Only In My Dreams...Again!

(Michael Shopping on April 9, 2009)

Everybody has a hobby.

Some people collect stamps or Barbie dolls or rare, out of circulation coins. Take a wild guess at what my hobby is.
Go on, I'll wait whilst you look at the background of my blog at the sexy little man staring back.
Michael Jackson. Of course.

I like to think of myself as a pretty level headed woman. Perhaps outspoken on occasion but level headed. Except around Michael Jackson. I don't know what it is, but if I get thrown into a situation where there is MJ merchandise at hand and no one really there to stop me, I will buy up everything until my wallet is empty.
Food? Who cares about food when there's a magazine with MJ on the cover? That's my mindset.

And its that mindset that decided to kind of haunt me in my dreams the other night. So, before, my mind was racing as I was trying to finish my latest chapter for my Strawberries story and post it to Eternal. (It has since been completed and posted) But Michael was running rampant in my mind because of the story and Bad 25 dropping on Tuesday. And it followed me right to bed.

I dreamt I was in something of a music store like FYE or something, and as I was going down the aisle, my friends Ebonie and Stacie appeared. In real life, they'd usually stop me after a certain point in my MJ bingeing.
Not so in my dream.
Instead, they began just pushing MJ stuff at me. Ink pens with Michael's face on them, shirts, teddy bears, dolls. Anything imaginable, I was having it handed to me.
It reminded me of that scene in National Lampoon's European Vacation where Audrey Griswold couldn't stop eating and eventually popped.
Like I was being literally loaded down with MJ stuff.
(And at some point Jermaine Jackson made a very brief appearance for some reason or other. He didn't sing Let's Get Serious though.)

Anyhoo, I got out to the counter to pay for it. and clerk seemed so happy I was even there he told me to take it all ON THE HOUSE! Loads and loads of MJ trinkets for free. And he even gave me an MJ purse to top it off.
It was all so wonderful.

Can you imagine how disappointed I was to wake up and realize it had all been a dream. I was so angry, it was unreal. Like a child who didn't get presents on Christmas.

Gosh, I'm the kind of fan that as soon as I buy whatever it is I'm getting for the particular month, I turn around and start planning for the following month. The longest I ever planned ahead for anything MJ was probably six months ahead of the release of an album. I planned like a mad woman before Invincible hit shelves. It wasn't just buying the album, it was asking the store for the poster--which I got for free--skipping school to watch all the MJ specials on TV. Everything.

Well maybe next month I can make my dream a reality huh? LOL.

Till next time.

My Memories of 9/11.

(Listening to : “Bless His Soul” by The Jacksons)


Hey Y’all,

As we all know, September 11, 2012, marks the eleventh anniversary of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City. I can scarcely believe that so much time has passed, but indeed it has.

It just does not seem at all like it was that long ago to me because just like most everyone else, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I first heard the news of the attacks.

And I want to be serious for a moment, and share my memories with all of my readers.

In order to remember it, I have to go back. Back to Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Back in 2001, I was a fifteen-year-old sophomore in high school in Texas, with classes being in for only a few weeks at best. Not even a full month into the term. I hadn’t even worn all of my new clothes yet.

My day began at 6 a.m., with my father waking me up as he had done since I was in the 6^th grade. I got up that early to make sure I got to school for 7 am. ( I liked to dawdle on the internet in the library and look after MJ before classes started at 8 am.)

It was all so normal, I got up, bathed, dressed, watched a cartoon on Nickelodeon as I did my hair. Before I left the house, I said good bye to my mother who was still in bed, as she didn’t have to be to work until 9 that morning.

I rode to school with my father, who was happy and excited to go fishing with his friend, Mr. Robert, who is actually a preacher at a church 2 blocks from my high school.

I remember, that morning, all I wanted to know and find out about was Michael Jackson, who, with his brothers, had just finished a couple of concerts at Madison Square Garden the night before, Monday the 10^th. In my childish exuberance, all I wanted to know was how Michael had looked, what he had worn, what he had performed, all that sort of stuff. I was only fifteen, and Michael, 43 at the time, was my entire life.

So my dad dropped me off and said he’d see me at 4 that afternoon.

As he drove off and I started to the cafeteria for breakfast, I had no idea that by the time he picked me up that afternoon, the world as I knew it would have changed forever.

I finished breakfast around seven thirty, and at that time, unbeknownst to anyone I knew, the first plane had already struck the Twin Towers, as it was about 9:30 in New York.

I was doing the teenager thing. Goofing off with my friends in the library. And I didn’t see anything on the internet, because I went straight to the Michael Jackson fan club, rather than opening an engine like Google or something.

I was ignorant to it all.

The bell rang at eight--which meant it was 10 in New York, and by then the Towers were starting to collapse.

I went through my entire first period, with no knowledge of anything happening. I never can remember who my first period teacher was.

Then classes changed for second period, which was my French class with Mr. Dombrovsky. And I will NEVER forget it.

The class had barely gotten situated, with my teacher, a really kind of wiry, but buff little man with a German accent--he was fluent in German and French--picking up the chalk to write on the board.

That’s when his door went flying open so hard, it banged as it hit the wall. Startling everyone.

