Over the last decade my tape recorder has been unfailing in catching the weirdness of a moment: Bruce Springsteen doing Ed Norton imitations at 3:00 a.m. The whir of bat wings over Eddy Grant’s Bajan plantation. Sting howling at the moon. But even my hypersensitive Sony was not up to capturing the steady flick of a snake tongue a few inches from my ear during that first long session with Michael Jackson. That whole trip was quietly strange; not menacing, just out there.
The reptile in pregunta was Michael’s eight-foot boa constrictor, Muscles. For más than an hour, Muscles lay perfectly balanced on a banister beside me, head erect, beady eyes fixed on the small veins doubtless throbbing in my throat. Michael set him there when I declined to have Muscles lounge around my torso. It seemed a fair compromise.
Young Mike wasn’t being naughty. He explained it as an exercise in trust, and he was most convincing. If I was scared of snakes, he had a mortal dread of reporters – and maybe we should both get over it. Michael hadn’t done an interview in years without one of his sisters screening questions. And in the nearly ten years since our remarkable sessions in late ’82 (conducted as he was finishing Thriller), he has never again done an interview of this depth. Not that things went badly. It just was . . . hard.
Michael shocked everyone – his family, his management and his record company – por deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a calle whack. His corduroys were dirty and rumpled; the scuffed dress oxfords were untied. No socks. No makeup. His hospitality was touchingly inept; having run out of the proffered lemonade, he filled the other half of my glass with warm Hawaiian Punch. There was no comida in the refrigerator, just juice. He explained that he was camping out there while his manse on Hayvenhurst was being rebuilt. But as she breezed through to her bedroom upstairs, sister Janet announced that he lived like a beggar, all the time; never ate except for some old lechuga leaves; wore raggedy-ass clothes. A disgrace . . .
“Right,” big brother shot back as she climbed the stairs. “At least I don’t have a booty like YOURS.”
Ten minutos into it, I could see his point. As he explained the té party of garden statuary around his coffee mesa, tabla – including a narciso figure named Michael – I could hear how it would read. It nearly made me bawl. He was trying so damned hard.
We did agree to leave one part of our conversation out of the story, for his protection at the time. It came up as we sat in the condo dining room, and I noticed the school portrait of a young black woman tucked into the frame of an etching. The foto was one of the few personal touches in the place. The face looked like any .
“That’s the real Billie Jean,” Michael said. Quincy Jones had just played that cut for me in the studio; I knew the song was about a woman accusing the singer of fathering her child – which was what this woman’s letters insisted. Michael explained that he put the foto she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He dicho she’d just sent him a gun in the mail with detailed instructions on killing himself. In a barely audible voice, Michael explained that the police had told him the gun was rigged to fuego backward into the person doing the shooting. Later his mother would tell me that the woman was in an institution, under psychiatric care. When I saw the “Billie Jean” video a few months later – all disappearing tigres and pinpoint choreography – I kept seeing some girl in a green hospital gown.
“You deal with it,” Michael had told me. “You just deal.”
Over the siguiente couple of days, Michael continued to deal with me, gamely, politely and with increasing humor. Janet shook her head in warning as he offered to drive us over for a tour of his house.
“Ray Charles drives better,” she cracked.
Strapped into his oro Camaro, I found myself longing for the relative safety of Muscle’s fond embrace. The motor skills were there, but Michael admitted that concentration was a problem. Horns were still honking at us as we pulled into the drive of the magic kingdom he was building for himself.
“You want go out tonight?”
Another surprise. Michael was going to a slam-jam queen concierto at the I.A. Forum. He wouldn’t mind the company. He felt he had to go. Freddie (the late Mr. Mercury, who died of AIDS in November 1991) had been calling him all week. He really should. . . .
Dusk was falling as we left for the show, Michael and his bodyguard Bill Bray walking point through the condo shrubbery toward a waiting limo. I thought they were being a bit silly – this was months before he hit monster status with Thriller. But they sensed the girls before I heard o saw them, made a dash to the car as a spiky red tangle of Lee press-on nails drummed against the windows.
“Lock it down!” Michael yelled to me, pointing to a panel at my knees. Limo savvy as I am, I hit the skylight button. Before it was half-open, arms reached in, clawing blindly.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. The keening drew blue-haired condo dwellers peering from behind their Levelers. Bray was twisting back from the front seat, prying fingers with surprising gentleness. Michael was helpless with giggles. I was flat scared, looking for Billie Jean in those contorted faces stuck against the windows.
When at last we pulled away, I turned to look at Michael. He had “dressed” for this public evening in jeans and a turquoise terry blazer, black loafers and just a tinge of blusher. This precept Michael looked great – healthy, handsome and robustly African American.
