It's all Michael Jackson's Fault...

"Brooke wore a fuckng poncho. Get me Webster!"

Sure, everyone is crying. And everyone else is throwing out their backs trying to do the moonwalk whenever the anonymous DJ of the night at the club throws in a little MJ action. But after some quiet reflection I realized that its all fucking Michael Jackson's fault. I'm not talking about my aversion to maturity or attraction to guyliner. Instead, I remembered a set of pictures my mom gave me in 1984; It was 2 glossy 4x6s of Michael Jackson at home and one pinup. One was him sitting on his brick steps, one in his kitchen and the other was him in a yellow cardigan vest and bow tie without the text from the similar poster that adorned every girl's bedroom wall at the time.

"Shamone!"

While the small version of the poster might not have fooled my eager MJ lovers in my 3rd grade class, the one of him casually hanging at home were the money shots (Alas, I spent days trying to find a scan of them on the web and no dice). When I busted 'em out during class, girls passed out and guys gave me glares that suggested I might be in trouble on the playground had I not been a vicious menace at the hockey rink. But it wasn't just the fact that the picture transported my imagination to a place where I was riding shotgun with MJ's in his newly installed personal Pirates of the Caribbean at Neverland, but moreso that I blatantly lied to my schoolmates and purported to take the photo myself. And that was the fucking moment that I might have realized my destiny to take pictures of interesting people, possibly for the sole reason that it was so fucking cool to see the look on other people's jealous faces.

Thanks Michael. I totally would have let you freak me out after I played in your arcade.