The Spanish teacher from next door came running in, absolutely hysterical, crying and screaming.

And before anyone could say anything, I remember her just shrieking,

“Oh my God! They blew up the World Trade Center! They attacked New York!”

Everyone was kind of stunned, and Mr. Dombrovsky was trying his best to calm her and the Spanish teacher was steadily crying and screaming and telling us to come see the news, as she had a TV monitor in her room.

So automatically the room emptied out and packed into her class.

Two teachers, and like sixty kids, were all looking at this little A/V monitor showing the planes flying into the building and blowing up and collapsing.

At the time, it didn’t connect to me I was looking at a live feed. I thought it was a computer reenactment and I was just so stunned.

And that’s when someone asked me one of the most frightening questions of my life.

A girl named Shannon, a classmate of mine, who was beside me, turned and asked,

“Tiffeny, isn’t Michael Jackson in New York?”

In that time I hadn’t given Michael a thought and I almost threw up when I realized that YES, he was in New York City! The same New York City now in flames and teeming with bedlam and hysteria.

I didn’t know what the World Trade Center was. I mean I was just a kid who didn’t travel except to beauty pageants and church functions. I wasn’t as savvy as I am now, and in my mind, looking at the buildings, I thought the Twin Towers were like a fancy hotel.

And in my head, I had the image of Michael Jackson, fresh from his concerts in his pajamas, drinking coffee, reading a newspaper and the next thing he knows there’s a plane in his ass.

I literally thought that in the rubble with all the other unfortunate people which was already so terrifying, Michael Jackson was one of the ones buried in this hellacious act.

Now at the time, I didn’t know that the planes crashing were a deliberate act. I had assumed that it was an accident.

And then through the day, as some kids were being taken from school by worried parents, it was revealed that it was a terrorist plot.

And by then, the Pentagon in Washington DC had also been hit.

I was moving in a bit of a haze. Before I had been solely worried about Michael, but when it became clear that it seemed planes were just falling out the damn sky all over the country, my worries shifted to my parents.

(Which I know, I KNOW I should have thought of them first and I feel guilty I didn’t!)

I knew where my mom was; she was down town at a local welding supply place, but I was terrified a plane would crash land on her and kill her and her coworkers. I mean I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t even call her, the lines to the place were busy, busy, busy.

And I had no clue in hell were my father was. He was on a fish pond in the boonies as far as I knew.

(I later found out that my dad never did make it to the fish pond. When he and Mr. Robert stopped for the bait to fish with, everyone in the bait and tackle shop were ganged around the TV and when they found out it wasn’t a movie playing on the screen but REAL, they hauled ass back home. And Daddy has not been fishing since. We just buy our fish from the grocery store now.)

But at the same time, I couldn’t leave school. I had no way home and my house is across town from the school. What if a plane fell as I tried to walk home?

Nothing happened in school that day. No lessons were taught. Who the hell cared about Napoleon and Waterloo when one of the country’s major cities was in flames, along with the nation’s capitol?

People steadily drawing their last breaths as we tried to take a pop quiz? The world was upside down!

Every single TV in school was playing the news over and over and over.

I vaguely remember, off and on all day asking several teachers if they knew anything about Michael Jackson.

With everything going so damn wrong, I wanted to know that he was alright. That he’d made it out safely.

That he wasn’t in the Towers, like I had dreaded.

I’ll never forget my English teacher, Mr. Haynes, nearly gave me a heart attack when he lied and told me that yes, Michael had been in the Twin Towers. That was literally the closest I ever came to a nervous breakdown. And closest I came to punching the living dog shit out of a grown man for saying something like that. He did apologize, but goddamn it, it wasn’t funny. I mean I almost passed out in the hallway when he said that. I remember the breath leaving my body and a cold sweat breaking out all over me. And wanting to vomit at the idea that Michael was dead.

In a needless act of violence with so many others.

It was two DAYS before I found out Michael had gotten out of New York with his family and kids alive.

In the meantime, sixth period rolled around, which was my typing class.

The computers weren’t even on. Just the monitor in the room, everyone glued to it.

That was the first time I saw footage of the people leaping from the buildings. Falling 100 stories to their death. That had to have been the frightening thing, now that I think about it. To have to choose between burning to cinders and being crushed as the building collapsed, or leaping and splattering all over the concrete below. An awful way to go either way. I don’t know what I would have done. I probably would have tried to commit suicide humanely, slashing my wrists or taking a bottle of aspirin, something that wouldn’t be so…so drastic and painful.

But I remember sitting at my desk, watching the people leap, still thinking it was a computer generation. The people looked so small, it actually looked fake…and then I saw the camera swing and catch the reactions of the people on the ground.

And I touched the boy next to me, Justin Brown. A boy I had known since the 4^th grade and we went to church together.

I asked him, when I saw the people, “Is that real, man?”

I’ll never forget, he wore these silver framed Tommy Hilfiger glasses. And he turned to me, his eyes just huge behind the glasses and said real soft, like he was about to cry,

“Yeah…it’s real.”

We both got quiet, didn’t say anything else to each other. Just watched the buildings flaming on the screen. Justin was the one two days later who told me Michael was alright, too.

One moment, near the end of the day in school sticks out to me.

