Michael Jackson

I don't know what to say about Michael Jackson.

Two Thursdays ago, as I was driving to Hermiston in advance of the coast trip, I heard the news on NPR that, at age 50, Michael Jackson was dead. I was stunned and saddened, even surprising myself by blinking away tears as I drove.

It's not that I was a hardcore fan: I don't own a single album (though I was given the MP3s of Number Ones, several of which feature in various Marathonator playlists), didn't follow his legal difficulties, and never felt any sort of close personal connection. But somehow, he was part of my life, as he has been for millions for decades and will doubtless continue to be.

My first Michael Jackson memory is, as a child, asking my father, upon seeing his face on a magazine cover, whether Michael Jackson was a man or a woman. My dad replied mysteriously, "No one really knows." When I recounted that story to him last year, he laughed at his response--but at the time I was genuinely confused.

I remember trying unsuccessfully to moonwalk. I remember singing "Heal the World" in eighth grade choir. I remember looking at images of the tragic evolution of his face. I remember running to his music. I remember dancing to it at many parties (and hope to continue doing so). I remember being consistently impressed and cheered by his own dancing in his music videos.

Michael Jackson is, as has only become clearer in the wake of his untimely death, a worldwide phenomenon, leaving his indelible impression on decades of music, fashion, dance, and videography. His impossible bigness tended to hide the fact, I think, that he was, after all, human and fallible and fragile. The impressive thing is how that bigness seemed somehow to reach all of us in our smallness.

I'm sad that he's gone, though of course he isn't, not really, and won't be. I'm not the first to suggest that what we'll remember of him will be the good stuff--the contagious music, the mind-blowing dancing, the trailblazing videos--rather than the very visible and painful effects of the fame they earned him. I hope it will be.

"So it goes"

Alas; Kurt Vonnegut has died. I heard the news on the BBC last night as I was flossing, and felt sad.

I haven't read all that much Vonnegut, actually: just Welcome to the Monkey House, Slaughterhouse Five, and parts of Slapstick--although I do own Cat's Cradle, after digging it out of the book bin at the Bowling Green recycling station. However, the first is quite possibly the most amazing short story collection I have ever encountered; though I first read it nearly 15 years ago, I continue to be haunted (in a most pleasant way) by visions of the democratization of physical and intellectual ability, a man's body wandering into the waves while his mind remains apart and endures independently, and a machine that creates an effect similar to "walking by a burning field of marijuana."

The paint mixing boy I met in December also mentioned having attended a lecture Vonnegut gave on a college campus. He related that during the question and answer period afterward, an obsequious student had delivered an obnoxiously hero-worshipping speech in the guise of a question, concluding, "How do you write such amazing material?" Paint Boy said that Vonnegut had silently stared down the sycophant, before slowly declaring, "I am... what they call... a genius." I, of course, agree.

Several months ago, I had looked online for a paperback copy of Welcome to The Monkey House like my parents', the first one I'd read, with a light brown cover and a picture of a male and female monkey reaching out through black bars. While the 1990s reprints were selling for two or three dollars, the older version I wanted started at $12, even though they were much older and worn, and were probably 75 cents brand new. Now I wish I'd gone ahead and shelled out the cash then, because these days I can't seem to find one at any price--and it's just going to get harder. Wendy, if you find one, will you let me know?

As usual, the New York Times has an excellent obituary. Hi ho.

Peter Jennings

Since I was three, Peter Jennings has been my favorite news anchor.

Some of my first, vague, memories are of not being able to sleep and being allowed into the living room for World News Tonight. My parents remember me saying his name: "Pee-toh Jen-inz."

He was one of the first public figures of whom I was aware as a child. The other evening TV I remember is music videos--strange, colorful, baffling and improbable jumbles. They were fun, but couldn't compare to the consistent, comforting, avuncular Peter Jennings.

I don't remember Carter at all or Reagan before I was probably seven. But Peter Jennings, I do.

These days I don't own a TV, and haven't watched with any regularity in about 10 years. And it's probably not television itself that has changed as much as me personally, but reading about Peter Jennings reminded me of a time when you believed the news from your TV because it was delivered by a reliable, trustworthy source--who, in addition to seeming genuinely sincere, also happened to have really good hair.

Even into my teens and later, when I would see Peter Jennings on TV, it would reawaken some of those childhood memories and give me a warm feeling.

Thinking of him now does, too.

Peter Jennings, 1938-2005