I remember being in fourth grade, practically hysterical in the second floor apartment of my then best friend, Kostas. My backpack full of pajamas and clothes for the next day in his room just down the hall. His house always smelled like feta or honey, as his old world Greek grandmother was constantly cooking.
I was sleeping over for one reason: Kostas had HBO and that night would be the broadcast of Michael Jackson's Live in Bucharest concert. The show featured his biggest hits, and he threw the thousands and thousands and thousands of concert goers into a screaming, crying, frothing frenzy with every note and move. At times I would hop to my feet to do my best impression of his spin, or his kick. But I was smart enough to never attempt the moonwalk. It was sacred; he was the only man who could pull that off.
A year later I tried my best to dress as Michael from that concert - the black jumpsuit with the shiny golden chest plate/ codpiece. It was a disaster and I remember practically bawling at the embarrassing sight. My cousin Kristin, on the other hand, had been smart and opted for Black or White Michael Jackson, which was really just the black pants and that white shirt.
And then there was the time that Barbara Walters went to the Neverland Valley Ranch. I sat, eyes glued to the TV as she hopped on the ferris wheel with MJ. I watched this with bitter memories of years before when I dropped to my kitchen floor in wheezing hysterics because I had not won MTV's Neverland Valley sleepover contest, despite hitting the redial on my family's chunky cordless phone over and over for three hours.
I had Thriller on cassette. Ditto for Dangerous. When technology rendered tape players obsolete I bought all of his albums on CD so I could listen to them at home, and then in my dad's Jeep when driving my friends around Long Island.
In college, whenever Michael Jackson came up on my iPod on shuffle I would walk with just a bit more attitude in my step. Because I was THAT cool. Sometimes, when no one was around, I would break out a little spin or that kick again. Like before, I never attempted the moonwalk. Years later I still was not sure I could pull it off.
I won't talk about the child molestation cases, or the allegations. Could they have happened? Sure. Did they? I don't know. And, frankly, that would be Michael's business. He gave me years of music and attitude. He inspired and thrilled me. Just seeing him trash that car during the superbowl music video was enough to make my father consider restraining me so I wouldn't try dancing on his Volvo.
And just like that, Michael is gone. Everywhere they are showing a slightly creepy, slightly foreboding image of the King of Pop, cocky and flashing a peace sign at his onlookers. Just before his big comeback tour. The dreams they had of bringing him back to the stage.
He may have left the public eye, but he never left my heart. Now he is cemented there forever.
Goodbye Michael, thanks for years of music and memories.
xoJR
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