My last class was some kind of math class and it was at the end of the new edition to the school.

And I just remember trying to get to class, and the hallway being empty. I was late for some reason or other and the hall was empty.

And it was so quiet. The only sounds was of the news playing on each and every single TV in the classrooms. I just remember that, passing a dozen classrooms, full of kids from all grades sitting and watching TV.

A dozen rooms I passed, a dozen times I saw the buildings smoldering. A dozen times I saw people jumping. People broken up and burned and crying. Some dead.

I saw dead people.

I just wanted to go home. Wanted to hug my mom and dad and tell them I loved them. Wanted to know Michael was alright.

Nothing was normal. Nothing was right. I was scared to death.

School finally ended. As I left, the news was still playing. All the kids were somber and sick looking. It wasn’t noisy like it usually was. The life had been sucked out of everyone.

I was so happy to see my father, and hugged him till he turned blue.

As we left my dad kept saying “Bin Laden did this…”

At the time, I just assumed “Bin Laden” was a white guy named “BEN LADEN” because my dad never hooked the Osama in front and it was days before I found out that “Ben” was “Bin” and of middle eastern descent. Hell, before 9-11, I had never heard of Afghanistan or Iraq or Iran or any of those places. I mean I had never heard of Bin Laden before. All of this was foreign to me.

When I got home, I turned all the Tvs off. I had had enough of death, and I just sat and waited for my mom to come home. Hugged her till she turned blue too, I was so happy to see her.

Glad she was alright.

It was a week and a half before lessons got taught in school again.

People, my classmates, my teachers, people I saw everyday were traumatized by it. My best friend Ebonie, had a grandmother who lived in New York and was a wreck until she found out her grandmother was okay. Her grandmother lives in Texas with her now and is just the sweetest person and I’m glad she was spared and I’m glad I know her because she is so kind.

I had another friend, , who lost an uncle in the Towers Tragedy. The building collapsed on him and they never did find his remains.

That’s just two stories out of thousands.

I was affected terribly by it. Its been eleven years, and if I hear the sound of an airplane anywhere close to me, I hit the floor.

Like duck and cover like I’m being shot at.

Once about a month after the attacks, a low flying plane passed over my house. I literally ran out of my house, screaming for my father, who was outside in his garage, tinkering with a car.

The plane had passed so low, I just knew it was gonna hit the house and kill me. I was afraid of planes. I AM afraid of planes.

I still refuse to get on a plane and have never flown. Michael Jackson couldn’t get me on a plane if he appeared naked with candy stuck to him and told me it was safe.

It’s just a phobia that developed in relation to 9/11. Before, I had just been scared of heights, and never entered my mind that you could hijack a plane.

Hijack a car--a thug with a knife appears, gimme the car bitch, yeah that could happen--but a plane, 30 thousand feet in the air with security and all on it, it never occurred to me.

The world was upside down. Mr. Dombrovsky, one of my favorite teachers left school at the end of the term to serve with the reserves.

He’s alive though he didn’t get hurt or killed overseas, thank God.

It’s just weird and crazy when I think of it. All the poor people that died.

You know, every time I watch the Jacksons from MSG, a part of me wonders, just how many of the people cheering and clapping and having a good time, enjoying life, got up and went to the Twin Towers and lost their lives?

For no reason at all. I just look at them and wonder and it disturbs me.

Because when I was 15, I used to always say that once I saw Michael Jackson I could die. It was a joke and everyone took it as a joke.

I stopped saying it after 9/11.

Because I know somewhere in that building, somebody actually did do that.

Carrying on about work at the water cooler, maybe even discussing the show and BOOM it was all over.

That was frightening.

And it has kind of traumatized me and I was nowhere near Ground Zero. I don’t trust anyone. I’m nervous everywhere, even at home under the covers.

I don’t rest really. I’m always worried. Because anything can happen anywhere.

In the last ten years, crime has gone up, not just terrorism, but in general, thefts, murders, etcetera.

9/11 was kind of the end of innocence for me. Opened my eyes to the world. Fifteen was older than most kids, but still young to learn about that. I mean my life was a bubble before that. I went to school, was a good student, went to pageants, went to church. Came home. All little self-contained bubbles from the outside world. All I knew of the world was Michael’s fans and how he played foreign countries. I never thought of anything bad like that happening to the country as a whole.. Not like that.

I didn’t know bad people like that existed.

Afterwards, I was just scared.

And you know its sad, because eleven years later, I’m twenty-six years old and I am still as scared as I was as a fifteen-year-old.

And I think about the future. My friend Stacie has a 2 month old son, who’s my godson. A beautiful little baby boy. And all I can think is I don’t want that boy to live scared. I don’t ever want him to feel like I feel, scared to live, scared to be. Worried…never.

He should be happy, and enjoy life and be peaceful.

One day I hope to have a child of my own. I don’t want her scared either..

All children should feel safe. When I was fifteen, I lost that.

And never got it back.

But while I’m, scared and admittedly a bit frazzled I do realize that other people had it much worse. The people that experienced it.

Losing loved ones, watching loved ones burn, be crushed or jump.

In a documentary on 9/11 I heard a survivor who got out just before the buildings fell said as he ran through the streets, trying to get away, he saw pieces of bodies all over the sidewalk and in the street.

