A man named Michael

I didn't really want to write anything about his death. I felt like enough people had and enough people will. I've read articles and blogs everywhere from MTV to ESPN about the shocking tragedy that an idol has been claimed by the angel of death. When I first heard the news Thursday afternoon, I had only been awake for a short period of time and my brain took several minutes to process hearing, "Michael Jackson, age 50, is dead." I immediately changed the channel to MTV, and as soon as I saw "Beat It" playing, I knew it had to be true. My childhood idol was officially gone, and I wasn't sure how to feel anything but immediate sadness. But the worst part about all of this, worse than the fact that he's actually gone, is what I've heard from people who say things about his strange appearance, pedophilic accusations, and all-around insanity at the fact that he literally hid his children's faces with masks. It has caused me to speak a little about the King of Pop.

First of all, I must say that Farrah Fawcett's death was a shame. She was a beauty, a great pin-up legend (who in the 70s didn't have that poster--you know which one I'm talking about!). But my mind was blown when someone I know, a close friend, actually was shocked that Michael Jackson's death overshadowed her own. I mean, really? Are you fucking nuts? No, just uninformed of how huge MJ was at his peak. Sure, he didn't end his life on the high pedestal he reached after the success of Thriller made him a living legend. And I don't really feel like going over the numbers (the 750 million albums sold, the 13 Grammys, etc.) because the numbers game isn't what made him one-of-a-kind. But seriously, he practically owned the world for a very long time. He had the Guinness World Record for "Most Successful Entertainer of All-Time." Everyone wanted to be in his videos (Michael Jordan, Eddie Murphy, and Steven Spielberg were among those who were) and there isn't a producer on Earth who wouldn't jump at the chance to work with him, even today. Besides, do you think the Jonas Queers or Miley Cyrus will have an Oscar winner directing their music videos anytime soon (Martin Scorsese directed the "Bad" video for those who don't know)?

When I was very young, Bad was released and I've had it for as long as I can remember. Every week, at least once, my dad would pick me up from school with "Bad" or "The Way You Make Me Feel" or "Smooth Criminal" playing while I chewed a piece of Juicy Fruit on the way home. It's a fond but simple memory of my childhood that I consider one of those kinds of memories that might not come first to your mind but always reminds you of the innocence of youth. MJ played the soundtrack to my youth, as he had for my mother, but not like he will for my own children. When old people listen to Elvis, I wonder why. His music is outdated, if not stolen straight from black people, but now that the King of Pop is gone, I completely understand why Elvis fans still listen to Elvis. It may be about the music, but it's more about what the music means to them. To me, listening to Thriller, Off the Wall, and the other albums Mike made over his long career reminds me of my earliest start as an entertainer.

I was never a great singer, and I have never been a great dancer. I can do both, and I enjoy doing both, and I can say MJ influenced that. At one point, when I was the youngest person in my family, it was me who entertained the whole family during the holidays by doing the moonwalk. I had learned how to do it at a very young age, and even though I don't really remember this detail, they all swear I practiced many, many times on how to do the anti-gravity lean from "Smooth Criminal." MJ was important to my parents because--do realize this was before any of his child molestation trials--he was a terrific role model for black kids. His music was universal, bridging the gap between cultures as there was no place on Earth that didn't have MJ running from thousands upon thousands of screaming fans. Before him, black people didn't really have someone that famous to relate to. It's sad really. The Jacksons came up poor from Gary, IN to becoming one of the most famous American families in the history of entertainment, with Michael leading the charge. Poor black kids nowadays in the ghettos have to look up to rappers, who claim to sell drugs and shoot cats dead in the streets. Michael grew up in the same environment but sang about love, getting down, turning into zombies, illegitimate children from women named Billie Jean, making the world better, and how it doesn't matter if you're black or white.

His star fell when accused of the child molestation. I don't want to talk about it because I don't think it's a relevant issue in the point I'm trying to make. You can believe it, you can deny it, it doesn't matter to me. But to all you funny people out there--don't rub it in my face. It's not funny, it's not cool, and what does it do? Why do people love others being in misery? Michael Jackson became such a tragic figure of what stardom can do to people. Crazy or no, he probably wouldn't have been all that normal if he wasn't famous, but it's highly likely that his strange circumstances led to his demise. But I don't want to remember the demise of Michael, but more so the rise. And I would appreciate those of you who love to harp on the bad to harp on yourselves for a bit. If you want to remember someone who affected so many people for something that might have affected one person (or been an extortion scheme by that one person's parents) then go ahead and be my guest, but not around me. I have better things to remember.

I want to remember the glove, the moves, the songs, the hooks, the videos, the things that everyone in pop music has tried to emulate for 30 years and that no one will be able to achieve. I danced because Michael taught me how to dance. I sing because Michael taught me how to sing. I began saving money when I found some not-so-terribly-scalped tickets for one of his shows in London. I've never told anyone about this, but I was thinking about just flying over there by myself, finding my way through the city on a very small budget and enjoying a concert by one of the greatest entertainers we'll ever know. But it's not going to happen anymore. So I'll just hit play and let "Rock With You," the first MJ song I ever remember hearing, play in the background while I work on getting that moonwalk back.

