One Hell Of A Day!

Hey Y’all!

As some of the readers might know, I have been on dialysis for kidney failure the last four years of my life. My only chance of getting off of dialysis, is for me to get a kidney transplant. And since no one I know can give me one, I have to rely on one harvested from an organ donor after they die, unfortunately.

The last couple of months, I’ve been working with a hospital in Houston in an effort to get on their donation list so I can hopefully get a kidney one day.

And today in Houston was absolutely harrowing. This particular hospital does the evaluations for their list in three days. My first day was in March, the second in April and the third on the First of May. So, for some jacked reason they always want the day to start like at the ass crack of dawn. So I literally was up and getting dressed at 4:15 in the MORNING! Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on putting on eye shadow at that hour? No lie, I was up that early to be in Houston for a 7:45 am blood test.

And get a load of this: I couldn’t’ eat or have coffee until the tests were done! Me. Without coffee. AT THE CRACK OF DAWN! You know I was flipping out .

Four of us went to Houston, me, my dad, and his two friends.

Riding into Houston was alright. No bad traffic, no bad weather…it was all good. We got into the hospital which is this ridiculously large maze of connecting buildings. It literally is like a city within itself. It’s so big, that each building has it’s own cafeterias and Starbucks (and the letter bringing me in tells me specifically which garage to park in!!!)

Now, I only had two tests to do. One was to get what they called “fasting” labs drawn and the other was a chemical stress test.

I went in, was called about 15 minutes later and a very nice and capable woman tied my right arm up, popped a butterfly needle in and get this--filled up TWENTY-FIVE vials with my blood I was kind of shocked she had to fill so many. The most I had ever had drawn was 14. But she filled all twenty-five (making 34 with the 9 that had been drawn on Day One) and I actually had some blood left. And it didn’t hurt at all.

That took less than 10 minutes.

Then I had to take off, from the 12^th floor where I was, down to the second floor, leave that building, walk a mile in the complex of buildings and then ride up another elevator to the 16^th floor of that building. Now I made this trek alone, because I didn’t want my dad or his friends to have to drag ass that far. But I was pretty freaked because I am scared to death of elevators, ever since I was trapped on one a few years ago.

Anyway, I get to the place for my stress test and that’s when the fucking trouble started.

A man named Roberto called me back and started explaining how the test would go. I’d get the chemical that would react and make me feel like I had run for like 20 minutes at top speed. Then I’d get x-rays before and after to see how my heart looked. I said okay, let’s go. So Roberto split and this woman named Gertie came in. that’s where it got awkward. I had to take off my top and stand their with my boobies hanging out as Gertie attached little electrodes to me and actually bound my chest with an ace bandage. (to hold a heart monitor) Okay, Gertie split, and Roberto came back, so he could put the IV in my arm so we could get the testing together. Now I wasn’t too worried, I’d had the same sort of thing done in Galveston at a hospital there. So Roberto feels around my arm. And I should have know something was going to go wrong, because I did NOT see the vein he was trying to hit. The needle went in and the screaming started. It hurt, that’s all it did. HURT. And he kept doing what he called “threading” the needle which means put rock it back and forth in the vein trying to get the blood to come through which is incredibly painful. Finally as he claimed he had it--he didn’t, trust me--I jerked slightly and he missed again. I was in pain. When you hurt, you move, damn it. So that needle didn’t work. We separated a few minutes, calmed down and I was a fool and let him try again. So he hit a “vein” about 2 inches over. It didn’t work and it hurt so bad, my arm swelled and I wasn’t able to bend it at the elbow for over and hour. I started crying, and that freaked the guy out, so he said he was going to get the doctor, this guy named Todd to try. Now, usually, you only get to stick me ONCE before I take flight and get the hell outta there. But since we’d come so far, I was trying to put up with it. Todd comes in.

Now keep in mind, I’m alone, sleep deprived, hungry and thirsty. I was starting to turn into a major bitch, and it was by the grace of God I didn’t snatch his balls off his body.

Me and Todd sat and talked as he molested my hand looking for a vein for a few minutes. He picked out a vein I could see, which made me feel a little better. It didn’t last long. He got the needle in and was trying to thread it, and he seemed hell-bent on doing it even though it wasn’t happening. He kept trying to push saline in to flush it, and it was aching and finally I just yelled, telling him to let it go. It was a goddamned mess, blood went everywhere. And I didn’t know what to do. So I was telling them let me call my dad to see if he thought I should let them give it another try before I told them all to merrily go to hell. I was so hungry I was getting dizzy, damn it.

It took forever to get a hold of my dad because I had to call through all sorts of channels. Then when the nurse called my dad, he freaked out because I guess he thought I died while doing the test or something. He was scared and I had to calm him down. Then the nurse on the other end said the best thing I had heard all day.

Told me not to let those people stick me again and come back over to the other building. I was so happy, I could have done a flip. You know, those stress test people had the nerve to look sad I was leaving? I didn’t give a flying fig!.

I didn’t even wait for Gertie to come back and help get all that stuff off me. I’ve been in the hospital enough to know how to remove stuff like that. All the electrodes and ace bandage came off, and I got dressed and bolted.

But not before stopping at one of the Starbucks and getting a large iced caramel macchiato. It was the best damn tasting cup of coffee in the world at that moment. Like angels started singing.

I went back over to the 12^th floor where my dad and his friends were and I was a mess, covered in band aids, and I know I looked pitiful.

I rescheduled the test and I hope when I do go back that whomever does the IV knows what they are doing! I finally did get to eat though. A big messy whopper with fries and a soda. I’m full and pleased and just a little bit sore.

But I’ll live.

I’ve lived through worse. Try getting stitches WITHOUT anesthesia!

I’ll blog about the next trip in and it better go well!






MY POOR ARM AND HAND!!!!

Mr. George Brent

Hey Y’all!

Being the classic film buff I am, from time to time, I feel like I just have to post about some of my favorite old matinee idols. And it’s that time again.

I’m not sure if I’ve dedicated a post to him in the past, but I’m dedicating a post to him now:

Mr. George Brent.


 

George Brent is an example of one of the film stars that finds me, rather than me finding him. Allow me to explain.

In my mind, I have a set list of actors and actresses I love. Names that I drop everything I’m doing for, just to see them if one of their films comes on:

Jimmy Stewart, James Cagney, Leslie Howard, Cary Grant, Joan Crawford, Olivia De Haviland, Kay Francis, Constance Bennett, Barbara Stanwyck…the list goes on and on.

One of my very favorite actresses has always been Bette Davis. I react to a Bette Davis picture coming on like a Michael Jackson performance. Don’t call my phone, don’t ring my doorbell. Do not bother me when Bette is on! It’s like committing a sin.