Like a war zone. An arm here, a torso there.

Another survivor at the Pentagon said he tried to pull a man free from the impact zone and when he flipped him over, the top half of his body was charred to the bone, his eyes gone. The man was dead.

That sticks with a person the rest of their lives.

And I think anyone who was old enough to be aware of what was happening with have something that sticks with them.

I just pray for everyone.

May God help those who lost their lives, help their souls find peace and also help those left behind to find peace too

I just wish the world could be calm and safe again. If that’s even humanly possible.

I'm So Lazy!

O-M-G, Y'all!


I cannot beleive how lazy I have beome with my writing. Earlier today, while I was monkeying around on the MJ board, I noticed that it has been TWO MONTHS since I have posted a horror story! I can't beleive it and am a little ashamed of myself really, for not having posted anything in so long. I guess I was so busy undressing Michael Jackson, that I forgot about scaring the dookie out of him!

So now, I am switching my efforts to focus back on my horror. Hell it'll be Halloween soon. I gotta get up on it.

And trust me, I will!

The World Michael Made For Me

Yes, I’m harping on that topic of Michael Jackson again. If you don’t want to read about Michael, kindly exit the blog. Thank you.

Now let’s get down to business.



Michael Jackson music videos, to me, were probably some of the best experiences I had as a child. I grew up as an only child, a latchkey child actually, as both of my parents worked. So I was often by myself a lot because, well, I didn’t really have any friends as a kid.

And Michael Jackson proved a really nice, comfortable outlet for me. I ate up his music videos like they were damn tic-tacs. I would go out and rent his videos--before I was able to buy and own--and would spend ALL DAY LONG with Michael Jackson.

Watching him. Cooing over him. Studying him. Scribbling little stories about him.

(Which is why I’m so prolific in my writing of him now.)

I remember, early on, there was a time where I was kind of addicted to Michael in a way. My mother hated it, because every time she peeked into my room, his music was playing or his booty was shaking on my television.

Over my fanhood, I’ve had periods where I would freak over a certain era. In the very beginning, I was crazy for “Bad” and literally could not start the day or go to school without seeing Michael sing “Come Together” at the end of Moonwalker. I liked “Come Together” so much.

God’s truth. I’d be like an alcoholic without booze if I didn’t see him. Angry, disgruntled, pissed.

The “Bad” phase melded into the “Thriller” phase when I was twelve. I finally got the chance to see the “Billie Jean”, “Beat It” “Thriller” and “Motown 25 Billie Jean” videos. And I literally went nuts. Like I had never seen anything like that, you know?

“Billie Jean” with the lighting up sidewalk and the leather suit. “Beat It” with Michael dancing with real street gangs and me worrying if he’s gonna pick a shank out his ass. (I mean Michael was man from the burbs, he was too soft for the “hood”.)

“Thriller”? Forget it! A mini-movie with Michael as the star? And the Vincent Price rap as the topper? I was fucking dying.

Pardon my language, but I was. I mean just the genius I saw emanating was killing me. The more I saw, the more I understood WHY Michael was as huge as he was.

“Motown 25” was a turning point for me. I had waited three years to see that damn performance. See the unveiling of the Moonwalk. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, my hands to my chest, spellbound. Watching. Scarcely breathing I was so entranced.

That started a three-month long Thriller binge in my house.

For three months, it was 1983 in my house. I watched the videos continuously, watched The Making of Thriller to the point where I can quote it word for word. I had posters made that still hang on my walls. I played the album so much, two cassette tapes broke and had to be replaced. (Usually before I stopped crying.)

I mean I wrote little stories about meeting a Thriller era Michael and everything. I was just wild.

The way I came out of the hold Thriller had on me was one day I saw Michael on TV on some news show. And he looked the way he looked in recent years, thin, pale, long hair.

It came to me that no matter how I run after Thriller Michael, he doesn’t really exist anymore. Michael’s appearance changed and if you’re gonna stay with Michael, love the lighter Michael. If I saw him in person--which I did ONCE-- he wouldn’t like he did at Thriller. And it didn’t matter. Darker or Lighter, I DID love Michael Jackson.

So, practically overnight, I was back on the “recent” MJ train.

Thriller bled into my “Dangerous” passion.

Dangerous was my mom’s fault, damn it.

We went to a different video rental place one day and while I was looking at cartoons my mom came over and said she found another Michael Jackson tape,

While she was picking herself up off floor, I stampeded away, and found Dangerous: The Short Films.

Fantastic.

That’s all I can think to say of that collection.

Fantastic.

It was the first time I ever saw the “In the Closet” video. And I was fucking dying again. Seriously. Michael Jackson, with his hair slicked back, in a muscle shirt? Talking about wanting to give “it” to you?

My head near about blew off at the idea. I wanted to be in the Arizona desert with Michael dancing in the sand!

The thing that really got me was the Dangerous tour montage at the end. The fans going nuts and freaking over Michael.

I was so bad with that video collection…I mean all the time I was watching Michael, particularly “In the Closet”. My mother threatened to throw the damn TV outside if I didn’t stop spending money on Michael.

(Oh, I still spent the money, I just watched Michael to heart’s content while she was at work.)

