The somewhat obligatory Michael Jackson post.

A little over a week has passed since Michael Jackson moonwalked off this mortal coil, and the media frenzy around his death and craziness regarding his will and what will happen to his assets and his children has been just as insane as I expected it would be.

It’s all just sad. All of it.

That cute, soft-spoken, eerily talented guy that so many my age fell in love with when he was just a teenager clearly had a terribly troubled life and self-image, and I suspect he was probably also extraordinarily lonely. The past twenty or so years had not been kind to him as he sank deeper into his bizarre behaviors and became simply freakish looking via the self-mutilation caused by unethical doctors willing to perform too many plastic surgeries. And now he’s dead, and along with a legacy of music and extraordinary performances, he leaves a legacy of utter strangeness that will always be a part of anything ever written or discussed about him. Like I said: sad.

But I have some happy memories that I associate with Mr. Jackson.

"Off the Wall." It came out in 1979. I was 10 years old. I begged my mom to buy me this album, and when she did, I played it and played it and played it some more. I would put it on and dance around the house like a fool, trying my best to sing along. I got thumbtacks and pinned the album cover to my wall (unfolded, it was a head-to-toe photo of Michael. Later, when the album came out on CD, the cover image was of his legs and feet only—surely a nod to the fact that he no longer looked anything like the fresh-faced young man on the cover). The depth of my love for this album and its singer knew no bounds. The following summer, when I was 11, I did a (made up as I went along) dance to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” in the talent show at my summer camp. Those of you unlucky enough to have ever seen me dance know that there was NO talent going on during my portion of the show, however I will say I was probably the most earnest and dedicated performer of the night. My dance—performed on our “stage,” which was set up outside on a flat bed trailer near the swimming pool—was nothing if not a testament to my heart and soul devotion to “Off the Wall.” (I still have this LP, btw.)

Fast forward several years to 1983. I’m now 14, and I’ve got way more important things going on in my life besides Michael Jackson. But the night that the much-hyped music video for the title track of “Thriller” debuted, I was sitting in Lori Williams’ TV room, waiting with her breathlessly to see what the buzz was all about. And we were not disappointed. In fact, we were—no pun intended—thrilled! We were giddy with excitement. It was so cool and groundbreaking and new! MTV replayed it about 100 times in a row, and Lori immediately set out to figure out the choreography in the zombie dance scene. The video seems sweetly old-fashioned when you watch it now, but then? Then, it was the absolute shit.

“Thriller” was on the charts for over 2 years. I never actually bought the album because I didn’t have to: between MTV and the radio, it was everywhere.

A couple of years after the release of “Thriller,” I was on a bus with the rest of the marching band, and we were on our way back to Longview after marching in an invitational competition in Ruston, LA. We stopped at a strip mall that had a couple of different fast food dining options, and the band directors set us all loose to feed ourselves and return to the bus at an appointed time. In this strip mall, there was a K-Mart. A bunch of us went in there and were browsing around to kill the time when, no shit, they announced a Blue Light Special on Michael Jackson “Beat It” t-shirts. They were practically giving them away. By this point, “Thriller” had pretty much run its course and was old news to us, so—as a joke—we all went and bought these cheesy t-shirts and went walking back to the buses wearing our new purchases. Imagine it: Buses full of (primarily white) teenagers, wearing these big, white t-shirts with a full length picture of Michael on the front and big black letters reading “Beat It” running up the vertical length of his picture. We were a sight to behold.

After that, I pretty much gave up on Michael. His music was overproduced and filled with too many grunts, yells and “woo-hoos.” He tried, but was never able to capture the magic of those first two solo albums. His videos got longer and lamer, he married Lisa Marie Presley, and eventually his face became simply painful to look at. And then there were the accusations and trials that firmly planted him deeply in eccentric/creepy/weirdo territory and from whence he was never to return.