Anyway, for about a week beforehand, Turner Classic Movies--my home for all the good oldies--had been making a big to-do about films from the year 1939.

Nineteen thirty-nine is heralded as the year of grand, classic movies, such as The Wizard of Oz, Gone with the Wind and The Women--films I’ve seen about a hundred times each.

I kept hearing mention of this film Dark Victory which starred Bette Davis. And people kept saying has the film come out a year before or after the likes of GWTW, it most likely would have swept the Academy Awards. Bette gives a tour de force performance as Judith Trehune, a young socialite who is slowly dying from a brain glioma.

Going into the picture, I already knew Bette was going to die, as Robert Osborne very kindly let the cat out the bag.

But I watched the movie anyway and I really thank God I did.

About 10-15 minutes into the film, after Judith is thrown from a horse because her vision tripled, you see a doctor--Dr. Steele-- cleaning out his office, getting ready to move to Vermont.


As I sat watching this being, in a tweed vest and trousers graced the screen.

This tall, thick bodied, broad shouldered man. Dark of hair, pale of skin, light of eyes. Eyes so beautiful, they sparkled, even in a black-and-white picture. Careful, chiseled features. A thin, strip of a mustache over a pert set of lips.

I hadn’t heard angels sing like that since I had first seen Jimmy Stewart in Harvey.

This sorely handsome creature, starting to do a medical exam on Bette Davis, was George Brent.

Before the film was over, I knew I was a fan of this man and had to see more of his films. And I wanted to be sick just to have him as Dr. Steele practice on me.

And thank God for the people at TCM, every few weeks a George movie is on. Over the last few years, I’ve seen scores of films featuring him. He was quite the popular man in the Pre-code Era (films released prior to July 1934. The “code“ being the Hays Censor Code.)

I’ve seen him such pictures as Baby Face with Barbara Stanwyck (my fave BS picture aside from Stella Dallas), Female with Ruth Chatterton (whom Brent was married to briefly.) and Jezebel with Bette.


(With Stanwyck--top-- and Chatterton)

Though I forget the name of it, I was fortunate enough to see George in a color film from the ‘40’s and was able to marvel at his blue-green eyes. (He’s Irish, another reason I like him as I’m part Irish too--way down the line of course.)

George is another one of those men who fits into the criteria of what I like--tall, dark, handsome and witty. (Okay, I realize Leslie Howard was blonde as a Barbie doll and James Cagney was a Ginger, but give me a break!)

I suppose I appreciate him because he represents a breed of men that no longer seems to exist. The gentlemanly, suit-wearing types that always opened a door and pulled out a chair for a lady.

That breed died out long before I was even born. They just don’t make men like that any more. (Michael Jackson was perhaps the last of that type, and alas, he is no more, too.)

Maybe I do cling to the past, and a past I’ve never known at that. But I do miss that sort of way, a man being kind and not always out to get naked in five minutes.

I just treasure that in the old actors.

Especially George Brent.

Life Without Internet...

Hey Y’all!

So, I don’t exactly know just what is going on with my internet server, but for some reason, it acts like it doesn’t want to work. So I have effectively been booted from the net.

Which is pretty much like yanking a bottle of Jack Daniels from a raging alcoholic.

It has literally been like going through a “cold-turkey” withdrawal for me. Because, my entire life is linked to the internet. My Jacksons fan clubs, my friends, like everything revolves around the net. And it really has for so incredibly long.

Right now, the only access I have to the net, is at dialysis. For the moment, believe it or not, I am actually looking forward to dialysis just to use their net and catch up with Facebook and things like that.

With about 80 extra hours on my hands now--I’m sure I averaged over 100 hours online per week--I’ve had to find other ways of amusing myself. I think I’ve watched every bit of footage of MJ I own, and watched nearly all my Prince concerts. (I’m cool with Prince again) and have gotten to watching a bunch of movies I have.

Also, with all the free time on my hand, I’ve gotten back to writing on my stories. Strawberries , The Lockdown, and my novel are all getting the attention they needed.

I hope to utilize my free time and make things work in my favor instead of dawdling like I used to. I’m 26, damn it. I need to get my book written, published, and make my folks proud of me.

Fingers crossed.

　

Lucky--A Horror Story

Hey Y'all!

As you know I dabble in writing and I wanted to share the first horror story I'd ever written with you, I hope you like it! It's been posted on a few MJ forums and had wonderful reviews!

“Lucky”

A Michael Jackson Horror Short Story

By MJsLoveSlave

　

Interstate Highway 69

Somewhere Outside of Los Angeles

“I’m hot…I’m so hot, Michael…”

I whimpered, staggering along beside him, holding onto his arm for support as we shuffled alongside the long stretch of road that appeared to be never-ending.

I didn’t know how long we had been walking on that road, or even what time it was. I just knew that the sun was out, it was hotter than Hell at the moment and I hadn’t seen another car go by since we’d started our trek.

“I know you’re hot and tired, Lover…” Michael said quietly, and was draping his arm around my shoulder. I noticed how wet he was from the perspiration pouring from his thin body. “…but think of how lucky we are. We’re lucky to even be alive…when I think of what happened--”

“No, Shhh!” I declared, and quickly pressed a finger to his bright pink lips, not wanting to replay the terrible event that left us where we were right then.

But it was too late, my mind was already, unconsciously playing it.

Earlier that morning, Michael and I had left his house, cruising on the inside of his cool, air conditioned Hummer, destined for a relaxing day on the beach.

It was so vivid in my mind: we had the music blaring, an old song by The Temptations, and I was teasing Michael about why he never wore those little Speedo bathing suits like European men wore on the beach.

Michael was smiling so brightly and cheerfully, and replying that he was a Black man from Indiana, and he had no business in a Speedo, and why I wasn’t going to be wearing a thong like European women.

I had began to reply, with a carefree laugh that I was a Black woman from California, when suddenly Michael had screamed.

A sharp, piercing scream that I would forever remember and be haunted by the rest of my life.

Michael wrenched the wheel to the left, hard, throwing me against the door of the passenger side of the car.

For a scant moment, I had seen the hind legs of a deer, running away.

That was it. Michael had swerved to avoid hitting a deer.

To avoid killing a poor, dumb animal, he’d unknowingly thrust us into the wide open arms of danger.

We had gone speeding off the road, going at least seventy miles an hour.

(I knew we were over the speed limit, but Michael had a natural lead foot and a trail of speeding tickets to his name.)

The Hummer, though built to be driven on all sorts of surfaces and terrain, was bobbing and bouncing violently, as we careened off into the woods lining the road.