We stopped to pick up Michael’s one true friend – a blond teenage skier who was then his partner in Jehovah’s Witness fieldwork – and just as much of a lost Boy. When Bray piloted us into Mercury’s dressing room, the boys shrank back until fib Freddie bounded over like a dizzy rottweiler and damn near crushed tiny Mike in a hug. They fell against a big el maletero, tronco that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A oro football casco fell out and came to rest on the mountain of cups.
“Rock & roll’s a man’s job, little brother,” Freddie thundered. Michael smiled and wanted to know if his host had really spent his last birthday hanging naked from a chandelier. The skier blushed. We all had a swell time until Freddie’s trainer called him over for a little preperformance spine cracking.
As it turned out, we didn’t see much of the concert. Things got too spooky again once Michael was recognized in the beery dark. Hands, notes, eyes, surrounded us. When an unidentifiable liquid began raining on our heads, Bray stood up. “That’s it. We’re gone.”
We spent más time together, in the studio with Quincy Jones, rambling through Michael’s unfinished pleasure dome and visiting his menagerie. Toward the end, while we were bottle feeding his twin fawns, he turned suddenly and looked me in the eyes. Finally.
“You know something? You’re no better than I am. I mean, you’re just as sneaky.”
“How do tu figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure tu do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. tu need to perform, too. But when you’re done, tu can run away and hide. Nobody’s after you.”
Michael had me there, dead to rights. He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Believe me when I tell tu – don’t know how lucky tu are.”
__________________
The reptile in pregunta was Michael’s eight-foot boa constrictor, Muscles. For más than an hour, Muscles lay perfectly balanced on a banister beside me, head erect, beady eyes fixed on the small veins doubtless throbbing in my throat. Michael set him there when I declined to have Muscles lounge around my torso. It seemed a fair compromise.
Young Mike wasn’t being naughty. He explained it as an exercise in trust, and he was most convincing. If I was scared of snakes, he had a mortal dread of reporters – and maybe we should both get over it. Michael hadn’t done an interview in years without one of his sisters screening questions. And in the nearly ten years since our remarkable sessions in late ’82 (conducted as he was finishing Thriller), he has never again done an interview of this depth. Not that things went badly. It just was . . . hard.
Michael shocked everyone – his family, his management and his record company – por deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a calle whack. His corduroys were dirty and rumpled; the scuffed dress oxfords were untied. No socks. No makeup. His hospitality was touchingly inept; having run out of the proffered lemonade, he filled the other half of my glass with warm Hawaiian Punch. There was no comida in the refrigerator, just juice. He explained that he was camping out there while his manse on Hayvenhurst was being rebuilt. But as she breezed through to her bedroom upstairs, sister Janet announced that he lived like a beggar, all the time; never ate except for some old lechuga leaves; wore raggedy-ass clothes. A disgrace . . .
“Right,” big brother shot back as she climbed the stairs. “At least I don’t have a booty like YOURS.”
Ten minutos into it, I could see his point. As he explained the té party of garden statuary around his coffee mesa, tabla – including a narciso figure named Michael – I could hear how it would read. It nearly made me bawl. He was trying so damned hard.
We did agree to leave one part of our conversation out of the story, for his protection at the time. It came up as we sat in the condo dining room, and I noticed the school portrait of a young black woman tucked into the frame of an etching. The foto was one of the few personal touches in the place. The face looked like any .
“That’s the real Billie Jean,” Michael said. Quincy Jones had just played that cut for me in the studio; I knew the song was about a woman accusing the singer of fathering her child – which was what this woman’s letters insisted. Michael explained that he put the foto she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He dicho she’d just sent him a gun in the mail with detailed instructions on killing himself. In a barely audible voice, Michael explained that the police had told him the gun was rigged to fuego backward into the person doing the shooting. Later his mother would tell me that the woman was in an institution, under psychiatric care. When I saw the “Billie Jean” video a few months later – all disappearing tigres and pinpoint choreography – I kept seeing some girl in a green hospital gown.
“You deal with it,” Michael had told me. “You just deal.”
Over the siguiente couple of days, Michael continued to deal with me, gamely, politely and with increasing humor. Janet shook her head in warning as he offered to drive us over for a tour of his house.
“Ray Charles drives better,” she cracked.
Strapped into his oro Camaro, I found myself longing for the relative safety of Muscle’s fond embrace. The motor skills were there, but Michael admitted that concentration was a problem. Horns were still honking at us as we pulled into the drive of the magic kingdom he was building for himself.
“You want go out tonight?”
Another surprise. Michael was going to a slam-jam queen concierto at the I.A. Forum. He wouldn’t mind the company. He felt he had to go. Freddie (the late Mr. Mercury, who died of AIDS in November 1991) had been calling him all week. He really should. . . .
