Oh! It’s Lionel! And the We Are The World tribute! Can’t wait to hear the new version.
Michael Jackson isn’t really dead, is he? This is unreal.
But I have to say, what comforts me about the loss of this man — who, frankly, drove me nuts with his antics and his inarticulate public statements and his insistence on wearing his own particular style of clothing long after it had gone out of style for the rest of the world — is that one of my dearest and oldest friends loved Michael Jackson, enough to learn to dance like him. And to dance in this traveling talent show we did together for local schools, in which he thrilled the little girls by crawling up to them on the floor, Michael-style, and charming their pretty little heads off.
I lost that friend when we were both 24. I don’t know if it was an accident or deliberate. He just died, and the family isn’t talking. Who could blame them in a small southern town where gossip rules? What I do know is, when Michael died last year, I thought this is the best I’ve ever felt about believing in heaven, even though I know it might not be real. Because today, I can picture Michael in heaven, giving Bobby the thrill of his afterlife. I can picture a hell of a dance party. I can imagine joy for my friend who died in so much pain. The one thing I know about my friend’s death, because he had secrets he didn’t share even with me, is that he was in pain when he died. And that breaks my heart. And the death of Michael Jackson, ironically, mends it just a little.