I remember Michael yelling and cursing and telling me to “Hold on Lover, just hold on!” as he struggled to regain control of the car, fighting and yanking like a mad man at the steering wheel, desperately trying to bring the vehicle to a halt.

We were jostling back and forth, up and down, the only thing keeping us from effectively flying all over the interior of the car , and most likely snapping our necks and breaking our skulls, was our seatbelts.

I remembered the sickening thunking noise Michael’s foot made as he tried in vain to get the brakes to work, to stop the car.

Nothing happened.

I’m not sure if the brake lines had broken when we ran off the road or what but that car was not stopping for anything

I was crying and begging God to save us when it became clear to me the brakes were kaput.

Trees.

All I saw were trees, flying through trees, by trees, breaking low hanging branches. One of the side view mirrors had been ripped clean off the Hummer with brute force as we sailed by.

The last thing I remember is Michael howling, through his own frightened and wild tears,

“Jesus, help us!”

And he grabbed me, wrapping his arms around me, hugging me tightly.

There was a loud BANG, and it felt as if the car was going to be rattled to pieces, right from under me.

Glass crunched, and I could feel shards of it raining down on me, some cutting my arms.

There was a foom sound as all six of the front and side airbags deployed, knocking us back into our seats.

Then it was quiet. So, so quiet.

I wondered if I was dead.

If we were dead.

No…I was breathing. I was breathing so hard.

I couldn’t pull enough air into my lungs, even if they could have inflated to the size of a Zeppelin.

And so was Michael. He was breathing, shakily at best, but breathing just the same.

Michael Jackson had been right, we were extremely lucky we hadn’t been killed.

Once we realized we hadn’t yet crossed over, we sat there in the Hummer, holding each other and kissing feverently for a few moments, before we carefully crawled from Hummer, through the back doors, as the front had been crushed and crunched badly.

It was a wonder our legs hadn’t been shattered.

Considering that the Hummer was essentially totaled, our own injuries had been relatively minor.

We both had a few cuts from the glass shattering and Michael had a bruise on the left side of his face where he’d taken an airbag directly.

Other than that, maybe shaky legs, that strengthened as we had picked our way out of the woods, to the main road and were going in search of help.

We’d had a road assistance system inside the car, but it was busted to bits, and unfortunately, our cell phones were out of range. We both owned expensive, top of the line phones, and both were nothing now but high-dollar calculators.

(All the advances technology had claimed to make and there we were, set back a hundred years by a broken machine and drifting satellites!)

And there we were, walking along the road, looking for a sign of life, any life at all that could have lent a helping hand.

“Lover…we, we have to stop…” Michael came to abrupt halt, and began leaning against me, shaking his right foot.

“What’s wrong? Michael, what is it?” I questioned, wiping sweat from his streaming brow and saw he was wincing in pain.

“My foot, it’s hurting me…” Lifting his foot up, Michael hopped on one leg over to a large rock on side of the road and took a seat on it.

Going over, and thankful to sit down, even if it were on a hard boulder, I watched as Michael brought his foot up and removed his shoe.

The two of us gasped in horror.

Around Michael’s big toe, the white sock covering his foot was stained crimson with his blood.

“Oh great, just great! I must have walked a blister on my foot and now it’s burst. Damn.” He groaned and a ran hand through his long, disheveled curls that tumbled over his shoulders.

“Michael, what are we going to do? I don’t even know where we are! Are we still even in the city limits of Los Angeles? I’m scared. What will happen if night catches us?” I inquired, nervously twirling a lock of my own hair around my fingers, a few shards of glass falling from it.

“That toe could get infected. You’re a dancer! You need all ten toes!” I moaned wondering if Michael would lose a toe, or worse, the entire foot.

What would happen if night did catch us? Would we have died then? Would some sort of wild animal have come along and ripped our throats out?

Oh how could this have happened to us. Michael and I were good people. We obeyed laws, donated to charities, and even gave money in church--the kind that folded, not jingled!

It just didn’t make sense.

“We’re on an open road. Sooner or later, somebody has got to drive by, or we come up on a gas station or rest area--something where we can call for help. If we find a phone that works, we can call one of my brothers to come and get us.” Michael was patting at my hand and painfully putting his shoe back on.

“Call Marlon, he’s got that big R/V he uses for trips. I would sure like to sleep in the back of that on the way home.” I suggested, already dreaming of Michael’s brother’s Winnebago.

“Whatever you want Lover…” Michael, seeming to be in good spirits for a moment, pushed himself to his feet and jumped in agony. “I hate to put my weight on this, but we have to find help. Come on. Let’s put some more road behind us.”

Clutching his warm hand, I reluctantly got up and we started down the road again.

“I hate we took the scenic route. If I had just taken the expressway, we could be at the beach and sitting and eating some ice cream and pizza slices, right now.” Michael murmured and I touched his arm reassuringly.

“It’s okay. We had no idea this would happen, Baby. When we get back home, we can go buy all the ice cream and pizza we can stomach.”

“Sure…” Michael, looking grim spoke absently, and was taking off the long sleeved, yellow, oxford shirt he wore, revealing a once white t-shirt, now dingy with bodily fluids, .

We continued on for I don’t know how long. Once Michael had tried looking at his watch, but threw it to the pavement in disgust, when he found its face broken and the arms that showed the time missing.

I kept it to myself that he’d just thrown a ten thousand dollar, gold trinket away.

Michael’s appearance was so sour, I feared if I’d said anything about it, he might have struck me. He’d never raised a hand to harm me in the five years we’d been together, but under the strain he was carrying, anything might have been possible.

If only I could have done something to soothe him, make him feel better.

Smile or anything--

“Ava, stop!”

Bruised hands clutched my arms, bringing me to a stop instantly.

“What?” I demanded, staring up at him curiously. I ached all over.

His voice dropped to a whisper as he told me,

“Listen, do you hear singing?”

I stopped, and tilted my head, straining my ears for any possible sound.

I could just make out the sound of a child, somewhere in close proximity to us warbling,

“…knick, knack, paddy-whack, give a dog a bone…”

“I…I hear it!” I was so excited, tears were coming to my eyes, as Michael, forgetting his bleeding toe, began rushing along the street, and a few yards ahead of us, still singing, a child appeared from the brush.

She was a pretty child, maybe ten years old, with long nearly platinum blonde hair arranged into two braids, both fastened at the end with light pink ribbons. She was dressed sweetly in beat-up overalls, and a pink gingham shirt. The child was barefoot. (Which should have been murder on her soles, standing there on the gravel.)

A small, wicker basket swung from her arm.

“Little girl! Little girl!” Michael called as we came up on her.

Her eyes, more grey than green, widened in surprise as she gazed up at us.