But last week, when he died, I made a playlist on my iPod of all my Michael Jackson/Jackson 5/Jacksons songs. I have 17 of them. And I have been singing my ASS off to these songs in my car almost daily for a week now. The Geej has actually been asking for him by name. Sort of. “Mommy, can we listen to Jackson Michael?” (She’s got a kid in her class named Jackson, so she gets confused.) It blows my mind to think that when he hit it big with his brothers in The Jackson 5, he was right around her age. Again: eerily talented. I’ve fallen back in love with “Off the Wall,” and I’ve even added a few songs from “Thriller” into the mix. And when you’re in the middle of belting out the chorus to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” and dancing like a fool in your seat while driving in rush hour traffic, all that’s there is the music and the pure joy it creates. All the other bullshit disappears.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Clearly I posted too early yesterday.

At post time, only ONE of my childhood icons had passed away and it had only gotten up to one-oh-two.

By the time I'd left work, Michael Jackson was dead, and it was one-oh-seven outside.

I have been listening to Michael's (pre-"Bad" only) music--as a solo artist and with his brothers--almost non-stop since yesterday afternoon. My personal song fest/dance party has sparked many MJ-related memories (to come in a future post...probably tomorrow).

But for now, I'm going to rest up for the Big Garage Clean Out, Part One that's starting tomorrow. That's right people: I'm spending most of my Saturday working in a garage that promises to get into the triple digits, heat-wise. So try not to be too jealous.

Until tomorrow...

What we did on our Thanksgiving vacation.

That's right, fools. The Tree is UP! I'm pretty sure this is the first time in my life EVER that I put the tree up the weekend after Thanksgiving. And somehow, this year's tree looks a lot better than last year's tree (even though it's ostensibly the same tree, plus a couple of boxes of ornaments from Super Target).

Of course the Geej was all up in the tree decorating hizzee. She actually did a fairly good job even if it was highly-concentrated in the lower left quadrant of the tree.

My goal is to actually have some presents under the tree this year BEFORE Christmas morning. I've already purchased two presents (I know...unimpressive), so I'm ahead of where I usually am this time of year.

In other news: Yay! The sun is out after a gloomy-as-hell weekend. That means the lovely moon is going to be bright and clear tonight. It also means it's going to get down into the (upper) 30s. SNUGGLE WEATHER!! If only I could sleep in until 10:00am every morning... Sigh.

Hunka Munka went back to Geej's school today. I think I may have been the only one who was sad to see her go. Mr. W. never warmed up to her, the Geej was only half-way interested, and Earl really didn't give a crap about Hunka Munka's presence. (I swear that cat has ZERO predatory instinct inside his nicely insulated frame. He's a lover, not a fighter.) My mom and friends who came for Thanksgiving were fairly grossed out about the fact that I was willingly harboring vermin in my house. But I got rather Willard-like and would pulled Hunka Munka out each night to give her a thorough petting and scratching. And you know what? She LOVED it. She totally chilled out and relaxed and let her little, beady eyes go half-mast. It was pretty endearing. I haven't even seen Ratatouille, but I'm totally buying it.

Got this book today for work. I'm actually looking forward to reading it. Am I a dork? Why yes I am...

Finally, I'd like to say a fond farewell to Mr. Kevin DuBrow, recently-departed lead singer of 80s pseudo metal outfit "Quiet Riot." Two of the comments I read regarding a posting about his death were "Wait...who?" and "Now it truly is a quiet riot." Sad and funny. Sort of like that wig he used to wear.

Cum on...feel the noize.

Holy crap! Titles are back!

And yet, I can't think of one.

I smell irony...

I guess this post will be a farewell to Claudia Alta Taylor (better known as Lady Bird Johnson). I've always liked her for many reasons.

