Chronicles of the Wayward Moot

WELCOME TO THE MOOT, oh world-wanderers and word-whisperers. After two years of Peace Corps. After 2,200 miles on the Pacific Crest Trail. What. Comes. Next?



A.)  Just the word Twitter drives me nuts.

B.)  I don't wanna be startin' somethin' but I can't help it:  I'm going off the wall with the bad desire to burn this disco out, so to speak.  The latest thriller on the news is that Michael Jackson, the venerable, vulnerable and enigmatic King of Pop died yesterday.  I suppose it's human nature that the media is working day and night to saturate the airwaves with his incredible but tragic story, but at some point they're going to beat it into the ground.  The excess is simply off the wall, says I.  Another part of me thinks that the glut of coverage can be pinned on just good friends from the entertainment industry doing what they can to jam Michaels's memory into all of us who loved his music so we remember the time when we could come together.  It's surely dangerous to look at yesterday's news and think of it in purely  black or white terms.  Who is it who can keep the faith when an unparalleled visionary is gone too soon, when the man in the mirror trying to heal the world is in the closet, hiding from that smooth criminal lurking within.  I can hear the countless fans the world over thinking, "Michael, the way you make me feel, I just can't stop loving you.  I hope that you are not alone wherever you are.  Smile and get on the floor so we can rock with you when we arrive."  Whatever happens, some will cry and some will be speechless, but nobody can be invincible forever.

There.  I paid my respects.  Now can we all just get over it?  Take care, Michael.  Hasta la pasta.


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