When Songs in the Key of My Life was published in 2007 one of the recurring questions asked by readers was “Where’s Prince?” Try as I might I couldn’t conceive of a Prince memory worth writing. It is no coincidence then after setting out to dedicate yesterday to Prince on my blog as a way of celebrating the 25th anniversary of his landmark album Purple Rain, Michael Jackson would choose yesterday as the day to answer the call to home.

Unlike Prince, there were no shortage of Michael Jackson stories. Like many young men who came of age in the 80s, I spent countless hours entertaining myself, friends and family with a variety of Michael Jackson routines. Failed attempts at doing Michael’s famous toe-stand, moon walks that were more like moon drags, and blisters from doing barefoot spins on my family’s shag carpet were as synonymous with my childhood as cracker jacks and baseball.

Those early years spent trying to replicate Michael’s moves was my way of honoring this nation’s “ballet soul rebel.”

To wit, I will always remember Michael as the man who danced like Fred Astaire, sung like Jackie Wilson, had the suave good looks of a young Sam Cooke and dressed like Liberace, all of which to say that his very existence was a performance in of itself.

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