Dusk was falling as we left for the show, Michael and his bodyguard Bill Bray walking point through the condo shrubbery toward a waiting limo. I thought they were being a bit silly – this was months before he hit monster status with Thriller. But they sensed the girls before I heard o saw them, made a dash to the car as a spiky red tangle of Lee press-on nails drummed against the windows.
“Lock it down!” Michael yelled to me, pointing to a panel at my knees. Limo savvy as I am, I hit the skylight button. Before it was half-open, arms reached in, clawing blindly.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. The keening drew blue-haired condo dwellers peering from behind their Levelers. Bray was twisting back from the front seat, prying fingers with surprising gentleness. Michael was helpless with giggles. I was flat scared, looking for Billie Jean in those contorted faces stuck against the windows.
When at last we pulled away, I turned to look at Michael. He had “dressed” for this public evening in jeans and a turquoise terry blazer, black loafers and just a tinge of blusher. This precept Michael looked great – healthy, handsome and robustly African American.
We stopped to pick up Michael’s one true friend – a blond teenage skier who was then his partner in Jehovah’s Witness fieldwork – and just as much of a lost Boy. When Bray piloted us into Mercury’s dressing room, the boys shrank back until fib Freddie bounded over like a dizzy rottweiler and damn near crushed tiny Mike in a hug. They fell against a big el maletero, tronco that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A oro football casco fell out and came to rest on the mountain of cups.
“Rock & roll’s a man’s job, little brother,” Freddie thundered. Michael smiled and wanted to know if his host had really spent his last birthday hanging naked from a chandelier. The skier blushed. We all had a swell time until Freddie’s trainer called him over for a little preperformance spine cracking.
As it turned out, we didn’t see much of the concert. Things got too spooky again once Michael was recognized in the beery dark. Hands, notes, eyes, surrounded us. When an unidentifiable liquid began raining on our heads, Bray stood up. “That’s it. We’re gone.”
We spent más time together, in the studio with Quincy Jones, rambling through Michael’s unfinished pleasure dome and visiting his menagerie. Toward the end, while we were bottle feeding his twin fawns, he turned suddenly and looked me in the eyes. Finally.
“You know something? You’re no better than I am. I mean, you’re just as sneaky.”
“How do tu figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure tu do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. tu need to perform, too. But when you’re done, tu can run away and hide. Nobody’s after you.”
Michael had me there, dead to rights. He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Believe me when I tell tu – don’t know how lucky tu are.”
__________________
Well...I haven't written this story in 4 months!!! But.. MJMusicRox, Inspired me to finish the siguiente chapter. ^_^ So, I think I will. There are 9 Chapters so far. So...If tu haven't read all the chapters...Maybe tu can read them? Tell me what tu think? Personally I didn't even think it was a good story. But some people dicho they liked it...Lol. I wrote it for fun. So...I'll re-read over all the other chapters...Because I don't remember all that happened. XD Kay...Bye! <3
~Mccala
p.s I have this thing on my computer now that checks the spelling...Less mistakes!
~Mccala
p.s I have this thing on my computer now that checks the spelling...Less mistakes!
August 29 came the birth of a boy
He would later fill the world with joy
The año was 1958
This boy was going to be something great
the years went por he learnt to sing and dance
Anyone who saw him was put in a trance
"He is fantastic" they would say real keen
Never such talent had been seen
As he grew older he became más beautiful
And everything he did was simply delightful
The man I speak of
The man I love
Was sent to us from up above
Michael Jackson is his name
Never will anyone have such fame
tu are my ángel I will amor tu FOREVER
My corazón will leave tu Michael NEVER×××××
He would later fill the world with joy
The año was 1958
This boy was going to be something great
the years went por he learnt to sing and dance
Anyone who saw him was put in a trance
"He is fantastic" they would say real keen
Never such talent had been seen
As he grew older he became más beautiful
And everything he did was simply delightful
The man I speak of
The man I love
Was sent to us from up above
Michael Jackson is his name
Never will anyone have such fame
tu are my ángel I will amor tu FOREVER
My corazón will leave tu Michael NEVER×××××
The inicial where Michael Jackson lived during his stint in Vegas is opening it's doors to fans for the FIRST TIME EVER tomorrow to commemorate the anniversary of MJ's death ... TMZ has learned.
A rep for the inicial tells us ... "the Estate will be opened to the public, for the first time, for only four hours for those who wish to pay their respects and to mourn his loss on this, the segundo Anniversary of [MJ's] passing, June 25, 2011."
The rep explains, "We will strive to give tu a glimpse into his private life and home; to allow tu to walk where he walked, to see what he saw, to breathe the same air that he breathed and…to be inspired."
We're told "strict security measures" will be in effect -- and water will be provided ... because it can get pretty hot in the desert. .
The rep adds, "Your messages of love, prayers, gifts and flores will be lovingly preserved in situs until Sunday."