And I was always constantly looking for more. Trying to find more. I’d hear about other videos like “Say, Say, Say” with Paul McCartney and hunt it down.

I was particularly pissed when I watched The Jacksons “Torture” video from 1984, and found out that “Michael” was his goddamned wax dummy and not him. (That was before I got into Marlon, so I pretty much overlooked him at the time.)

I was fifteen when the “You Rock My World” video, to promote the Invincible album premiered. I remember it came very closely after the 9/11 tragedy and I remember thinking it was ridiculous to put that album out so close after the country had been attacked--and the album did not do well, although the music was phenomenal.

I tried not to think of the tragedy though, and instead focused on Michael. And his performance with comedian Chris Tucker. Great video. Loved it. Watching Michael trying to fight. It was cute and I loved it. For ten minutes, I wasn’t worried if a plane was going to crash into my roof, or that insurgents would come rushing in my door and carry me away. For ten minutes, I was in that little club in Little Havana with Michael, dancing.

I’ll be honest, I said ALL of that to say this. Michael Jackson always provided kind of a fantasy land to play in with his videos. He entertained my fantasies and daydreams and enchanted me in ways no other person could. People need escapes from their daily lives. The monotony of it all. Michael was and is my escape.

I mean he IS what I watch the three hours, three times a week, I’m in dialysis. He makes me forget and I like that.

It’s nice and I’m indebted to him for that.

Till next time readers.

How Big Michael Is…Or the Twelve Year Itch

Before you work yourselves into a lather my dear readers, I regret to inform you that this post is NOT, I repeat NOT, about Michael Jackson’s crotch. Sorry.



I don’t know if I’ve covered the subject before and if I have, I apologize for repeating myself.
As I’ve stated time and time before, I was only nine years old when the Moonwalker Magic of Michael Jackson rubbed off onto me. Now at the time, in 1995, I very vaguely knew the name Michael Jackson but really in my youth, I was ignorant to how big of a superstar Michael was.
At only nine, I just knew I thought he was cute and that I liked the way he sang and danced. I mean I was really ignorant to everything about him.
His age was the first thing threw me. I assumed Michael, who was actually about thirty-seven at the time, was only in his twenties. I was twelve years old before I learned his true age--forty by then.
And then because I heard so much about “Billie Jean” and the “Thriller” album, I was a jackass and assumed that “Thriller” was Michael Jackson’s debut album and that he had broken onto the music scene in 1982.
Once again, it was a stretch of years before I found out about The Jackson Five and The Jacksons. Or that Michael EVEN had other brothers and sisters. In the late 90s, you just didn’t hear anything about the other five. I was aware of Janet Jackson, but until I actually saw the “Scream” video, I didn’t know she was Michael’s sister.
I know, gasp, shock and awe. Looking back on it, I feel really kind of ashamed at not knowing the most basic of details.
The thing that stuns people about me is that I pulled myself up by my bootstraps in my MJ knowledge. I didn’t have a mentor or fellow fan guiding me. I did it all by myself out of sheer determination.
Now back to the bigness of Michael Jackson.
I was a dummy to Michael’s magnitude for about my first three years as a so-called fan.
The year 1998 was my turning point. I was 12 years old that year and really, it seemed as though everything came together suddenly for me.
A lot of the best things with Michael for me have been accidents, from when I first saw him with Lisa-Marie in that 20/20 interview that got me drunk on him in the first place, to catching glimpses of him on TV at awards shows and things of the sort.
One of those good-natured mistakes happened at a local video store called “WC’s.” (it is now closed as no one rents movies anymore.) It was a normal Friday afternoon and my mom had cut me loose in the aisles saying I could rent one movie. I wandered over to the Music section of the store. I very vividly remember seeing Madonna’s “Erotica” and thinking it was ridiculous to spend five dollars on a five minute video to rent.
Moving down the line I saw Prince’s “Purple Rain” and picked it up, with the full intent of renting it. (God only know what would have happened there…) I turned the VHS case over to read what the film was about and accidentally dropped it to the floor.
Throwing Prince on the floor was probably the best thing that ever happened for me.
Because when I stooped down to pick his purple ass up off the floor, I found myself staring face to face with Michael Jackson.
There, on the bottom shelf--way to treat the freaking King of Pop--were two VHSes. The video cassettes that would effectively shape my adolescence.
“Moonwalker” and “Michael Jackson: The Legend Continues.”


I don’t think I could have been happier if Michael Jackson were actually sitting on that shelf with the little five dollar price tag attached to him. I ran like I was in the Olympics to my mother and while I begged and pleaded to rent both films, she insisted upon only one.
I selected “Moonwalker” because it was longer than “Legend” and was on pins and needles until I could get home with it.
That was when my education in the greatness of Michael Jackson began.
I sat in the den with my mother and popped the tape in, which opened up with the 1988 “Bad” rendition of the Pepsi commercial. (It was a while before I figured out that wasn’t the commercial when Michael’s head exploded.) It was fun, seeing the kids dancing along to him and seeing how handsome he looked in his black glitter coat.
Then…the film actually started. Michael singing his “help your fellow man” anthem, “Man in the Mirror.”


