Yes, we’re talking about Michael Jackson. The world is talking about Michael Jackson.
I want to know how you and those around you have paid homage to this man’s death. If you didn’t, that’s okay, you might think about it and try. I will start off by telling you two drastically different tribute experiences of my own. One was good and the other was not so good.
Tribute #1: After dinner a few friends and I went to what is called “Last-Thursday” on Alberta street. It’s a tradition where they block off about 10 blocks on the last-Thursday of every month (read more about it here). I’ll sum it up by saying that it is a grand convergence of the most bastion of hipsters. I don’t know how I got there but I was welcome nonetheless. All hipster crowds are, if nothing else, friendly. But I’m certain that it’s considered a foreign country to most. I think Sodom and Gomorrah would shake it’s indulgent little finger at most of what I saw last night. So I’m exaggerating a bit but you get the picture.
I was walking around when I saw a large group of all shapes, sizes and hair-colors smiling and bouncing to an old and familiar beat. I gravitated over and when I did I saw a speaker in the middle blaring out a Jackson favorite, “Thriller!” I crossed myself and shamelessly joined in the ritual. And I loved every minute of it. Whispering sentiments like, "We love you Michael" and "You're the best!"
Tribute #2: Well, tribute #2 is not really a tribute at all, it is more of an experience with a crumudgeonous soul's take on the untimely death of Michael Jackson.
I was working at my lousy job just north of town. I work at a little market called J’s, it is basically a gas station without the gas. I was reading a book when a rougher looking gentleman approached the counter carrying two cheap 24oz beers in hand and asked me for some Pall Mall full flavored cigarettes. Now this guy's a keeper. He looked over his shoulder at the news-stand headline and said, “At least we got one!”
I’m innocent and curious so I asked, “One of what?”
A lewd reply followed, “One less child-molester in the world.” I scoffed, shook my head and bagged his beer. I saw that he needed a drink more than he needed a response. I whispered, under my breath, "go smoke a cigarrette you old bastard."
I apologize for his crassness and mine.
You’ve heard my two Michael Jackson stories . . . What are yours? In the mean time I'll be listening to "Billie Jean" on repeat.