With his death, my childhood dies with him. Rest forever in peace, my friend. My idol. Michael.

for those who read the last post....

...I had to delete it. I can't talk about that stuff anymore, and I can't live like that anymore. I've got too good of a thing going on for that.

--Fin.

dans un etat rêveux...(Part Two of Eleven)

Okay, let's set up the scene again: we're in a very old townhouse, flat, whatever the French call these things. I want to say one of Napoleon's cousins lived in this place, and I have the feeling Sofia Coppola stayed here for a short time before filming that random ass Marie Antoinette movie. There's a certain word for this kind of weather here in Paris--well, I can't really think too much right now about fancy words, so I'll just say "perfect." I'm pretty intellectually-minded out right now, as I've been pretending that I'm a little more sophisticated than I would consider myself. Despite a slight language barrier, there's this beautiful girl that I've been having over since B,S, and I flew into Paris six days ago. Her name: Monique. Her look: hot. Her deal: artist/model/musician/jaded/faded/whatever. But I can't get over her Icelandic eyes, which glow when her cheeks permeate. Besides, she fucks like it's the last time she'll ever be with a man, so you gotta love that.


The French Open is not nearly as exciting as I hoped it would be. Yeah, we've seen some athletes and stuff but they're mostly dudes...eck. Roddick was kind of desperate, Nadal was kind of suspect, and Agassi could match me shot-for-shot when the bottles of Johnnie Walker broke out on the first night. There's not really much else to see as far as people at the French Open parties, unless you don't mind random models. Yeah, that's something I have to kind of get used to since editing for the film has had me stuck in Kentucky until we decided to take this excursion. Unfortunately, I brought my daughter over with me for this trip and I haven't seen her in three days. Maybe I should call her, but I figure that worrying is a two-way street. Besides, she did the same thing when we went to Austrailia and the only thing she came back with was some Aborigine piercings in secret spots.


The tennis has been good, and I can't complain about that. Since taking up the sport, I'm a little more into these matches, picking up pointers and mentally watching myself play and realize how I give up so many damn points. Funny enough, I've only been watching the women's matches. The Williams sisters (by the way, their father is a cool asshole, if that makes any sense), Sharapova, Jankovic, even some of the ones I can't pronounce or spell are teaching me a thing or two. Monique has a friend in this tournament that's been doing pretty good all week, some girl from Romania that's supposed to be coming over tomorrow night. Maybe we can do something French together, like a ménage à trois...it'd be pretty cliché, but Paris has me feeling the love for some reason. It's really Europe in general, and I think that B & S would agree with me. I should consider getting a place over here somewhere, maybe in South of Spain. I might steal a little Woody Allen momentum and start filming things over here in Europe. The amount of culture will drown you, as will the number of women. Despite my minute affection for Monique, my eyes have been open and my tongue has been busy, especially on days when Monique goes out and spends a couple of Euros I throw her way for a new dress, new shoes, new dog.

The French women have shown that there is something stewing beyond the beauty at the times--madness. S had a run-in with a woman, one he is currently hiding from--hence why I was pissing on his phone this morning when I went to the bathroom, or the lue if you will--who is gorgeous (I'm indifferent when it comes to her faux-hawk). However, she does tend to throw objects in times of anger, more often than not these objects are knives, and it doesn't take much for S to set her off. I've seen this madness in Monique at times, but it's way more subtle within her. Monique has the tendency to just say things that are out of this world ("There is no such thing as bad art;" "I would give up all of my Versace for the love of a cat;" "Megan Fox isn't that attractive;" etc.) and it weirds me out at time, but because of my fear of getting hooked on psych meds, I just decided to take start drinking early each day, including today.

I met B yesterday morning, just she and I, for some breakfast and at the cafe was a girl who looked absolutely to die for.....she wasn't working there, she was eating there by herself, practicing poor French to herself. Maybe she was traveling alone, and maybe I'll back to the cafe today to see if she's in there again. It wasn't the first time I had seen her since arriving in Paris (maybe she lives on the block somewhere), but it was the first time I didn't think of her as French. She blends in well, but something about her made me think differently about her. Maybe because she didn't look French or American is what draws me to her. Maybe I'll see if she wants to accompany Monique and me tomorrow night over some dinner, some wine, some Casablanca maybe--I've been in a black & white mood lately, even wanting to make a film in black & white...do some effects, make it look like it was actually made in the 40s.....maybe a science fiction film, since that's kinda how life has felt lately....even my vision is in black & white--and maybe get them both in bed. It would be a nice night to do so, but not tonight. We've got a party with Kanye West and Chris Martin and his wife Gwenyth Paltrow. They'll be fun, as will my special edition Original Imprint Adidas tracksuit be. It goes well with a pair of Air Yeezys.

I'm dreamy.........................