I was absolutely spellbound to see the panoramic shot of the stadium--I think it was in Australia--of tens of thousands of people.
Shoulder to shoulder. A sea of faces all there for Michael Jackson. Dressed like him. Cheering him on, crying for him. Fainting.
You’ve seen the footage my readers, the fans were losing their shit over Michael.
I had never seen anything like that in my young life and to see how Michael Jackson affected people started to plant that seed in my head that said “Wow, Michael is more serious than I thought.”
I was impressed, greatly impressed and proud over that frantic display of adulation.
(Years later as I did become a fan of Prince, I once asked why Prince’s fans didn’t react to him the way MJ fans did to Michael and no one ever could explain WHY.)
And while behavior like that would have scared some people, it only made me enthusiastic. To me being a part of a headless, thousands of body mass, clamoring for Michael’s attention looked like fun to me. I wanted to scream and dance and jump up and down and cry. Even faint if the mood hit me.
I wanted to do that. Be wild like that for Michael.
As the film progressed, I found myself being sucked more and more into Michael. Through the Jackson Five montage, where my mother told me the other Black guys singing with Michael were his brothers. Before then, I just thought they were a part of Michael’s “band”. Funny as it is to say.
And then, Michael Jackson seduced me. Laugh if you want, he did, damn it!
The part of “Dirty Diana” started to play and I had never known there was a music video for the song before then. For the very first time, Michael Jackson made me scream.
I was watching the video enjoying it, bopping along to it, mouthing the words and then BAM!


Michael ran and ripped his shirt open. And I screamed like I was being killed. Hands to face, eyes bulging, mouth open, screaming. It was fantastic!
I was enchanted the rest of the movie all the way down to “Come Together” at the end. Over time, I rented and watched “Moonwalker” hundreds of times before acquiring my own copy.
The following week, I brought “Legend” home with me. My MJ education was expanding. And “Legend” though outdated by then a full ten years, did help rapidly bring me up to speed on Michael Jackson. Telling of his humble beginnings in Indiana--dispelling the idea I’d had, where I thought Michael had been born and bred in California--all the way up to the Bad Tour.
The part of the “Legend” video aside from the opening showing fans going haywire, was the bit about “Thriller”.
Now I knew that “Thriller” was the largest selling album in history, but I didn’t really, truly know what that meant until Dick Clark, may he rest in peace, said “That album has sold almost forty million copies!”
That was in 1988, and was still steadily selling copies as of
‘98 when I got mine.
It was just a “hit by a two by four” moment when Dick said that. I was stunned. You just have to imagine a 12 year old me, a fat thing with glasses, just staring gape mouthed with drool oozing at the idea of 40 million copies of any record walking around.
How Michael took over the world. Literally took over the damn world. Won so many awards made and broke so many records, it was insane.
The more I heard the prouder I got. Out of all the people making noise into a microphone, I picked hands-down the best to like. (Which is why I’m a snob about other musicians now.)
A lot of people now would say I am the biggest fan of Michael Jackson they’ve ever come into contact with and that is a distinction I take great pride in. The hilarious thing is, I believe I have calmed down in my admiration of Michael.
When I was 12...I was the picture of obsession with Michael.
I mean if I wasn’t doing something for school, church or pageants, my world revolved around Michael Jackson.
Hunting articles, working to afford his albums, trying to catch him on TV, see him. Hopping on computers and seeing where he was, what he was doing. Was he doing a concert? Was he at Neverland? Was he still married to that fat woman Debbie?
Had he won another award. What did he wear?
That was me, all day.
I was hitting websites all over the globe, looking at his pictures, printing them out, sticking them on my walls. At one time I was a member of Michael Jackson clubs in New York, Egypt, Ireland and Australia. Kept trying to start my own club.

That’s really where my want to be the best MJ fan I could humanly be came from--through the Internet. I’m naturally, extremely competitive and could become jealous quite easily.
And when I started seeing these fans with all these posters and dolls and things in their rooms, I was like, “I have to get stuff like this. I have to do better than this. I have to represent for Michael.”
It was a competition for me. I wanted to be the best.
And yes, there have been times I’ve skipped meals and gone hungry to afford Michael Jackson memorabilia. It was that important to me to get things. Even now, if I don’t get something MJ once every couple of months, I start to get antsy and have to feed that monkey on my back. What tickled me once, was my friend Stacie, when we first started hanging out, she actually thought I had accumulated my entire collection in one day and I had to explain to her that no it took YEARS of work and dedication.
Aside from my collection, the thing I take the most pleasure in, is my knowledge of Michael Jackson Trivia.
I may not know my own blood type, but I know what size underwear Michael wears and what brand, damn it!
That was a matter of being bullied in middle school. Kids always gang up on the fat loner with glasses. And then add to it I liked the eccentric man in spangles, I was a prime target that gave bullies wet dreams.
And they’d say things to me, make up stories and try to upset. If only you knew how many times I heard “Hey Tiffeny, Michael Jackson just died!” in an effort to make me cry.
(I really hope all those little ignorant bastards are else dead themselves or in jail!)
I figured my mind and intellect was the only way to overcome them and I set out vigilantly looking for any and all sources I could use to my benefit.
Once again at 12, I found it.
“Michael Jackson: The Magic and Madness” became my MJ bible, that I read cover to cover, six times and absorbed like a schoolbook. I took notes. Forced myself to learn and recall facts. Everything I could.

