the sounds of Jason Mraz or My Chemical Romance or something equally inappropriate for the office.
But not today, because HOLY CRAP I rediscovered Michael Jackson.
I LOVE Michael Jackson. And not love in the way I love Jason Mraz or My Chemical Romance. Not love in the way Harley loves to be NAUGHTY. Not in the way fish love water, or the way Michael Jackson loves little boys. But love. A Michael Jackson love.
There may or may not have been a period of time around the age of 12 or 13 (or not) where my best friend of yore and I worshipped the very Earth Sir Michael walked upon. We bought CDs. We stalked MTV waiting for the mere mention of his name. Or video. We bought a biography of the man, which may or may not have been a mistake as we were subjected to tales of alleged child molestation charges that were brought against him. In detail. (Ew). We had code names. We had Michael Jackson video marathons. We were - CRAZY.
"OHMYGOD, did you just SEE MTV, oh my GOD! He was on it. You know, his PICTURE. It flashed on the screen at the end of the MTV News brief. You know? All those flashing pictures, all quick-like, and so fast you can barely tell who's who? They showed MICHAEL!! Did you SEE IT?"
That was mostly how the phone calls went any time either of us had a Michael Sighting.
Ah, the good old days. We were faithful, all the way through his HIStory CD. Things got a little weird with the following Blood on the Dance Floor, but it was still Michael. I even got Invincible for Christmas the year it was released. Weirder, still. And I had no need to purchase his Number Ones because, well, I have every single CD of his. Ever.
Both Best Friend and I continued to pay attention to Michael as we grew up and he grew, well, peculiar. But we are no fairweather fans. No way. As his nose began to disintegrate, his face grew ever paler, and stories of bankruptcy, child molestation and dancing on limousines plagued our fallen hero, we were still like, "What? Michael Jackson is AWESOME! Did you ever hear 'Remember The Time?' God." (No. Seriously. That's a good song.)
We even sat in anticipation together on the phone last year when the verdict (ahem, NOT GUILTY on all accounts) was aired on national television regarding the child molestation charges. Oh, yes. We still stand by Michael. He's bad. He knows it. But not as much as we know it.
So in honor of Best Friend of Yore and Michael Jackson, I am blasting him on my iPod. All afternoon. My head is bobbing. My foot is tapping. Memories are afloat. And no one can blame me if all of a sudden I yell "Heeee heeeee, whoooo!" at the top of my lungs. Uh, but I will refrain from grabbing my crotch.
You know I'm bad.