outbox: remember the time
Dearest Mikey J,
Growing up in Indianapolis, Indiana during my formative years (yes, we were Hoosiers together, Mike!), I spent my ’90s childhood reveling in your genius (or at least idolizing my older brother Jolly, aka your number one fan). Jolly was obsessed with mimicking your moves and your voice- when he wasn’t devoting himself to 2Pac, naturally- and when he came home from school, my sister Ali and I would swiftly make our way to the TV room, where we’d join him, the youngest of the four boys in our family, in impromptu lip-syncing to “Beat It” and attempts at the robot and the moonwalk (big bro was actually quite impressive for a suburban white boy, as was noted by all his observers). We’d blast “Scream” and jump around the couches in awe-inspired revelry, enchanted by the beat and impossibly catchy melodies you explored. After watching your video for “Smooth Criminal,” we dangerously attempted your elegant floor-skimming lean, and by the time we heard “Man in the Mirror,” we considered you our own personal friend. When “Thriller” crept through the speakers or onto the television screen, little Al would either run to Mommy or cry in fright… such was the power of your imagination and work. I mean, really- we practically worshipped you.
