Shout-out: MJ

I heard about Michael Jackson's death on June 25th while sitting at work, polishing off the day's remnants before joining my colleagues to run a corporate road race. 

The news came, from all places, National Public Radio ... when an announcer broke into the evening broadcast of "All Things Considered."  And you know it's serious business when someone interrupts the uninterruptible ATC.

I knew a death such as his in a fashion such as his in a town such as his would produce the circus it has indeed turned out to be already.  Narcotics, which ones and how much.  Ex-wives contesting paternity.  Wills excluding fathers. And teddy bears--always teddy bears--piled at wrought-iron gates.

All to be expected.  Not worth lamenting because it could be nothing else.

Oh, to go back to last Thursday night, though.

To come out from work, not 20 minutes after the announcement, to see the lone man on the Copley Square fountain blasting a mega boombox next to his buddy, another lone man with an R.I.P. sign aimed at passing cars.  Bittersweet disbelief as a primary emotion -- even in the crowd of corporate runners on the first sunny evening in weeks, and after as we nursed beers at Clery's.

The next day, a friend sent me a link to a blog containing this version of Jackson, then 30, at the 1988 Grammy Awards .... back in an era where he amazed, rather than baffled.  

For years I have had no great love for this man. 

But I cannot stop watching this video.  I estimate that since last Thursday I've done so about 40 times. It's the simplicity, the understated costume, the rhythm, the scatting, the exhortations, the cracking vocals, the jump-roping ... and those spins ....

... and I can't look away, and I'm very very sad, and I wish he had been happy enough in this moment to just stay here.