It’s Friday evening, a little more than 24 hours after Michael Jackson was pronounced dead in Los Angeles, and I am physically and emotionally exhausted from the loss. This is not a personal loss, mind you, as tempting as it is in these moments to take that tone—my extraordinary father died when I was eight, and I divorced my first love, and to compare this to either of those would be a lie of the highest order. No, I’m exhausted because our culture is starved for shared emotional experiences, and yesterday and today we fed. And because I’m a music journalist, and I work for Billboard magazine, which literally defined the metrics against which much of Michael’s enormous success has been and will be measured, which meant that last night was a blur of monumental chaos at my workplace. And lastly, because I was born in 1976, meaning that before I could even begin to articulate the slightest understanding of pop, soul, and performance genius, Michael was a god.

For the past, oh, ten to twenty years, most of my deliberate thoughts about Michael Jackson have revolved around the grotesque joke he has become–his preposterous physical transformation; his unconscionable alleged acts towards children; his bizarre public behavior in every form. But somehow, I was able to separate this extraterrestrial from the person I emulated when singing “I Want You Back” at elated karaoke sessions; the freedom fighter from countless viewings of Captain EO. These were not the same person. They WERE NOT. We’ve been having this conversation all along, yeah, but now we really have to man up and have it, because it’s That Time.

In the past 24 hours, people I love and respect have expressed disgust that such adoring tribute has been thrust upon a man who very likely inflicted sexual abuse on children—perhaps the worst evil a person can commit. I understand where these people are coming from. How can a few pop songs stand up for even a second against that? But at the same time, how is it that last night, when “Thriller” came across the jukebox at a bar, three of us simultaneously began dancing like zombies with a giddy enthusiasm? None of us have respected Michael Jackson as a contemporary musician or a moral human for years—where do we get off getting a high from his output? What kind of hypocrites are we?

But see, that’s just the thing. If I had been in that bar with those same people last week, and “Thriller” had come on, the exact. Same. Thing. Would have happened. Of this I have zero doubt. An entire generation of music lovers, probably two, has willfully colluded to allow Michael Jackson two distinct identities—that of ridiculous monster, and that of glorious pop royalty, because we cannot accept the alternative. We won’t relinquish the joy of hearing his unmatchable voice against that unrelenting rhythm; we can’t forget the awe of seeing him express emotions in song that no human of his age should have any concept of. It’s not wrong to remember him as a gift to the world, and it’s not wrong to hate him irreversibly for what he probably did. And while the people closest to Michael Jackson have to reconcile that he was one person, I do not. And I will appreciate that luxury and give thanks for it.

…Or, you know, because I was gone all day and sort of forgot. And because let’s face it, I’ve been slipping in my attention to a number of Day Old traditions, such as the cookie swap, quarterly poetry slam, and concept of regular posting. Anyway, I literally spent 8 hours both yesterday and today talking about almost nothing but parts of speech as part of a training, so my enthusiasm for adjectives is nearly depleted to absolute zero. The truth is that while I’m the first to admit that the idea itself is pretty lame, the execution had promise, so I still have a soft spot for the original holiday and its five exciting successive celebrations, so I encourage you to reminisce (even though several of them, I now realize, involve me apologizing for dropping the ball). At the moment the only adjectives I can think of are disinterested and uninterested, the distinction between which I actually had an organized, 15-minute group discussion about today. So, you can see what that might do to a person. Anyway, happy NAD.

Every time I start to grow weary of New York City, I will encounter something like this for no goddamned reason whatsoever, and remember why I’m here.

Don’t mind me, just testing out today’s sinister theory that website traffic can be increased by titling posts with slightly wrong song lyrics. And for the record, these lyrics would be much better.

You know you’ve crossed over some invisible border between youth and something else when your whole weekend is fucking MADE by the delivery of a set of recliners. Aaron and I started having recliner lust about two years ago, and finally broke down and put them on the Christmas list as the things we wanted more than anything on Earth. They weren’t in stock when we ordered them three weeks ago, but they finally arrived yesterday morning, and we have spent all weekend either reclining or saying things like “hey, you wanna go recline?” Anyway, as a result we had to move some stuff around and will be donating a loveseat to the Salvation Army (the only org that will come pick stuff up) on Tuesday–if you or someone you know would like a very nice comfortable blue loveseat, let us know before Tuesday and we’ll give it to you instead.

At the request of no one but my mother (click to enlarge):

I’m pretty pleased to report that the “short” list of 33 1/3 proposals that are still in the running was posted last night, and my “Flood” proposal is still kicking. There were two other proposals for “Flood” in the original list, and I only know that’s mine because I got a thumbs-up email, but whoever proposed “Lincoln” also survived so TMBG has two chances to represent (although I’m sure there is essentially no chance they will both get published, for diversity’s sake). Series editor David Barker managed to read 597 proposals in six weeks and cull them to 170, and I don’t envy him and his colleagues the task of now getting that down to 20-something for contract. Anyway, the list is still as varied as the original (like, Britney is still there, twice), confirming that people must have turned in some phenomenal proposals that recommended themselves far beyond the canon status of the proposed album. Really looking forward to seeing what comes out of it.

