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 vraag was Michael’s eight-foot boa constrictor, Muscles. For meer 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 – door deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a straat 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 food 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 sla 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 minuten into it, I could see his point. As he explained the thee party of garden statuary around his coffee tafel, tabel – including a narcis, narcissus 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 zei 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 brand 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 tigers 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 volgende 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 goud 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 concert 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 of 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 romp, kofferbak that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A goud football helm 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 meer 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 u figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure u do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. u need to perform, too. But when you’re done, u 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 u – don’t know how lucky u are.”
__________________
The reptile in vraag was Michael’s eight-foot boa constrictor, Muscles. For meer 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 – door deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a straat 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 food 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 sla 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 minuten into it, I could see his point. As he explained the thee party of garden statuary around his coffee tafel, tabel – including a narcis, narcissus 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 zei 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 brand 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 tigers 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 volgende 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 goud 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 concert 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 of 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 romp, kofferbak that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A goud football helm 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 meer 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 u figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure u do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. u need to perform, too. But when you’re done, u 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 u – don’t know how lucky u are.”
__________________
No offense pls! Dont continue reading if u are a hater...
YEP! He's ALIVE! Just like u had read! Michael Jackson fake his death for some important reasons... And ''Soon and very soon, we are going to see the king''...again... If u believe about the hoax... u are so called a ''ARMY OF LOVE'' a.k.a ''beLIEver''!! Please beLIEve in me! Every single thing was a hoax!! This is not a joke... It's true..! Noticed the video clip after the credits in This Is It? He zei ''LET ME BREATHE IN MY OWN TIME THEN I WILL COME BACK IN. I HAVE TO BUTTON MY SHIRT, MY jas of WHATEVER IT IS. verplaats AROUND A LITTLE BIT. SNAP MY FINGERS MAYBE, THEN BAM!!!'' and the Gilda remake! And everything in This is It!!
People have different beliefs and I respect that... NO meer WAR! Heal The World... Remember, It's All For Love... <3
YEP! He's ALIVE! Just like u had read! Michael Jackson fake his death for some important reasons... And ''Soon and very soon, we are going to see the king''...again... If u believe about the hoax... u are so called a ''ARMY OF LOVE'' a.k.a ''beLIEver''!! Please beLIEve in me! Every single thing was a hoax!! This is not a joke... It's true..! Noticed the video clip after the credits in This Is It? He zei ''LET ME BREATHE IN MY OWN TIME THEN I WILL COME BACK IN. I HAVE TO BUTTON MY SHIRT, MY jas of WHATEVER IT IS. verplaats AROUND A LITTLE BIT. SNAP MY FINGERS MAYBE, THEN BAM!!!'' and the Gilda remake! And everything in This is It!!
People have different beliefs and I respect that... NO meer WAR! Heal The World... Remember, It's All For Love... <3
Ne-Yo, a self-described M.J. fanatic, does a wonderful job being true to himself without turning this into a corny carbon copy. I can see Jackson’s influence. But there’s no crotch-grabbing plagiarism. The smooth mid-tempo cut is the third single from the singer/songwriter’s forthcoming album, Libra Scale. Check out the video to see if Ne-Yo’s charming ways, wizardry, and smooth steps actually win the girl over after the jump.
See the video here:link
Caroline was at the office.. checking some files when the door knocked..
Caroline:"Come in"
It was her boyfriend.. she used to love his visits..
Caroline:"Hi Bernard.. how are u sweety?"
She got up and gave him a kiss
Caroline:"I have some fresh pasta at home.. want to eat avondeten, diner with me tonight?"
Bernard:"Emm.. I'm sorry Caroline.. I have lots of work today.. i have to go to work.."
Caroline:"Oh I see... Then I'll eat it myself.."
Bernard:"Now i have to go.. I hope u liked the visit hun"
Caroline:"Yes I did.. Cu.. Bye"
Bernard went away.. Caroline sat on her chair thinking. He never worked at night.. She was suspicious.. She didn't believe him.. What was she going to do?
Caroline:"Come in"
It was her boyfriend.. she used to love his visits..
Caroline:"Hi Bernard.. how are u sweety?"
She got up and gave him a kiss
Caroline:"I have some fresh pasta at home.. want to eat avondeten, diner with me tonight?"
Bernard:"Emm.. I'm sorry Caroline.. I have lots of work today.. i have to go to work.."
Caroline:"Oh I see... Then I'll eat it myself.."
Bernard:"Now i have to go.. I hope u liked the visit hun"
Caroline:"Yes I did.. Cu.. Bye"
Bernard went away.. Caroline sat on her chair thinking. He never worked at night.. She was suspicious.. She didn't believe him.. What was she going to do?
Katherine Jackson says she vividly remembers the first time she knew MJ would be a superstar -- and it all harkens back to the time baby Michael danced to the rhythm of an old washing machine.
According to Mama Jackson, the King of Pop-in-a-diaper danced to the rhythm of the family's old Maytag washing machine with "perfect timing" -- and she knew right then and there that her son was destined for greatness.
The video is all part of a longer interview from the website selling Katherine's book -- and we're told u can expect to see the whole thing in a big documentary about MJ's life.
According to Mama Jackson, the King of Pop-in-a-diaper danced to the rhythm of the family's old Maytag washing machine with "perfect timing" -- and she knew right then and there that her son was destined for greatness.
The video is all part of a longer interview from the website selling Katherine's book -- and we're told u can expect to see the whole thing in a big documentary about MJ's life.
I read in a magazine that Michaels's coffin was open and his body was gone. Do u think that this means he rose up and is coming into this world? of did someone take his body all for his/her own selfish goods? It all remains a mystery. Do u have what it takes to solve it? It all happened so soon... Died at fifty, somebody took Michael out of his expensive coffin, and now his pale, dead body is gone. No one knows where the person is keeping it. It could be you!!! If it is, u know you'll be caught, no doubt. So, I suggest that u 'fess up. It's all fact. I told a few people and they freaked out.
Write meer Gossip, (but all true)
GossipQueen
Write meer Gossip, (but all true)
GossipQueen
The first shipment of Katherine Jackson's coffee tafel, tabel book about Michael Jackson isn't exactly flying off the shelves in Gary, Indiana. In fact the boeken never even made it to the shelves, because they were stolen.
A rep from the publisher, Vintage Pop, tells TMZ they FedEx'd seven boxes of "Never Can Say Goodbye" to the home pagina of a Jackson family friend in Gary ... and they were supposed to end up for sale at the new MJ monument. But someone absolutely, positively wanted them so badly, they stal them right off the front steps of the house where they were left.
A rep from the publisher, Vintage Pop, tells TMZ they FedEx'd seven boxes of "Never Can Say Goodbye" to the home pagina of a Jackson family friend in Gary ... and they were supposed to end up for sale at the new MJ monument. But someone absolutely, positively wanted them so badly, they stal them right off the front steps of the house where they were left.
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by...
If u smile
With your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If u just...
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near
That's the time u must keep on trying
[ Find meer Lyrics on link ]
Smile, what's the use of crying
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If u just...
Smile, though your hart-, hart is aching
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by...
If u smile
Through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If u just smile...
That's the time u must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If u just smile
link