The Michael Jackson Story

Not much to say that hasn't been said, except that one time in high school, Episcopal youth group doodad had a scavenger hunt and one of the items that could be found in a parishioner's home was an autographed copy of Thriller. I had no idea who had this, but I knew that I had a copy that belonged to my neighbor Robbie H______ (hello, Robbie! And sorry about that copy of Thriller!) that had been left at my house. So we (my team and I) dutifully drove to my house and got it, I got a black ballpoint and just scrawled Michael Jackson on it. When we got back in the allotted time, the associate rector looked surprised and said something to the effect of "Did my wife give it to you?" I, flummoxed, shook my head No. Turns out it was HIS daughter who had the elusive copy. If I had only kept my stupid mouth shut, we may have won some Cassano's coupons or summat.

That, then, is THE MICHAEL JACKSON STORY.

Oh, and I love a thing I read somewhere - maybe Warhol Diaries? - where MJ, AW and maybe Liz Taylor/Halston/Jack'n'Anjelica/Rip Taylor are hanging out and some beboppity kidz' music comes one and everyone tries to cajole Michael into some dancing (please elide the inherent steppin fetchit-ness) and he laughs and says "Oh, no - that's WORK."