Even though I personally started reading comic books at the impressionable young age of 28, there is actually quite a substantial market of teenage girls for American (read: non-manga) comics and graphic novels, although it’s a little hard to figure out. Anyway, I wrote about it this week in Publishers Weekly, with the hook of an exclusive announcement about a forthcoming OGN from prolific children’s/YA author Jane Yolen. Give it a look-see if you are so inclined!

I’m on deadline right now, but I just wanted to wish you and yours a very happy New President Day. I’m not sure if it’s hit you yet, but go to Whitehouse.gov and maybe it will. And make sure to check out the speech on line if you didn’t get a chance to watch it live–despite being on deadline, I did slip out to a bar with some coworkers, and was duly impressed by how balls out Obama’s first speech as CiC was. And when I say “balls out,” I mean it can be summarized as so: “Hey, let’s all thank President Bush for his service. Now, we are all here today because we as Americans collectively decided that we were finished with this evil childish bullshit.” He did in fact use the word “childish” at one point, not-so-subtly referring to the previous administration. That Jon Favreau guy is pretty fierce.

Note: This post is an example of the world’s most egregious case of burying the lead, but it couldn’t be helped. Skip to the third and fourth paragraphs to bypass the wanking for some actual pertinent information.

When I was a sophomore in college, I applied for my school’s only selective major, public policy, and didn’t get in. The reasons were fairly straightforward—I was a B+-ish student in a school full of wiz-kids, and I hadn’t put in the effort to get to know any professors well enough to get a standout recommendation letter. I believe I asked my Spanish teacher, and she only drew the short straw because it was one of my better subjects and I’d had her for two semesters, which meant I was reasonably certain she knew my name. There was absolutely nothing about my application worthy of rising above the mid-point in the stack of hundreds. I knew the rejection was completely just, even if my disappointment was fierce (and even that wouldn’t have been as bad if, on the same day, I hadn’t also lost out on the solo to Depeche Mode’s “Somebody” in my a cappella group–just call me endlessly ambitious). Anyway, between the audition and the arrival of the decision letters, I went around yapping to anyone who would listen that that day would be either the best day of my year, the worst day, or somewhere in between. I had a real flair for nuance. And priorities.

At the same time, I had a friend who also applied to the public policy major, only I didn’t know this. He told everyone he was majoring in religion or economics or something, and only after he was accepted did he admit that he’d applied. This was mystifying to me. It never would have occurred to me to hide my hopes and dreams in order to protect myself from the potential of public failure. I needed moral support during the wait, and I sure as hell would need it if I failed, and if people were going to point and laugh and think less of me then what the hell was that about. Or maybe (probably), in addition to genuinely wanting the prize, I also wanted the attention of being in a contest, even if it meant losing.

The point is, I’ve always been a gambler with my pride, for reasons that are a mixture of ego, insecurity, and flat-out life’s-too-short-ness. So with that in mind, I figure there’s no reason not to tell you that on New Years Eve I submitted a proposal to Continuum’s 33 1/3 series on seminal albums to write a book about They Might Be Giants’ 1990 major label debut, “Flood”. If you know me at all, you probably know that I’ve written about the band multiple times, interviewed both Johns, quote them regularly, blah blah blah. While the band isn’t for everyone, I’m one of the millions of nerdy kids who found something special in their free-association brand of rock, and now they’ve expanded to yet another generation with their children’s music empire. I have some fun ideas to tell the story of the album in both words and pictures, and while the odds are way long (there are 597 proposals this time around for maybe 20 books—that’s about a 3% chance), I’m not too proud to fantasize about getting the opportunity.

Another reason I’m sharing this is that the series editors are very open about the process, and have a blog where they provide regular updates about proposals and titles. Yesterday editor David Barker published a list of all 597 proposals, and invites comments. I’m not campaigning—no amount of “We want Flood!!” is going to make my proposal any better. But I do encourage you to head over there and take a look at the list, which I think you will find intriguing, amazing and appalling at turns (but even the appalling bits could make flat-out amazing books). Put in your two cents about which books you’d like to read (and order a couple of the already published titles, some written by or pending from some incredibly talented friends), and if one of them genuinely happens to be “Flood,” then wonderful. You’ll notice there are three (possibly only two, confirmation pending) proposals for the album, so whether mine is the best, middling or dead worst I have no way of knowing. But it’s a wonderful series, and at the very least I hope I’ve introduced you to a new source of birthday presents for music-loving loved ones.

From a Shop Rite outlet on the Jersey shore: