A Salute To Captain EO

I was quietly working away at my desk on Thursday afternoon when my friend Dan, who sits just behind my desk, piped up loudly, "Hey, did you all know that Michael Jackson just died?" At first I scoffed, "Uh-uh, Dan, you're such a liar!," but checking the facts on the internet (repository of truth!) I discovered that Dan might actually be right. And then I witnessed sadly the ending of an era.

I won't even go into the weirdness that was Michael Jackson since, oh, the beginning of the nineties. No one needs to rehash what my sister Megan accurately described as a "decades-long car accident I couldn't tear my eyes from." It was the Michael of the eighties to whom I would like to pay homage today, thanks. We'll just pretend that the other Michael never really happened.

Like Megan has said on her blog, we knew all the lyrics to just about every song that played on Z100 in the mornings as Mom got ready for work and any time we were in the car. We could sing our hearts out to Whitney Houston, "Roxanne" by the Police (with no concept of what a "red light" actually was), any tune by Heart, and had an undying love for Billy Joel that we're convinced no one has experienced but us. Michael Jackson, with his incredible singing style that expressed angst, pent-up emotion bursting out in gasps and melodious screams; his mesmerizing dance moves that made it impossible to stand still; the incomparable (and inimitable) Moonwalk; and the matchless songs that could be done by no one but him were all a part of our pop-fueled childhood. In fact, some of my earliest memories - of going to Disneyland the summer we were five and seeing "Captain EO" in Tomorrowland - involve Michael Jackson. Megan especially loved Captain EO and Space Mountain, and I haven't gone on Space Mountain since or seen the other "futuristic" rides at Disneyland without remembering Michael, clad in white space-age moon boots, jacket, and glowing shirt, spinning and singing in a desperate attempt to win over the heart of an evil queen with terrifying claws.

How can anyone possibly hope to properly celebrate Halloween without the impeccable classic, "Thriller?" The creak of the door, the echo of footsteps, the rumbling, spooky voice of Vincent Price chilling your bones - all this speaks Halloween to me and Megan in a way that is unshakably sacred. I will never get to old to dance to "Thriller" and squeal in fearful delight as I watch the video over and over!

And who can resist the urge to dance and sing along to "Beat It" (and maybe jam along with some serious air guitar during that incredible solo break)? I ask you. Whoever can has a heart of stone, and no musical appreciation whatsoever. Michael Jackson was an artist that could never be copied - he was intensely unique, a mind-blowingly fantastic dancer and performer and a singer that could not be imitated or matched. Sure, he wore white socks with black shoes - major faux pas! - and I swear that after awhile his skin was whiter than mine (oops - I said I wouldn't go there), and sometimes the pelvic thrusting was a little too much for my pure and innocent mind, but he was everything the eighties were about - excess, emotion, dance, performance, giddiness, over-the-top expression, everything that my little heart thrilled to experience then and even now.

So Michael, even though you really creeped us out after awhile and even though your name is synonymous with everything icky and bizarre, I will always remember your innocent smile, your ability to make magic and dreamlike fantasies seem real and possible, your soulful and ecstatic voice and dance moves, and I will never, never be able to listen to your music without singing along at the top of my lungs and dancing my heart out.

Captain EO, we salute you!