Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts

He May be Gone, But He'll Always Creep Me Out

June 26, 2009

I'm still sitting in the supply closet, using the computer that seems to have been salvaged from the Sputnik Space Shuttle in 1957. Now if I could just manage to find a poodle skirt and a pair of roller skates, I'd be all the rage.

So it's June 26, 2009 and Michael Jackson is no longer with us. And no, this will most certainly not become one of my heartfelt and contemplative posts.

I'm not planning to mince words here, folks--that man thoroughly creeped me out. From the Neverland Ranch, to the 493 nose jobs (which he claimed he never had), to the baby named Blanket, I simply never got Michael Jackson.

I got that the moonwalk was cool, and I got that Man in the Mirror was a tear jerker of a song, I even got the King of Pop title. But Michael? Above all else, you gave me the willies.

(Now his sister on the other hand, the one with the bangin' legs who let her hooter slip out at the Super Bowl? She remains on my cool list.)

I still remember the very first time he skeeved me out. I must have been three years old, and I was listening to the 'Thriller' record in our teeny, little living room. I picked up the album cover (click here to see the artifact first hand), locked eyes with Michael, and cried when I realized that a tiny, mini version of that guy was dancing around inside of my record album. (Remember? When you were three? And you thought a miniature band was actually playing instruments inside the vinyl?... No? You don't? Well you suck.)

I hid the album cover under the couch and cried for three days straight. Then I cried for three more days. And three days after that. But I guess the extended crying was due to the fact that I was a pain-in-the-ass of a child--not because of any Michael induced fears.

But really now, even with all of my personal childhood behavior issues aside, after he lost the afro and the babyface, Michael Jackson became one seriously creepy dude.

In spite of the fact that he induced heebie-jeebies like no other person on the planet, I'm still sorry for Michael Jackson and his family that his life was cut short at the age of 50. Any way you slice it, that's way too young to die. And any other way you slice it, he was a revolutionary musician in his day.

So rest in peace Michael Jackson, may you stay on my radio, but out of my dreams for the rest of eternity.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

June 21, 2009

Happy Father's Day to the best Dad on the planet. If you think that's up for argument, then take a look at this:
It's a recap of my second grade Christmas vacation, and it says:

This past vacation it was Christmas. My favorite present was a dollhouse I got from my Dad. He built it himself and he said to me it was a lot of work, and I said I love it and I gave him a big hug and he said that there's 3,000 shingles on it. And I really do love it.

Did your Dad ever make you a dollhouse with 3,000 shingles for Christmas? Right, yeah, I didn't think so.

As I was sifting through my old journals today, trying to find something to post, I was really blown away by entry after entry after entry that said something like, "This weekend we went out on the boat," or "This weekend we went camping," or this weekend we went to see a show in New York," or "This weekend we tried to catch a fish."

When I was a kid, we somehow managed to have more fun every weekend than most kids have in an entire summer and get our backsides to church. I'm still scratching my head over how he pulled it all off.

My dad can build anything, fix anything, and figure out any mechanical thing in three to five seconds flat--no instructions required. He's built additions, kitchen cabinets, bird houses, old motors, decks, swing sets, and just about anything else you can imagine--in his own house, my sister's house, and in mine. When it comes to 'the way things work,' he is, by far, the smartest, most intuitive person I've ever met.

My Dad taught me how to play the drum set in sixth grade.

My Dad threatened to pull my bottom lip over the top of my head if I ever missed my curfew by four minutes ever again.

My Dad took me to Disney World three times when I was growing up.

My Dad bought me bagels every Sunday.

My Dad is nice to everyone.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! I sure do love you!