My first album was Thriller.
My second album was Bad.
My third album was Hangin’ Tough.

Two out of three? Not bad.

I learned that Michael Jackson had passed away just as the bus that takes me on my evening commute dipped below street level in Harvard Square. The woman sitting in front of me was on the phone when she gasped and said, “Michael Jackson what?” When she heard, she turned around and saw my quizzical expression.

“Michael Jackson died.”

Woah. That’s not what I’d expected to hear when I woke up on a Thursday morning. Farrah Fawcett? That was unfortunate, but we were anticipating it. This one was a random kick to the gut.

It is strange, thinking that people will grow up not having the experience of following MJ’s musical progression. I missed the beginning of it, but I remember seeing “Smooth Criminal” (the way I choose to think of him) for the first time and I certainly recall sitting with my family as we watched the “Black or White” video during its premiere.

His life was twisted, but that art was hot. I am saddened by the loss of a revolutionary artist.

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