Meditations on Michael

Michael Jackson can no longer live outside of reality. Since he’s dead and stuff.

They were playing that scary Barbara Walters interview from 1997 tonight. Woah. The man did best staying quiet and secluded.

Everyone – even critics I respect – call his early work very influential and essential to every collection. I don’t own a lick of it. And that’s OK. (Yeah, it was one of those things I was not allowed to experience, considering his debut video was associated with the occult, he didn’t sing Christian music and he was, uh, different from what I was allowed to enjoy culturally, which really was nothing except for G.I. Joe and John Wayne movies. Don’t ask.)

Whatever. Here’s a bunch of links I’ve been meaning to share.

  • Your photos, presented in a timeline. Free to $40/month. Hmmmm.
  • New Wilco song “You Never Know” gets me all apathetic and such as if I needed help.
  • New New Yorker fiction: Should I read this? Has anybody else? Sigh. Six pages, I need some friggin’ time, people!
  • One out of 20 confirms I’m still not a geek. (Yes, I like IMing the loved one sitting next to me) Doh! Gotta work on that, I suppose.
  • Esteemed New Yorker music critic Frere Jones calls  Sonic Youth’s Eternal her favorite in a long time.
  • Trent is back! Sorry, I still don’t care.
  • Laid-off Chicago Tribune reporter calls “bullshit”  – and he doesn’t miss newspapers
  • Meanwhile, in magazines: Easy come, easy go
  • I never knew bacon could be so scary.
  • When Michael Jackson dies, the world turns to the web, and a little piece of the web dies. Meanwhile, I was driving home, thinking about rain. That never came. Sigh.

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