Notes On Jacko

Okay:

First of all, I apologize for not blogging yesterday. I woke up to discover my Internet was down, and I can't really blog from work. And Monday was a holiday for me. So today, Wednesday, is my first blog of the week. Hopefully it will never happen again. But, as you well know, certain shit just cannot be avoided.

So my sister was in town this past weekend for my mother's birthday. I won't tell you how old she is on the slim chance that she may read this one day and subsequently write me out of her will. Let's just say she looks great!

A few days ago my sister shipped her present to me. A very nice, very expensive Chanel bag. Very expensive. She harassed me all week via text message.

"If u lose pkg I will kill u."

"Where is pkg?"

"R u with pkg now?"

"How is pkg? What is it wearing? Did u feed it?"

This all made me very nervous about what I was going to get my mother. It would be difficult to top a Chanel bag. I thought long and hard about it then decided to get her an iPod.

Brilliant.

Something she would never buy for herself. Something she had already expressed an interest in. Something I could afford. Something she would definitely use.

Fucking brilliant.

I bought her a 4G Nano, a nightstand dock and a $25 iTunes card. For a moment there, I felt like a good son. We spent the entire morning on the computer importing CDs and browsing the iStore. It was a glorious moment.

But what ended up topping all was a small gift that my sister got for my mother and me. Copies of the 25th Anniversary Edition of Thriller.

It comes with the mother of all liner notes, some bonus tracks and a DVD with all the videos, or short films as he calls them.

I realized, with no small degree of delight, that my daughter did not know anything about Thriller. "Your daddy used to love Michael Jackson," said my sister. "He knew all the dance moves and used to walk around with a sock on his hand grabbing his crotch. It was so cute. He was younger than you."

It's true. I was gay for Michael Jackson. I probably would have let him molest me.

In fact, I don't remember anything significant happening in my life before Thriller. It was the beginning of me.

"Come here, honey," I said. "I want to show you the greatest music video of all time. It scared the hell out of me when I was your age."

"What's it about?"

"It's not about anything really. He's just singing to some girl. But it's got werewolves and zombies."

"Werewolves and zombies? It sounds scary. I think I'll pass."

She started walking away.

"Get back here right now," I said. "I am your father and I am ordering you to watch Thriller. It is very important! And it's Black History Month."

We watched it together. She winced and hid her face a bit. But all told, she didn't seem that frightened or impressed.

I, on the other hand, was transported back to my childhood temporarily. And I realized something in my euphoric stupor--everyone except Michael Jackson sucks. He understood showmanship. Those other bozos were just fucking around.

Last night my daughter had some trouble sleeping. She asked me if I would let her call her grandmother.

"Please come get me. I want to sleep at your house tonight. My daddy made me watch the Thriller video even though I told him I didn't want to see it and now I think the ugly dead people that weren't all the way dead are going to come get me like they came to get the pretty girl with the Jheri Curl. And Michael Jackson is with them too only he's not singing; he just wants to kill me."

Times sure have changed.

Oh well. She made me take her to see Hannah Montana. Now we're even.

Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

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Confession: One Christmas I asked for one thing only—a Michael Jackson doll. I made him a bed from an old shoebox. I slept with him and bathed with him. It was the only toy I ever had that I did not immediately destroy.