“Are you folks alright? Looks like you were on the losing end of a fight.” She giggled, but abruptly stopped as Michael stooped and lifted her off the ground.

“Little girl, you have to help us. My name is Michael Jackson. This is my girlfriend, Ava Shearer. We were in a car accident, and we need help. Please go tell your mommy or daddy to please help us.”

The child’s eyes swelled in her head. I was sure it was something for her to wrap her mind around, seeing two people wandering from a wreck, dirty and battered.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll run and get my daddy. My house is a bit away from here, but I’ll run, Sir. I’ll run. You wait!” She vowed as Michael set her back on the ground.

With that, we watched as she struck out from us, moving as fast, it seemed, as her skinny little legs would carry her.

As the girl left, Michael dropped to his knees.

“Thank you Lord. Thank you!” He wept and I dropped beside him, hugging him against me.

“It’s okay. We’ll be okay now. That girl is helping us.” I cooed, patting at his hair.

“I don’t even know her name, the little darling. She’s helping!” Michael sniffled loudly.

We waited, rooted to that patch of road, for about twenty minutes.

It was a joyous occasion, when we could hear the sound of a motor chugging a moment later, over the horizon, a large, old, black Model-T truck was racing towards us.

It came to a halt beside us, the door flying open.

The girl hopped out of the passenger side of the truck and rushing to us, followed by a man, her father, I presumed.

The man was tall, and gangly, and even slimmer than Michael, with pale skin, and short, dark hair, falling into his light blue eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue plaid shirt, with the sleeve rolled up and jeans, with little brown work boots on his feet.

He looked like a farmer, but he could have been a little green man from Mars for all I cared.

“There they are Daddy! I told you there were some people here!” The little girl announced, getting on her knees beside us, and looking at both of us intently.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Lavinia, I thought you were pulling my leg!” The man cried and was patting after both of us.

“Hello, y’all. I’m Steven Driscoll. I am so sorry. I would have been here sooner, but I thought my daughter was lying to me.” The man apologized, eyes huge in regret and Lavinia put in, angrily,

“I wouldn’t lie about something like this, Daddy!”

“Are, are you okay? Can you walk? I reckon I can carry you to my truck if I have to, you too Mister.” He nodded between me and Michael.

“We can walk.” Michael was all grins as he and I slowly rose to our feet and introduced us. “We’re just so thankful you came. We’re so glad…Lavinia found us.” Michael reached out a hand and ruffled the girl’s hair.

“It’s good to know you, please get in my truck. My daughter can ride in the bed in the back. Please.” Steven stuck out his hand and Michael shook it and then offered it to me.

I quivered a bit as I touched his hand--it was so cold. But I assumed that he’d come from a well air conditioned home and that was why he was so cold.

The thought of air conditioning put a smile on my face as Steven helped Michael and me into the front of his truck and Lavinia gamely ran and hopped into the back of the truck.

“Golly, you folks had you a wreck.” Steven shook his head as he made a U-turn in the center of the road and began rolling in the direction his daughter had run earlier. “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking. You both look more shook up than a milkshake.”

Michael gave him the short version of the tale.

“We were driving to the beach and a I swerved to keep from hitting a deer. Lost control and hit a tree.”

“You’re lucky to be walking as good as you are. You know, I lost my brother Darryl in a wreck similar to that, yes Sir. He swerved to avoid hitting a skunk, cause those things stink something awful when you hit them, and he went down in a ravine. Steering wheel hit him clean in the face and broke all the bones in the front of his face. Doc said it killed him instantly. Rather glad it did, I’d hate to think of him suffering and in pain. One of his eyeballs flew clear out his head and we never found it. Nope.” Steven was shaking his head, and I stared up at him.

That was an awful story to recant, but it appeared he had no trouble in telling it. But he seemed like a simple man, and maybe he didn’t see that many people and just liked to talk.

I didn’t; care either way; Michael and I were saved.

“Can you tell us where we’re at? Are we still in Los Angeles? We were heading to the beach in Malibu, but I’m not really familiar with any of the towns between the two.” Michael, sweetly changed the topic, and I was trying to get the idea of a missing eyeball from a corpse out my head.

Hadn’t we been through enough already?

Glancing behind me, I saw that Lavinia had her little face poked through the small window in the back of the truck, listening to our conversation.

“Michael, you’re in a little town called Pine Burr, California. Nothing fancy like Los Angeles, I know, but we call it home, right Lavinia?” Steven chuckled and his child answered,

“Yes, Sir, Daddy.”

“Now I know you folks have been through a lot, and I flat insist that you join me and mine for some dinner. Right as I left, my wife was finishing up dinner and I did tell her to set some extra places. Night is fixing to set in and I sure would hate to try to send you folks on your way without at least offering you a nice hot meal.”

“We appreciate it, really, and thank you so much. We’re not putting you out, are we?” Michael wondered and I elbowed him violently in his side.

I was starving. Yes, I wanted a plate if those kind people were offering!

“Heck, nah. We love having company! It’s no problem at all.” Steven assured us, and was steering the truck, off the main road and onto a well worn, dirt path. Bits of gravel were hitting the underside of the truck, sounding like a dozen tiny guns firing a hail of bullets.

We drove a few yards, and out of the late day dusk, a house appeared.

It was a quaint, two story, wooden home, solidly built, two sconces on the porch already burning and lighting the area.

A rickety, picket fence, that in the past night have been white, circled the house.

As we came to a halt and Steven parked the truck, he tooted the horn twice.

Steven got out of the truck to give Michael and me a hand unfolding our stiffened bodies, while Lavinia ran to the house, hollering “Mommy!” all the way.

A short while later, a woman, who didn’t seem much older than me, came through the screen door on the porch.

She was a beautiful woman, looking like an adult version of Lavinia, wearing a loose fitting pink floral dress, her blonde hair swept back into a braided bun at the base of her neck.

And like her daughter, she was also barefoot.

In her arms she held a fussing infant, dressed in a blue romper.

“Steven, do you need a hand, Dear?” The woman questioned, venturing to the edge of the porch.

“No, I believe we’ve got it, Mina, and you’ve got the baby in your arms.” Draping an arm around each of us, Steven us led us to the porch and the woman.

“Mina, I’d like you to meet Michael Jackson and Ava Shearer. These folks here had themselves an accident, and I invited them to dinner. Reckoned they could use a good meal.” Steven informed his wife, and she looked at us with wide grey eyes.

“Goodness me. I’m sorry we have to meet under circumstances like this. Please, come on in. Dinner is just about ready. Please, come in.”

The baby kept gurgling and wrestling in her arms and Mina fought to keep from dropping him.

Michael who loved children and babies, automatically put his arms out for the child.

