Now that Michael Jackson is finally dead, can we assume there won't be Elvis-, JFK-, or Marilyn Monroe-like sightings of him around the globe?  Can we rest assured that there won't be tell-all books by everyone that ever so much as operated the street sweeper that went past the entrance to his personal theme park? Will we not have to slog through hours of analysis of his will, child custody hearings, etc.?

And I say, no!  We will mostly certainly will not have to do any of this!  How can I be so sure?  Because I have done it, people!  As soon as there is a hint of the one-gloved-wonder on television, online, and even on my beloved NPR, I switch the darn thing off.  I do not read the article in the paper. I smile blandly while others hotly debate an MJ topic and mentally write out a grocery list. I am as ignorant as I can possibly be. 

It's not that I don't think he did great things for minority entertainers.  And as a former dancer, I appreciate his rhythm and most of his innovative moves.  However, as a fifth grade teacher in the 80s, I did not appreciate his influence on the movement style of my fifth grade boys.  I remember a boy I will call Michael Freeman. 

Michael was small for his age and very white.  He was blond, freckled, and had such a pronounced overbite and overjet that he could not eat a sandwich.  But the boy was so ugly he was cute.  He was courteous and honest to a fault. Michael's grades barely made it to the average mark, but he was a person you could count on.  He enjoyed people and liked making them laugh and smile.  He was a "good boy," but not so much that he couldn't do a fun prank every once in a while as long as no one was seriously injured.  Michael liked girls, but girls paid no attention to him because he was not cool enough.  He was stuck in the friend zone.

Then "Thriller" came out and one day Michael came to school with one white glove.  He began dancing during break, and wasn't as bad as you might think a skinny white boy might be.  But he wasn't that good, either. Other guys could break dance and moonwalk. Michael hadn't made it that far. 

So Michael grabbed his crotch to give himself, as it were, a leg up.

This was the 80s, not the 90s and this was blue-collar Alabama, not L.A.  Michael effectively shut down his social life for the next seven years.  All the girls' lips curled ever so slightly, and they went back to their desks with the expression of people who suspect the person in the next row might have passed gas on purpose.

If I were to see Michael Freeman today, I wonder if he remembers that day at break.  I wonder if it effected him the way I thought it did.  I wonder how many other people who wanted to be like Michael Jackson got burned even remotely like Michael Freeman did, however insignificant it might seem.  What about those who mimicked him and it worked?  How far did they go with it? And what if any responsibility do people in the public eye have to the public? Or is it all up to the parents?

I took clothes out of the washer and put them into the dryer over and over and over...

   

I just blogged about my scariest nightmare to enter The Uninvited Scariest Nightmare Contest for 1,000 credits. You can earn free credits too! Brought to you by The Uninvited - In Theaters January 30th.

Yes, fellow Xangans, coffeeiv has chosen to turn away from the siren song of desire and listen to a higher power.  No more nights surfing the Internet for base ideas to carry into the bedroom for further perusal by Hubs and myself alone.   No dropping subtle hints during the day at work that much, much fun of a certain kind will follow late into the evening. 

But surely you spoke with Hubs on this matter, you say.  Surely HE cannot have agreed to this...situation.  What about the success of the couple in the book 365 Nights of Intimacy? Surely you do not expect poor Hubs to suffer because you've "got religion."

Oh.  You thought I spoke of physical intimacy.  On the contrary; I was speaking of politics.

I have given it up completely.  No TV, no radio, no discussion with friends, co-workers, or even family. Even Hubs occassionally gets a "Hmmm..." if he forces me to watch a debate clip.

So do not try to lure me into your titillating arguments.  I will stand firm with my political celibacy until the hoo-ha dies down, probably somewhere in December.