I lived, breathed and die by this book!
Even though at 12, I was perhaps too young to have read some of that material. No kid should ever read about a groupie losing her virginity to a young Jermaine Jackson. It was just wrong. Especially since Michael and Marlon as children were in the next bed and could hear everything.
But I didn’t care. I stuck it out and absorbed everything. I made it my duty and my business. It mattered to me.
Eventually, I was so well versed in Michael, between that book and the Internet, I became the source my friends went to for anything Michael.
My mornings at school had my friends with me, just shooting questions at me:
“Where’s Michael?”
“In Indiana getting a key to the city.”
“How old is Michael?”
“Forty-three” (in 2001)
“Is his son named after Prince?”
“Hell no!”

That was a typical day for me.
And I never hid my love of Michael. I was always very public and up front about it. In school people I didn’t even know, knew me as “That Girl that Liked Michael Jackson.” It was just known by all.
(Which is why I can’t stand all the damn posers that popped up after Michael died claiming they loved him so much. No, where the fucking hell were you when he was alive? Huh? You should have been loving him them you little lying sons of bitches! Stacie says I’m a bona fide fan because I loved Michael and was proud of it while he was still living even when people thought he was so strange and pedophile and all that other BS. And you know, Stacie is right. I didn’t jump on the bandwagon after the fact. I was upfront with my affection to Michael. I‘m proud of that.)

It’s a source of pride to me to be a Michael Jackson fan. I basked in his greatness while he was on this earth for too brief a time, now I help to keep his legacy in motion. And as proud of Michael as I am, I pray he’s somewhere on a cloud, proud of me.

Yeah, I want Michael Jackson to be proud of me.

Long post…I’ll keep it shorter and sweeter next time.

Thank you for reading!

Feeling Better

Michael Jackson always makes me feel better.


I don’t understand it; how he does it, but he always makes me feel better. And lately I have been feeling lower than an amoeba on a flea. Then around 11:30 last night, while I was watching Frasier--yeah, I watch Frasier, damn it--I decided on a whim to watch Michael.
And I have dozens of MJ DVDs at my disposal because I sometimes like to buy him rather than eat, and the payoff from my efforts lie all over my house.
So, I popped in the History tour from Auckland, New Zealand.
Better than a freaking B-12 shot in the ass! It perked me right up!
It’s amazing to me how after so many years of being an MJ fan--seventeen years--that I still can have moments where it seems I fall in love with Michael Jackson all over again. It truly is remarkable to me.
And during the concert, I found myself swooning over Michael and what he was saying and doing onstage. I even found myself with moist eyes several times.
I can’t really describe it. The feeling of love and adoration and respect I feel for Michael Jackson. It’s just something specific and special for Michael that I just don’t have for anyone else.
And when I was watching Michael, I found myself marveling at his beauty. How sexy he was. And wonder how someone can fix their mouth to say he’s ugly or unattractive.
I just feel a person has to be blind or mentally defective to not see what I see when I gaze upon Michael Jackson.
I write eroticas for Michael all the time and I am an EXPERT when it comes to describing Michael.
The pale, smooth, milky and luminescent skin that’s so perfect you just want to lick it. Rub a cookie over it or something. Sample the sweetness. The big, glimmering dark doe eyes that are the orbs that reveal the depths of Michael’s gentle soul. The slender ski jump nose that complements his angular and taut face. That pinky, ribbon of a mouth that leaks the most wonderful songs in the known universe.
That long, graceful, swanlike throat, that connects to that wondrous, lovely, body. That slinky, slender frame that can move with the greatest of ease, and tease whomever happens to take a glance at him.
I literally can go on all damn night, down to his toenails.
The beauty, the simple, sheer beauty.
I noticed once that Michael Jackson was born on a Friday in 1958. I believe God made him then, so he could take the entire weekend to admire his work. LOL.
This is why I adore and admire Michael so greatly. Am so swift to defend him, if need be.
I can’t think of anything else in this world that lifts my spirits when I feel bad. So bad I wanna jump in traffic during rush hour.
Michael makes me want to live. Want to look at him, enjoy him, love him.
That’s why I’m so dedicated to him. Buy his albums, and dolls and other memorabilia. Do I need them? Probably not. Do I want them? HELL YES.
Why I always write stories for him, help keep his legacy alive.
Because if I can bring just ONE person to Michael, help them become a fan, then I’d feel like … like I had accomplished something that was of significance.
I’ve had fans tell me the sweetest things about my stories, I even have one friend who reads my stories simply because I write them. My name being attached to it is reason enough and it makes me so proud because I’m helping people to think of Michael. Remember him. And I just want to cry tears of gratefulness. To put Michael on people’s minds…just is a lovely warm feeling, like a blanket wrapped around me.
I do it for him. I do it for Michael Jackson. It’s not about me, it’s about Michael. It’s about him. That’s what I tell myself when I write a story. It’s Michael and I have to represent him in a dignified way. I never want to portray him in a negative way.
I just love Michael so much. I kind of hate to say “love” because it doesn’t seem strong enough a word to me.
To completely demonstrate and encapsulate just exactly how I feel about Michael.
It’s a feeling I’ve had since I was nine years old and saw the premiere of the “You Are Not Alone” video and giggled at Michael being naked as a jaybird.
I remember being very young and knowing I liked Michael Jackson and not exactly knowing WHY.
When I was 11, I figured it out--Michael was sexy and that was why I liked him. (And my mother freaked out when she heard me call Michael sexy! And I got yelled at because I said “Michael makes me think of one word and that‘s “sexy“ and mother thought I said “sex“ and started hollering I didn‘t need to be watching him playing with himself on TV [the crotch-grab]! LMAO!)
Michael really does make me feel better and everyday I thank God for letting me find Michael and be a fan of his.
I really do think that God sent me Michael and let me find Michael all those many years ago with a reason.
I truly got into Michael by accident, and he’s the best accident I ever had.
I could type on and on until my fingers bled about Michael, but I’ll cut out now.
I’m just glad Michael perks me up. I wish I could hug him and thank him.