“What’s the little guy’s name? Looks like he’s eager to help us too.” Michael giggled as we got up on the porch and Mina placed the baby in his arms.

He continued to fuss, but did give Michael a gummy smile, saucer-like blue eyes searching his face.

“This is our little boy, Joseph, named after my father.” Steven was swelling with pride.

“My father’s name is Joseph too, how sweet.” Michael was snuggling the child against him as Mina rushed and opened the door for us.

“ You don’t say! Small world.” Steven helped us into the house, which was brightly lit, and smelled of good cooking food, with the slight smell of smoke.

My mouth was watering so, and no one seemed to mind the smoky scent, so I guessed nothing was burning. Perhaps they were grilling something.

Or The Driscolls might have relied on a wood burning stove, out in the sticks like they were.

I didn’t mind, I was getting full off of the delicious scents bombarding my nose.

Inside, the house appeared to be something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, lace doilies appeared to cover ever table and the mantle. All over the place, old black and white photographs adorned the wall. People long gone and definitely not of this world anymore.

These truly appeared deep in it, country folk. I never knew people like them even existed in California.

Smoothing the front of the pristine white apron that was tied over her dress, Mina spoke the sentence we all wanted so desperately to hear,

“If you folks is hungry, I’ll have dinner on the table in about twenty minutes.” And she was ushering us into their living room, making us sit on the over stuffed couch.

She then made her retreat to the kitchen which was somewhere in the back.

“Thank you for your hospitality…we appreciate it.” Michael spoke at a falsetto and I knew he was feeling shy with all these new people around.

He always did sound as if his “boys” had receded a bit when he was nervous. But they always dropped back down to normal size once he was at ease.

Holding little Joseph, I knew in a short while, he’d sound like himself again.

“Oh its nothing at all, we don’t have too many visitors…” Steve grunted as he dropped into an armchair on side of us.

I was still surprised by how smoky the house smelled, but I didn’t really care. Once again, I ascribed it to the idea of a wood burning stove somewhere.

We sat quietly for a few moments, Michael playing with the baby, me watching them and Steven watching us.

Suddenly Steven called out,

“Lavinia, come bring our guests some lemonade, please!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Quick as lightning, the child appeared, two large glasses, stacked with ice and filled with the lovely yellow liquid in her hands.

“Here you go. I hope it’s not too tart.” The little girl smiled and was handing me both glasses.

“Mr. Jackson, Mommy wanted me to get my brother, she wants me to put him down to sleep.” The girl put out her arms for little Joseph.

“Aww, alright. Sleep well, little guy.” Michael pinched the baby’s cheek and he gave another gummy grin as he was passed into Lavinia’s arms and took the lemonade from me.

“I’ll be right back.” Lavinia, cradling the baby against her, exited the room.

“Cute kids.” Michael commented and took a sip. I drank at mine and it was perfect, good and cold and sweetened just right.

“Thank you. They can be a handful at times, but I love them. Kids, what a blessing.” The man of the house commented, grunting as he kicked his boots off, and flexed his toes in well mended white socks.

Steven then went into a dialogue about how he and his wife had wanted one of each child and how after several tries they received the family they prayed for.

But even with the best intentions, I found my attention span shortening and my eyes wandering.

Still looking about the living room, I was surprised to find that it lacked a television-- I had five televisions in my house and I lived alone.

Instead of a TV, an old fashioned radio stood on the opposite side of the room. I figured it was there to go with the antiquated theme of the place.

I didn’t care about the TV. All I wanted was to feed my face, go home and sink into bed. (And not rise for several days.)

On the coffee table in front of me, I saw that several vintage magazines, very fitting with the old-fashioned theme of the home, almost as old as Michael Jacksons himself, had been spread out on it.

Picking up one about movie stars, I leafed through it and began reading an article about how actress Sandra Dee had helped keep up troop morale by performing at USO shows. (During the Vietnam War!)

Reaching into the drawer of the little side table, next to his chair, Steven came up with a golden cigar box, as Lavinia returned, grabbed a whodunit magazine and stretched out on the woven area rug with it.

“Cigar?” Steven opening the case, revealed six thick, and brown cigars.

“No thank you.” Michael kindly waved them away. “I don’t smoke.”

Biting and spitting off the end of a cigar and lighting it, Steven declared,

“Don’t seem natural for a man not to smoke…”

Michael glared at him out the corner of his eyes, but said nothing more.

He didn’t offer me a cigar, and though I didn’t smoke either, I was mildly offended.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mina’s saccharine voice wafted from somewhere in the back of the house. “Come and get it!”

Michael and I couldn’t have moved faster, if Mina had come out and drawn a shotgun on us. Michael had completely forgotten about his toe at the thought of food and hanging on my arm, was dragging me through the house towards Mina’s voice.

Lavinia and Steven brought up the rear, both chuckling.

My eyes swelled at the sight of all the food on the long, simple wooden table in the center of the warm and bright kitchen.

There was a heaping platter of roasted chicken, with bowls of mashed potatoes, crisp green beans and buttered corn on the cob, a basket of steaming biscuits. And cooling on the stove, a large lattice cherry pie.

It was heaven on earth as Michael, Driscolls and I paused to say grace and then began devouring the wonderful, home cooked food.

Who knew all hell was about to break loose?

Sometime Later

“Would you like another piece of pie, Michael?”

Mina asked and was holding up the last couple of slices left in the pie tin.

“Oh, no thank you. Two is my limit, that really is some wonderful pie, delicious.”

“If you want, I could give Ava the recipe, then you could have it anytime you like.” Mina offered, setting the pan down and rising from the table, going across to the counter, where a small box was setting.

“That’d be nice, Mina, thank you.” I called after her.

“I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality. You are so kind. I didn’t think people as nice as you were still around,” Michael laughed as he drank what had to be his fifth glass of lemonade.

“Ah, we are a dying breed, indeed.” Steven paused to take a napkin and wipe at Lavinia’s mouth, stained red from the cherry pie.

“Do you have a telephone we can use? I’d like to call my brother to come and pick up Ava and me.”

“Oh…” Steven, mouth full, pointed out a phone hanging next to their little white icebox. I really did love the old fashioned way their home was made.

The phone was even a rotary one. God only knew where a rotary phone could be found in this cell phone age we lived in now.

While Michael got up and hopped on the phone, I announced,

“I really love how cute your home is Steven. I might decorate my place with some vintage stuff like this. It’s darling.”

“Yes, vintage…thank you.” He was nodding and chewing his last bite of pie. A fresh cigar smoked on the edge of the plate.

“Here you go, Dear.” Mina smiled, handing me a small piece of paper with the pie recipe jotted down on it in elegant writing.

“Thanks.” I smiled, folding the paper and placing it in my front shirt pocket.

