It’s odd.

It was just another ordinary day at work, and then I leave I’m driving home and I hear on the radio that Michael Jackson is dead at 50.

Despite the last crazy tabloid twelve years of the man’s life, I remember him for what he was in the 80s when I first became a fan.

I remember seeing him moonwalk on the Grammy’s.

I remember buying the record (yes, the record) of the Thriller Album at Wal~Mart and holding the fold outs at arms length to see him laying down in that white suite with that baby tiger next to him.

I remember the Pepsi commercial and him burning his hair.  I remember Bubbles. I remember the Elephant Man’s Bones.

I remember the oxygen chamber photos on the cover of the Enquirer.

I remember Brooke Shields.

I remember renting Thriller (and the Making of Thriller) every Halloween.  I remember We Are The World.

I remember Lisa Marie.

I will remember the man in the mirror.

Now I know what it felt like for my sister when Elvis died.