Planning for Fall...

Hey Y’all.




It’s already August and as we all know, Fall is right around the corner. Already, aside from planning my annual celebration of Michael Jackson’s birthday at the end of the month, I have begun trying to plan my look for the fall and winter months.
I do realize that the only time I go out is to go to dialysis, the grocery store or to the hospital, but I do always try to look my best, even if I’m dog sick.
I am trying desperately to rebuild the life I’ve lost due to my illness. Before I was stuck at home, babysitting my ailing father and writing stories to kill time, I did have a life.
I used to go out and have a group of friends and be happy.
Now, I’m never happy and have only one friend left in town as the others have moved away and started lives of their own.
And before I lose the last one as she’s in the process of establishing her career and life, I want to try to make something of myself. Get something for myself.
With dialysis as an overbearing monkey on my back, a lot of things have been eliminated. I can’t go to school or work a steady job because there’s no telling how I’ll feel once dialysis is over. I so rarely see other people. Unless they’re hooked up to a machine or hacking their lungs up in an emergency room.
But I plan to change that. I do know how important appearances are and how looks are everything. I figure I have a decent face, even if the body attached to it is in shambles. And if I could use my face to my advantage, perhaps I could meet a nice boyfriend. I know that if I have a boyfriend, he’ll have friends, and I can be friends with his friends, and get back into the social scene. Going places. Doing things. Having a good time again. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a good time. Laughed and meant it. Smiled and meant it.
I want to be joyous and actually feel it. I feel nothing now but an ever-present, resentful dread at dialysis. Hating myself every second of every day for ever saying Yes to it.
The worst decision of my natural life. If you ever have the decision to have to take dialysis, make sure you have something to live for--boyfriend, husband, kids, job--before you say Yes. I didn’t and signed what semblance of life I had away. It’d be simpler and far less traumatic to die. Believe me.
Cheaper too.
So back to my fall look. I know people say to dress for the kind of job you want. I’m going to dress for the kind of man I want. I wouldn’t’ put any thought into myself if it weren’t for the idea that Mr. Right could be right around the corner and I don’t want to scare him off.
Sure I could sleep later in the mornings and forgo the make up and hair and clothing. Then I’d wind up with Mr. Wrong.
Ideally, I’d like a man who looks like Michael Jackson and while I wait for Hell to freeze over in the meantime, I want someone respectable.
Nice, working, God-fearing. Someone I would be proud to be on the arm of. And I can’t just look like anything and expect to attract him.
So my look for fall is more on the dressy casual edge. Maybe even slightly businesslike. Slacks, skirts, slim fitting sweaters and blazers are what I want to wear. I don’t even really want to put on jeans, unless they’re patterned or something.
I want to stand out from the pack. Look pretty to someone special. Brighter colors, but nothing clown-like of course. I’m going to make sure everything I slip onto my body does my figure favors and compliment my skin tone.
And for make up, I’ve noticed lately, I’ve been heavy-handed with my eyeshadow. So I’m going to lighten up. Still using eye-catching colors, but not so much. I don’t believe in a “natural” look, but I will do something to enhance my features.
Everything I’m going to do is to enhance Tiffeny and make her look as good as possible.
Whether you want to believe it or not, I don’t directly see myself as pretty or attractive. All I see when I look at myself is all my dialysis scars because they leap out at me as little silent, ugly reminders.
I use the cues I get from other people. If someone compliments me, I figure I’ve done something right. If I hear nothing, I regroup and try to make a better effort the next time out.
And really, I have all the time in the world to commit to it. Dialysis gets me for 9 hours out the week and the rest I have to baby-sit my dad. (Really I do!)
When I’m not writing my stories for the MJ club--my erotica thread has about twenty alone--,I’m up to my ears in fashion magazines, blogs and websites.
Hell, I even get emails straight from Rachel Zoe on trends!
I’m doing the best I can to try to be pleasant. And I will do everything I can.
Except wear orange lipstick. The fool that said that was a hot look needs to be carried in a rural field and shot a few times. I don’t want to look live I’ve Frenched a hunk of citrus.

Well, wish me luck, because how some general plot for war, I’m waging a bigger battle--trying to find love in a loveless world.
Till next blog!