“Well, it’s all set, Lover!” Michael was clapping his hands happily. “Marlon is on his way to come and get us! We’re going home!”

Delighted, I jumped up and ran into his arms. “I’m so glad!”

Finally letting me go and turning to Steve, Michael dug in his pocket and came up with a wad of bills.

I watched silently, as he counted out five hundred dollars, and held it out to Steven.

“Please, take this as a token of mine and Ava’s appreciation, for all you’ve done for us. Thank you.”

Steven waved a hand at us.

“No, Sir. I can’t take your money Michael. I’m just doing what any good honest man would have done. Please, keep your money.” Steven was shoving the money away.

“I only hope that if me or mine ever need help and you’re around, we reckon you’d do the same.” He added with a soft gleam in his eye.

“Why of course. If there’s one thing Michael Jackson doesn’t do, is forget a kindness done him in his time of need. Only God knows what would have happened if Lavinia hadn’t been playing in the woods and found us.” Michael’s voice broke and a tear fell down his sharp cheek.

“Thank you and God bless you.” And he was falling on Steven’s neck, hugging him tightly.

He went around the room and I followed him, hugging everyone there.

I noted that all three of the people were cold, but granted, the inside of the house was nice and cold, combating the heat.

Two Hours Later

“…I still can’t believe you nearly killed yourself and Ava, to avoid a deer. I’d have squished his ass and kept going. Lord, you’re lucky man.”

Marlon was stating as he steered, not his Winnebago like I had wanted him to arrive in, but instead had come in his blue Jeep.

He could have ridden in on a Huffy ten speed bicycle, I was just so glad to be on my way home!

“You know I couldn’t kill a poor dumb animal. It probably had never even seen a car before.” Michael grunted, annoyed by the thought of animal murder.

“Whatever, I just know your skinny ass was lucky to run across those people. Who knows if you’d have ever found your way home out in the boonies like you were. You sure you don’t‘ want to go to a hospital, you‘re both all banged up.” Marlon continued as we went drove down the road and were passing through a small town.

“No, we want to go home!” I insisted from where I was tucked next to Michael in the back seat.

“They were so nice. Steven refused when I offered him money for the nice things he did, but I left it in an envelope on the front table before we left. I just couldn’t leave without giving them something.” Michael sighed.

Coming across an all night diner, that was lit and had several people inside it eating and chatting, our driver spoke up.

“You mind if I stop and get a cup of coffee? We’ve got a stretch to get back home.” Marlon was asking, but not even waiting for an answer, as he parked his car in front of the diner and was disbanding from it.

Michael and I not wanting to sit in the car, followed along behind him, a spring in our steps we had never possessed before.

As we stepped through the door, into the diner, smelling heavily of brewing coffee and frying, salty meats, a man’s voice gasped,

“Good Lord! What the hell happened to y’all?”

It was clear this place was the local meeting ground of the townsfolk of Pine Burr; several policemen and a few older gentleman sat at the counter, an elderly woman pouring coffee.

A man, in his thirties, came flying up to Michael and me, in uniform, the gleaming badge on his chest reading as “Sherriff”.

“I’m Sherriff Matt Rickets, what on earth happened to you and this young lady?” He demanded as Marlon calmly slipped around him and was ordering a mug of coffee.

“My girlfriend and I had a wreck out in the woods, please, we just want some coffee. That’s my brother over there.” Michael, taking my hand, led me to the stools next to Marlon who was stirring Sweet and Low into his mug.

Matt’s green eyes swelled in his head and I noticed that all the other men and the woman were watching with great interest. I suppose it wasn’t every day someone walked in…how had Lavinia put it… “looking we had been on the losing end of a fight”.

“You say you had a car wreck? Well I’ll be damned! How on Earth did you get away.” Matt demanded. “And why in God’s name didn’t you call the police?”

“We were just so eager to get away, all we could think about was calling my brother and getting away. If it wasn’t for the Driscoll’s kindness--”

I was interrupted by the rest of the people chorusing,

“The Driscolls!”

“You know them?” Michael asked, sipping his coffee, and reaching for a donut that was in a stack on a plate.

“Mister…” The Sherriff was looking , and beginning to sweat nervously. “You say you were helped by the Driscolls?”

“Yeah. Steven and Mina. Had a little girl, Lavinia and baby boy named Joseph.” It was our turn to look at the people curiously.

All around, people were becoming pop-eyed and whispering amongst themselves.

“Is something wrong? You’re acting like we killed somebody.” Marlon, munching on a donut laughed.

The laugher cut out quickly when nobody else joined in.

“I don’t know how to tell y’all this…” The Sherriff leaned up against the counter near us and drew a deep breath.

What he said next, nearly threw me off my stool.

“…but the Driscolls have been dead over fifty years.”

“Quit bullshitting us! My brother and his girlfriend have been through too much for you to mess with their heads with some crap like this!” Marlon instantly jumped on the defensive as a skeptic.

Michael and I exchanged glances, both too stricken to speak.

It didn’t stop Marlon, though.

“If those people are dead, how were Michael and Ava able to sit with them and eat dinner, and call me to come get them--” He was starting to get wound up, and Sherriff Rickets held up his hands.

“Let me guess, you ate roasted chicken, green beans, corn on the cob and cherry pie.” He stated and I grabbed onto Michael feeling suddenly weak.

“How…how did you know that?” Michael stammered, turning milk white.

Marlon, crumbs in his mustache sat with his jaw gaping.

“Everyone who’s ever been to the Driscoll place, and gotten away, have been fed that meal. Folks say it’s the last meal the Driscolls ever ate.” the Sherriff shook his head.

When no one spoke, Michael and I were dumbfounded and Marlon was trying to make sense of the matter, the man continued talking.

“I heard it from my Grand Pappy, he was the sheriff back when it happened. Fifty years ago. A warm, July day, a lot like this one, back in 1961. Nobody knew it at the time, but miles away from here, a derelict had escaped from an asylum up the state. San Francisco, I believe. They say the man had murdered his own family a few years prior in a drunken rage and then went insane at what he’d done. No one knows how he got out, but there he was, on the road.

He came across little Lavinia Driscoll. She was the sweetest nicest kid, Grand Pappy said, always wanting to help people.” Sheriff Rickets shook his head.

“That poor child saw how dirty the man was and offered to get her daddy to help him. Didn‘t know she was helping to bring a killer into her own home.”

My head was spinning. The more the sheriff spoke the more and more it sounded like what had happened to Michael and myself.

Finding the girl singing in the woods, her running for Steven. Steven coming and getting us himself, and offering us dinner.

I wanted to vomit, if this sordid tale was indeed true.

