About Michael Jackson
Sunday, June 28, 2009, 5:42 PM
Everyone's posting about and talking about Michael Jackson's death, and I figured I'd do a little post as well. I wanted to include a certain video, but couldn't find it on YouTube. And then I remembered I'd posted it here at Unhinged, so I tracked it down and was surprised at what I found. This is what I'd written:
MJ: Hot DAMN.Well, it freaked me out because he is dead now. I loved Michael Jackson while growing up. He electrified and inspired me with his singing, dancing and acting. He was amazing. I would never get tired of watching him dance. Plus, he was so hot.
But then he started doing weird things to his body, getting his nose done over and over until it was barely there, changing the color of his skin, the shape of his face...and I was at a loss about why he'd do such things when there was nothing wrong with the way he looked in the first place.
And the rumors surrounding his life--the kids, the alcohol, and what he did with both--took its toll on how I saw him. Which is why I was always so torn when I came across one of his amazing videos. He was SO MUCH talent. I'm not heartbroken that he's gone, but I am sad. Sad because I think he was gone long, long before last Wednesday. For all that he had materially, I think he lived a very sad, hard life. He kept the world at a distance.
Treadmill gangsta go splat
A few weeks ago, I got an email from a friend with a 40 second animated gif of a guy falling on a treadmill. I watched it over and over, cried, laughed, coughed, the whole bit. I laughed so hard and so long that I had to rest my forehead against my desk.
And I wondered if there was a longer bit that would show the rest of the reaction.
I love it, I love it!
Cheesy 80s Blast
Forget the stereo, just turn the TV channel to MTV and rock hard, baby.
I saw Neo
"What?" I asked.
"Keanu Reeves is in the showroom."
"No! No way! You're kidding, right? Our showroom? Right now? Upstairs?"
"I'll be right there!"
So me and my feet-dragging posse made like greased lightning for floor six. I broke into a sweat before we hit the elevator. Anybody who knows me knows that Keanu Reeves is my all-time favorite celebrity. I've had a crush on him since 1989 and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Wyld Stallions rule!
"Your camera!" T said.
I paused briefly, head all aslosh. Oh, Great Googly-Moogly, I can't be bothered to go back for my camera! Besides that, I'd just feel too frickawful pointing a camera at Keanu Reeves. It just seems so...impolite, kwim?
"No can do. Letsgo."
We work in a building that's like a shopping mall of showrooms which cater to designers for the rich and famous. Celebrities often visit the building, but all I've seen is the back of Sandra Bullock's head.
"You look nervous," T said.
Well, crap, if I don't faint on the spot, I'm going to take a crap when I get an eyeful of Keanu Reeves.
First thing we heard once we hit the showroom entrance: "You guys here to see Keanu Reeves?"
Yeah, that'd be us. (Normally they keep us chained to our desk in cages on the first floor, back in a corner.)
"He just left," S said.
"It wasn't him," H said.
"Where'd he go?" I asked.
Notice how I didn't factor in H's comment? Bah!
"Fifth floor. He just went down those stairs."
"It wasn't him?" T asked.
"Yes, it was," S said. "I admit I was wrong about Paris Hilton, but I know I'm right about Keanu Reeves. He stepped right up to my desk and said excuse me."
"It wasn't him," H says again.
"He's wearing a sweater and has long hair," S said.
I whip around and rip-roar down the stairs, posse lagging behind again. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I find him, but I have no intention of actually approaching him. I know Keanu is private. And I don't want to be a pest to my future husband.
Just go with me here.
G takes the right side of the hallway, T scopes out what's ahead of us, and I take the left. But G's looking at me. And, well, I must've been looking her way, too. Can't trust anybody. I was trying to see everything at once and not seeing a damn thing, actually.
"Keep your eyes on the windows, woman! Sweater. Long hair. Keanu."
We get to the end of the hallway where the escalators are. No sign of Keanu. Not much sign of anyone, actually. I hang over the edge of the railing to see if I can see Keanu riding down the stairs.
Meanwhile, G has wandered off to admire the shiny lights in the showroom behind us.
"I found him," she said.
Oh crap! Yaay! Crap, crap, crap!
My pulse is doing the funky chicken. "Where?"
She points. It's the back of a guy's head. (Oh damn, not the back of the head thing again.) Dark wavy hair almost to the shoulders. White shirt sticking out underneath a white sweater. No butt. Skinny legs.
Looks too skinny to be Keanu, methinks.
"Is it him?" T asks.
The man is in the showroom talking to a blond lady carrying bags. His designer, probably. He's behind glass and the lights are making it hard to get a good glimpse. Besides, I can't tell if it's him from the back of his head.
I keep looking.
"Don't be obvious about it," T says.
Which is like asking a guard dog not to bark at a stranger. Can't be done, but I try. While I'm trying not to be obvious about gawking, the guy turns and sees us, then turns back around.
"Is it him?" G asks.
Can't tell, can't tell.
"Take a walk over there," T says.
But she just told me not to be obvious!
"Pretend you have to go to the restroom."
(There's a restroom just past the showroom we're not-being-too-obvious about gawking at.)
I'm working on nothing but adrenalin at this point.
I stroll past. He keeps his back to the glass. I think he can feel the hawt heat of my stare. On my second pass, he turns just enough and we trade glances.
He looks haunted. His face is pale, his eyes are dark, and his hair is unkempt. And I'm trading glances with Keanu Reeves.
The edge of my sight is going gray and my head is going wee, wee, wee, and I friggen pass out. Next thing I know, T is slapping my face.
"Nine-one-one," G says.
Okay, I'm kidding. I didn't pass out. But the haunted look on Keanu's face has weirded me out and I'm all chicken sh*t now. Gotta go, gotta go.
We make our way back down the hallway. Keanu's following us! I glance back and meet his eyes again!
He wants to meet me.
Okay, fine. He doesn't. We're never going to get married at this rate, but I'd settle for a lingering hug. A french kiss, maybe? Handshake?
D. None of the above.
And that was it. The next time I glanced behind us, he was gone. Disappeared into one of the showrooms.
My body was at fever pitch temperature for the next hour.
I saw Neo.
Finally, my one-and-only celebrity sighting record of being stepped on by Rebecca De Mornay's a-hole boyfriend at LAX has been broken. By none other than Keanu Hotstuff Reeves.