1) She was an East Texas girl. I'm sorry, but you can't get much more east Texas than Karnack. Karnack is right next to Uncertain, and it's all really close to Jefferson and Caddo Lake. That area is known for having Spanish moss in the trees and alligators in the swamp. It's also known for some bad ass fried catfish. It always made perfect sense to me that Lady Bird had that thick "Gone With the Wind" drawl. Northeast Texas is FAR more "southern" than it is "Texan." The reason for this is pretty simple: As Southerners migrated west after the Civil War (a.k.a. the "War of Northern Aggression," as my people like to call it), they got to northeast Texas and pretty much stopped because it looked and felt like home. If you've ever spent time in northern Alabama or Georgia and listenend to those pines and dug your hands into that red clay, you know exactly what I'm talking about. That Southern dialect--which was, in and of itself, a descendant of the Scots-Irish and English settlers--just set its roots into the deep red clay and thrived. When I listened to Lady Bird, I heard my grandmother--Johnnie Mae who was from a town that no longer exists in northeast Texas and who died before I was born. I heard my Aunts (pronounced "Aint") Mary Lois and Annie Merle and my great Aunt Annalea. I will miss hearing that voice.

And then there was the hair. East Texas through and through.

2) She was not classically beautiful, but was insanely attractive. She wasn't loud, but she got heard. She wasn't tall, but she seemed larger-than-life. I will miss all the things she was able to be without trying. Her subtlety.

3) The wildflowers. Thank goodness her last spring and summer in central Texas were both so ridiculously beautiful with wildflowers. Earlier this spring, when I was marveling at the gorgeous highway interchanges while driving through the Carolinas, with all of their swaying native wildflowers, I remember speaking about Lady Bird, and thanking God for her highway beautification program. What a legacy.

4) The one and only time I ever went to the the LBJ ranch just outside of Johnson City was a couple of years ago. I went with my dear friend and admitted Texophile "Tommy Joe" who was visiting from NYC. It was spring, and he just wanted to drive around and look at Texas. So we got in my car and started driving with no plan whatsoever. We ended up at the LBJ Ranch in the late-afternoon. We asked when the next tour was taking place, and the dude in the booth said, "Now. Go on!" So we boarded the open air tour thingie--you know, the kind that used to take you from the Six Flags parking lot to the gate--and we were on our way. The first thing that we realized is that we were the youngest passengers on the tour thingie by some forty years. The next thing we realized is that we were DEFINITELY the only ones onboard with a righteous buzz working. (Thank you, travelin' tall boys!) Anyhoo, we started on our tour of the ranch, complete with the canned over-the-intercom commentary of the he/she tour guide. At first, we giggled about the surreality of our situation, but soon, we were captivated by the loveliness of the place itself. The ranch is still a "working ranch" meaning there are still herds of cattle roaming and still ranch hands tending, etc. It was early spring, and the entire ranch was flush with life--from the impossibly green grass to the abundant butterflies. It was idyllic to say the least.
We rounded a gentle curve and started down an easy hill to President Johnson's final resting place. The tour guide suddenly slowed the tour thingie down and took on a hushed, whispering tone, as if he/she were trying to keep from startling nearby wildlife: "Ladies and Gentlemen. This is a rare treat. If you'll look to your right at the ranch house, I believe you'll see Miss Lady Bird herself enjoying some iced tea with a friend on the front porch. Even though this is a national landmark, the Johnson family still enjoys it whenever they like. Ms. Johnson comes down a couple of weekends a month if she's able."
As we all gawked as if we'd seen a polar bear and an octopus playing chess, Ms. Johnson lifted her hand and waved to us as if to say, "I know...this is so awkward. I'm sorry. Y'all have a nice tour, okay? Take care..." Very Southern. We all waved back with silly grins on our faces. Very awesome.

Right after passing in front of the house and The Grave, we rounded the corner just in time to witness a cow giving birth to a calf, afterbirth and all.

Ah...Texas in the spring.


So yeah. That's my tribute to Lady Bird. I hope by the time she gets to heaven, Lyndon realizes what a treasure he had and showers her with kisses and apologizes for being a philandering jack ass. But regardless what happens when she arrives, I hope she rests in peace.

P.S. And dudes, I was going to totally post this awesome photo of Lady Bird I ripped off of someone's website, but guess what: BLOGGER'S NOT LETTING ME POST PICTURES. I get titles back, and they take away pictures. ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!