But it couldn’t be, could it?

Judging by the grim faces looking upon me, these country folk were taking as the God’s Truth.

“The little girl ran and got her daddy, got Steven and they brought the man home where Mina was making dinner with the baby, Joseph. Grand Pappy tells me they brought the man in, and fed him dinner--chicken, and green beans all that. And when they got done eating, the man made a move, like he was going to use the phone.

Instead, he grabbed a knife off the counter and without a word, started stabbing them. And stabbing them. Killed Steven, Mina and Lavinia.

When he saw what he’d done, he set fire to the house to cover his tracks and fled. House had burned pretty bad, by the time the fire department got out there and were able to put the blaze out. They found the three of them in the kitchen. Steven dead at the table and Mina and Lavinia dead in the far corner of the room. It was obvious Mina had tried to protect her daughter--she was holding the girl her arms, and had the most stab wounds Thirty-seven, I recall.”

I stared at Michael. He was visibly trembling, and beyond him, Marlon had pressed his hands to his mouth, eyes bulging with disbelief.

“They later found the baby in his nursery upstairs. Someone must have put him there before the stabbings--”

My mind drifted to how Lavinia had taken the baby from Michael and put him to bed upstairs.

“--he hadn’t been touched, but the smoke was what got him, suffocated to death in the smoke. A whole, young family, their lives ahead of them, all wiped out. They caught the man a few days later. He confessed and was hanged. ” The sheriff pulled out a cigarette, but didn’t light it.

“Hanging was too good for him, if you ask me. Should have burned him, like those poor people.” Another officer chimed in, tightly and several people patted after him, approvingly.

“Every so often, some folks come through here, claming everything from a wreck like y’all, to a busted tire, and how the Driscolls helped them. And in a way, I suppose the Driscolls did help them--their souls anyhow.”

We ran.

Michael, Marlon, and I, all in one fluid motion, ran from the diner.

We didn’t’ scream, but we didn’t have to. Anyone who even peeked at us could tell we were disturbed out our minds.

“I don’t believe that shit! I don’t believe it! Dead people? You were with dead people? Bullshit!” Marlon declared, turning the car on and the motor roared to life.

Was he trying to convince us or himself?

“I don’t know what to say…” Michael stroked at his dimpled chin, indecisive. “I don’t know what do you think, Lover?” He glanced at me, eyes big and glassy with fear. His fear was on his face as clearly as his own nose.

“I…I believe it.“ I declared, not sounding like myself as my voice was shaking so much. “The whole while I was there, I constantly smelled smoke. And they were cold. When I hugged Steven and Mina and Lavinia, they were so cold.” I suddenly turned to Michael and gripped his arm.

“You held the baby, Michael--was…was he cold?”

Eyes ever widening, Michael had lost his ability to speak, but nodded just the same and I sank back in the seat, tears of confusion welling in my eyes.

Michael Jackson had held a fifty year old, dead baby in his arms. Played with a dead baby. I was going to be sick.

At the same time, Michael shouted,

“Marlon, what the hell are you doing?”

I was wrenched from crying as Marlon replied,

“I’m taking you and Ava back to that house, so I can see for myself, if that guy was telling the truth or a bold-faced lie and if he’s lying, so help me God, I’m gonna break his jaw.”

“I don’t wanna go back! I don’t wanna go back! Michael! Make him take us home!” I wailed becoming frantic. Who knew what we’d see at the Driscoll home now that the secret was out.

But Marlon was hell bent on proving a point.

And I could have lived the rest of my life without the truth.

As we turned up the dirt path, leading to the Driscoll home, I saw the difference immediately in the early morning light as the sun had begun rising on a new day.

Where the lawn had once been pretty and manicured, just a few hours earlier, was now over grown and appeared to have not been tended to in decades.

Steven’s black Model-T, which had been pretty and polished to a high gleam, now sat on four flat tires, taken with weeds and rusty.

All of our eyes drifted to the house and all around jaws dropped.

“Oh my God!” I’m not sure who said it, but the phrase was wheezed by somebody, as we sort of tumbled out of the car, shuffling in a huddled group towards the house.

The remnants of the Driscoll home.

The home, which had been so inviting and warm, was now completely dark, the sunlight creeping over what was left.

The second floor of the home was entirely gone, a charred outline in the morning. The windows, were all smoked out and the whitewashed front still bore soot from the fire so long ago.

“This doesn’t make since! I was just in there. I ate chicken! This is some--” Michael started, heaving for air.

“Bullshit!” Marlon finished for him. “Michael!” He exclaimed suddenly as Michael began running from us.

“Oh no! Michael!” I cried as we took after him, watching as he stepped up onto the burned front porch, my mind spinning as nothing in life seemed to add up anymore and I understood nothing at all.

Michael disappeared through the hole that had been the front door and immediately began screaming.

“My brother! I’m coming Michael!” Marlon yelled as we scrambled up and into the skeleton of the house.

We found Michael in the front hall, pressed against the wall, shaking all over.

“What is it? Baby! What happened!” I begged, touching his hot and damp face as he began crying uncontrollably and Marlon embraced him.

A pale hand was extended and pointed.

Marlon and I followed with out eyes and found ourselves pressed against the wall, alarmed.

There on the burnt and charred and crispy front table, was the plain white envelope filled with money, that Michael had left behind for the family.

It was as white and clean as when he’d placed it there and stood out blindingly in the ruins around it.

We made no moves to retrieve the envelope, just stared it. I knew for one I didn’t want it, even if I were starving to death.

That envelope was cursed now. Who knew what had happened to it while we had been gone. It had been in the hands of a man who hadn’t been a man for fifty years!

“What kind of freaky stuff happened here? Am I in Hell?” Marlon whimpered and tears were oozing down his face, as he looked about him in wonder.

Staring at the envelope, I thought of the recipe that Mina had given me, and I was digging in my front shirt pocket.

“Ava, what are you doing?” Marlon demanded, patting at Michael’s head.

“The woman…” I was afraid to say her name. “…gave me a recipe for her pie, Look!”

Feeling the paper in my hand, I brought it up and out to show Marlon as the sunlight got stronger.

I got the fright of my life when I opened my hand.

I had a fistful of ashes. No paper, no recipe.

Ashes.

A soft breeze blew them from my hand.

I opened my mouth and screamed until my throat was raw.

That was all we ever needed.

Marlon yelling physically picked up Michael, still sobbing and praying, and carried him over his shoulders as we fled the building and jumped into his car.

And we go the natural hell out of there.

No one spoke a word the entire way home.

Nothing would could say, could ever soothe our nerves or make sense out of what we had just seen and experienced.