A rep for the inicial tells us ... "the Estate will be opened to the public, for the first time, for only four hours for those who wish to pay their respects and to mourn his loss on this, the segundo Anniversary of [MJ's] passing, June 25, 2011."
The rep explains, "We will strive to give tu a glimpse into his private life and home; to allow tu to walk where he walked, to see what he saw, to breathe the same air that he breathed and…to be inspired."
We're told "strict security measures" will be in effect -- and water will be provided ... because it can get pretty hot in the desert. .
The rep adds, "Your messages of love, prayers, gifts and flores will be lovingly preserved in situs until Sunday."
We must give a helping hand
Whatever happen to our heroes
They must get another chance
(We can do it again)
We drove close, closer and closer
And even though we’re almost there
tu are all I need in my life
tu are all I dream here at night
Close your eyes imagine I’m taking tu away
Tonight
Come together all the people (we can do it now)
Here’s your chance to make it right (go, take a chance)
And even though we’re gettin’ close
We’re not there just yet
And even though we’re almost there
tu are all I need in my life
tu are all I dream here at night
Close your eyes imagine I’m taking tu away
Then one más time close your eyes
I’m always here to stay
(oh)
Tonight
(I’m always here)
(Oh I)
(I’m always here)
We can do it again
(I’m always here)
Blazing 'Cross The Evening Sky
Gone Too Soon
Like A Rainbow
Fading In The Twinkling Of An Eye
Gone Too Soon
Shiny And Sparkly
And Splendidly Bright
Here One Day
Gone One Night
Like The Loss Of Sunlight
On A Cloudy Afternoon
Gone Too Soon
Like A Castle
Built Upon A Sandy Beach
Gone Too Soon
Like A Perfect Flower
That Is Just Beyond Your Reach
Gone Too Soon
Born To Amuse, To Inspire, To Delight
Here One Day
Gone One Night
Like A Sunset
Dying With The Rising Of The Moon
Gone Too Soon
Gone Too Soon
The siguiente morning Isabella dicho " babby wake up baby wake up" michael wasnt waking up Hannah dicho " daddy wake up" Michael still didnt wake up then Isabella call bobby and she dicho " bobby u have to come over now!!!!!!" bobby dicho " ok" so then 5 mins later bobby walk in then Isabella dicho " bobby Michael aint waking up" bobby rush to michael and then michael roll over off the cama and michael dicho " what happen??" Isabella dicho " u wasnt waking up" Michael dicho " baby chili out iam fine dnt worry about me" Isabella dicho " i was worry baby : michael dicho " its ok" then kiss and Hannah dicho " daddy u ok" Michael dicho " yes Hannah ur dad is ok" then the rest of the they chilli out for the rest of the día the went to sleep. To be contuine
Gossip-from-friend-of-friend-of-coworker-of-occasional-tennis-player-buddy-of-guy-who-works-on-set-(how else does anything spread around Hollywood?) Department:
Harrison Ellenshaw (Disney special effects ace) reports that Michael’s buddy-buddying up to all the technical people on the shoot (much to their amusement). I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy and all, but it _ i_ s a little disconcerting. So Harry comes inicial and his kids are in an uproar; they can’t believe it! Seems that Michael Jackson called him up at inicial to just chat, tu know? Toss around some ethereal ideas and such. Left a message in his unmistakable tones on the answering machine. So his kids spend the rest of the evening calling all their friends and playing back Michael’s message from the answering machine.
Harrison Ellenshaw (Disney special effects ace) reports that Michael’s buddy-buddying up to all the technical people on the shoot (much to their amusement). I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy and all, but it _ i_ s a little disconcerting. So Harry comes inicial and his kids are in an uproar; they can’t believe it! Seems that Michael Jackson called him up at inicial to just chat, tu know? Toss around some ethereal ideas and such. Left a message in his unmistakable tones on the answering machine. So his kids spend the rest of the evening calling all their friends and playing back Michael’s message from the answering machine.
Hi, I'm Laura and I'm fan of Michael Jackson. I'm writting a story, of course fiction, of him. But, the problem is that is in spanish. But, don't worry cause the novel will be publisched this año o the next.
I left the link of the novel, ok?
link
I hope tu like it =)
The novel starts at June of 2010 and it will be continue at.. well más years later. There are a lot of characters of the novel, like Sara, George, Ory, Frui, Natalie, etc..
They travel a lot and make fun with simples things, and there are too a lot of mystery.
I left the link of the novel, ok?
link
I hope tu like it =)
The novel starts at June of 2010 and it will be continue at.. well más years later. There are a lot of characters of the novel, like Sara, George, Ory, Frui, Natalie, etc..
They travel a lot and make fun with simples things, and there are too a lot of mystery.