Samy from five weeks ago would not recognize Samy today. My life has been forever changed, quite suddenly, by Michael Jackson.
It lasted for at least 21 days. I didn’t change my Spotify. I bought three MJ cds at the Exclusive Company (on sale!). I watched “Michael Jackson: The Real Michael Jackson” twice. I’d recommend it. I tried mimicking the “Thriller” dance in my kitchen when no roommates were home. The cats were frightened.
This isn’t a new phenomenon. In 2005 it was the Titanic (not the movie, the ship). In the summer of 2007 it was the Brewers. I watched every game.
And I justify this one by brushing it off. I’m 40 years late, so I have to make up for it now.
But why so late? Why did it take me this long? Why am I chasing the last Michael Jackson bandwagon that left the station years ago?
It was chance. On the Thursday of Halloween weekend, a dear friend and I partook in a weekly ritual, so to speak. After said ritual, we began watching “Most Popular Hits of Decade 2000-2009” on YouTube, showcasing what topped the charts in chronological order. Lah lah lah. Blah blah blah. And then. BAM. 2009. Michael Jackson. Dead at 50. Cue the “Thriller-Beat It-Billie Jean” montage.
And then I said, “Let’s watch all 13 minutes and 40 seconds of Thriller.” This eventually led to a poorly-done documentary about him on Netflix into the wee-hours of the morning.
That moment I realized it— this man, who was ridiculed for the better part of my life, was so much more: a legend, the best performer of all time! And I was ignorant of it all! I obviously can’t do him justice in this column.
Regardless, I’m worried I’ve started annoying my friends, mother and passers-by with my insatiable need to talk about him 24/7. So I’ll annoy you instead. I’ve learned some snippets about his childhood I’d like to share. Disregard the delayed reaction time.
1) The Jackson’s two-bedroom home in Gary, Ind. was on Jackson Street. Fancy that.
2) I can recite the Jackson siblings in descending birth order: Rebbie, Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Latoya, Marlon, Michael, Randy, Janet. And don’t forget Brandon, Marlon’s twin who died shortly after birth.
3) Randy Jackson and Randy Jackson of American Idol fame are two different people.
Here’s what I really learned.
Michael meant so much to so many. His success made him an easy target. He was too trusting of a doctor who recommended more surgery, of a family who accused him of child molestation. He made mistakes, and that made him more human. His death was considered homicide, but it wasn’t the one doctor that killed him. It was everyone who used him in his later years for the sake of spectacle.
Whether his life was triumphant or tragic, I can’t say.
But oh, how I wish I could’ve watched from the beginning of his career that started so young and ended too soon. If I were 25 in 1985 I would’ve jumped his bones. If I were 10 in 1990 I would’ve been his lil’ bud at Neverland Ranch. (With Macaulay of course.) But I’m 20, it’s 2012 and he’s dead. So last resort? Fill my life with his soul, day and night. Here’s how you can do the same:
1) For a swing in your step on your walk to class, listen to “Forever Came Today” from Moving Violation. Over and over.
2) Instead of looking at pictures of cats on the Internet, find MJ photos circa 1968.
3) If you need a good cry, shut your door and play “Who’s Lovin’ You” and “Ben” on rotation.
4) Putting on some pounds due to lack of movement from suggestions two and three? Four words: “Thriller” dance in kitchen.
5) In a dry spell? Watch “The Way you Make Me Feel” video, and pretend you are the girl. That tip goes for all sexes and orientations.
6) If your ego is getting too big, think about Michael for a few minutes and realize you will never be as awesome as him. But he would’ve been awesome to you, had he the chance. Perhaps that was what made him most special.
Even if I lose touch with all my friends, I’ll still have one through six. Don’t stop ‘til you get enough, right?
Disagree with Samy’s choice of favorite musician? Send her an email and tell her to “Beat It” at moskol@wisc.edu.