The only sound on the way home was of one of each of us crying intervals, Marlon cursing here and there and Michael saying more prayers than I had ever heard in my lifetime.

We never returned to Pine Burr. That place was a gateway to Hell as far we were concerned.

I don’t believe Michael even reported his wrecked Hummer.

He just went out and bought a new one.

We never returned to the Driscoll homestead, but we would never forget who or what ever it was that had saved us from our car wreck.

And we had been lucky to not end up like them, left to walk the Earth instead of moving on.

We were very lucky.

Catching Uo Again!

Hey Y'all!

I know it's been a hella long time since I've updated the old blog. I apologize for that. But I have some good news.

I've gotten off to a running start on my novel that once complete, I hope to publish and have on shelves so I can say I accomplished something in this stretch of time called life. I'm still revising and critoquing the hell out of what I've already written, but you know me, when it comes to writing I'm an anal perfectionist.
I have also launched another blog, featuring an erotic mini-series that features all six of the Jackson brothers in a lurid tale that winds them all around one woman. It's pretty rauchy stuff if I do say so myself. Factor in the fact that I made Marlon Jackson something of a pimp...I was inspired by it by the Jacksons Dynasty show that used to air on TV. I saw them go into a Lockdown to try to make an album, and I felt sorry that they weren't getting "any" while away. So the story--and blog--was born: "The Lockdown"

(SHAMELESS PLUG: http://jacksonslockdown.blogspot.com)

Aside from writing stories that include the Jacksons getting naked, I have really good news. In a little over a month, I will be going into Houston for testing to get on the kidney transplant list at Methodist Hospital. I really hope that these people can help locate a kidney for me because I do need it in the worst way. I love writing at home, but I don't want to be at home ALL THE TIME. I'm 26. I wanna be out and doing things and having fun and kissing on some cute man. (Hopefully with lips like MDJ)
((MDJ--Marlon David Jackson) )
Seriously, I want this badly, so I got my fingers all crossed and a whole bunch of prayers flying upward. I hope I get lucky. I need it.

All in all, for the most part, that's about it. I'm focusing on my craft and hoping for a new lease on life.

More blogs are on the way!

Michael Jackson Made Me A Cougar

Hey Y’all.

I have to admit, I am one of those MJ fans that practically eat, sleep and breathe facts about Michael. I mean when I was a child, it was kind of my mission in life to know as much as humanly possible as I could about Michael--based on the resources available to a twelve-year-old.


Michael in 1976, possibly only seventeen years old!

Anyway, in a nutshell, I pride myself on my knowledge of Michael Jackson and my uncanny ability to tear a hater down to their foundation over him. Intelligence always defeats ignorance.
In any case, though, I am so used to being in the know about Michael and the Jacksons in general that for about three years, I had made an oversight and only noticed it tonight.
I was having an MJ concert night and one of my favorite shows to look at is the Jacksons Live From Mexico.
And it wasn’t really so much Michael that tripped me up, it was his brother, Marlon.

Now the performance is marked as being done in 1975. I have strongly opposed this based on two things:
ONE: Jermaine Jackson is absent from the lineup. Jermaine didn’t leave the group until 1976 and he was replaced by youngest Jackson brother, Randy playing conga drums.
TWO: During the performance, I noticed that Marlon was wearing his gold wedding band.

This is where things got sticky. I had always believed that Marlon had married his wife Carol on August 16, 1976. Hell, I had even been pissed when I learned that Elvis Presley had died the same date a year later, whining that is ruined Marlon and Carol’s first anniversary.

This brings me back to Michael. In 1976, Michael Jackson became a legal man at the age of 18. Based on this young manly Michael, I have penned at least three eroticas, drawing from his persona in the Mexican concert. It also made Marlon nineteen in my mind.
So I’m watching the show, jamming to I Am Love, when something told me to look up the date of Marlon’s marriage. I don’t know why, but it just came to me to do so.
So I turned and picked up Michael Jackson: The Magic and the Madness, the MJ fact Bible to me.
There’s a section that details all the brother’s first marriages. So I find the picture of Marlon and Carol.
The book said they eloped in Las Vegas on August 16, 1975.
Not nineteen seventy-SIX.
Nineteen seventy-FIVE.

Well I nearly shit myself for lack of a better term. Pardon my French.

I had always assumed that Michael was eighteen years old. It literally made me break into a coughing fit when I realized at oldest, Michael was only seventeen. At youngest, depending on the exact date of the show, he could have even been sixteen.
This may not seem like such a big deal, but it is to me. I’ve always been a girl who preferred older men. I mean WHY do you think I’m hung up on MJ in the first place? It was an idea I had when I was 15, as I upped in age, I would only play Michael’s music/shows from that age on.
Now at 26, I realized it was silly and let some of the oldies back in.
It just kind of bothers me that’s all. I mean…at 18 Michael was legally a man. Could vote, could smoke…could even drink in some states. At 17, he was still a minor under the custody of his mother.
I just keep thinking one thought. If I was out with Michael, at my current age and kissed him on a street corner….at 18, it’d be fine, at 17, it would literally be breaking the law in some states.

I just can’t believe I was looking at him like that. I mean I even giggled when I could make out the outline of his underwear through his pants.

Maybe I’m making too big a deal out of nothing, since if he was alive Michael would be fifty-four years old. (And I’ll be all over him like makeup on his skin)

{I still don’t quite understand how he “dated” Tatum O’Neal when she was 13 and he was older, but it was stuff dreams were made of to me at the ages of 11-16}

But it just kind of caught me off guard a bit and really with Michael at 16/17 in the performance and me at my age, I am in “cougar” territory.

And Michael would have been my little cub. Cause I assume a guy can't be a kitten!

WOW.

Hunting Marlon Jackson....

Hey Y'all!

I am currently recovering from the flu which has effectively kicked my ass the last week or so.
During my recouperation, I found, with much delight, that I was promoted to "Administrator" of the Marlon Jackson Fan Club. It makes me so glad to be a part of a club where people share a liking for Michael's big brother.

There is one thorn in my side with it though. I like contributing pictures of Marlon to the group, and I notice that it's extremely difficult to find Marlon on his own, after 1987.
Alot of the shots I see are of the Jacksons group--in earlier years with Michael, and in later years without--but Marlon's stance is always the same.

In the background.



It's frustrating sometimes. I have to keep reminding myself that back in those days, Michael was the main attraction and not Marlon. Michael was doing all the leads, and Marlon was just singing doo-wop behind him.
Alot of the time, Michael actually obscures the view of Marlon.  Because they are dancing all over each other.
So I'm working at it and trying hard to find as many pictures as I can. I just have to jkind of change my thinking pattern away from Michael, cause there's millions of images focusing on him, and try to find Marlon among it all.