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.

To my chagrin, your most memorable performances were all accomplished well before my 1989 birth… not that that has prevented me from developing my own favorites, the foremost of which was at the twenty-fifth anniversary celebration of Motown, where you delivered the most stunning spectacle of talent with “Billie Jean.” Effortlessly suave and charming, you glided across the stage, debuting the moonwalk and your infamous crystal-encrusted white glove, clad in piles of sequins and your signature fedora, exposed sparkling socks, and leather loafers. The emotion emitted during the performance is absolutely infectious, the energy magnificently undeniable. The persona lighting up the event is the definition of a superstar. And that superstar spirit? It’s easily invaded nearly every facet of the fashion and entertainment industries since. Ali and I have realized we developed our own signature dance moves from watching your pelvic thrusts, arm flinging, and obvious passion for the theatrical… we certainly weren’t learning to shake it from Madonna. And your unforgettable influence is evident in nearly every artist working steadily today- Justin Timberlake’s smooth moves and Lady Gaga’s penchant for outlandish costumes didn’t originate from their own ideas, and Rihanna has surely learned to reinvent her style from your endless attention-grabbing get-ups. Speaking of which, those sequins! You revolutionized fashion with those pailettes, the glittering glove, and your penchant for embroidered jackets. Your warm embrace of Givenchy and Balmain in the past year caused such joy and ecstasy among the fashion elite that it seems the recent ’80s revival on the runways (super smatterings of sparkle, statement-making metallic leather, and sparkly band jackets) was perfectly timed with your would-be return to the stage in London… but now it seems to be a fitting memorial at the close of your illustrious life.

In recent years, the media and unappreciative fools have mocked you in the vain belief that by so doing they can undermine your startling influence and achievements, but who of any of us can be so hypocritical as to laugh at your quest for outer perfection when we are all so obsessed with it ourselves, that we’ll seemingly endure any number of surgical enhancements to artificially achieve such, adding on to other torturous habits deemed necessary to compete in a world of ageless, lacquered, and, let’s face it, plastic bobbleheads? I don’t blame you or think any less of you for your innate desire to fit in. What has always been of utmost importance is your overflowing talent- the songs you wrote literally light up dance floors and tempt even the shyest kids out of seclusion. Your lyrics have become so engrained in the cultural lexicon that PYT was a natural, organic choice for naming this website on high fashion and music- not only are Christian and I catering to “Pretty Young Things” as our readership, but you, as quite possibly the greatest entertainer and fashion pioneer of our time, embody the spirit of our site.

You may have struggled in an ongoing battle of loneliness, you loathed your looks into augmentation, and you’re sweet, sensitive heart was often overlooked by those of a more callous nature, but when I think of you, Michael- the instigator of the soundtrack to my childhood and the icon of a generation- I’ll smile at the sparkle of your falsetto squeals and melt at the smooth as silk tone of your vibrato, swoon at your shimmies and wonder at your limitless creativity. The stories you wrote, then dreamt up for an MTV-addicted population to watch in humbled amazement, are beyond compare… I think of your seduction of Iman in “Remember the Time,” tigers and ghetto-blaster wielding Macaulay Culkin in “Black or White,” and, of course, “Thriller”- the hallmark and definition of the ’80s. And that gleeful dancing displayed every time a DJ spins “Wanna Be Startin’ Something”? It’s more real and inherent than any fleeting “Sugar” or “Single Ladies” could produce, and will continue to incite riots in clubs around the world well after your funeral. I still get excited when I hear “Rock With You,” my heart never fails to skip a beat when I listen to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” and I’ll always emit a little giggle at the sound of “I Want You Back.” Forever and ever, Michael, you will be in my heart.

Your eternal adoring fan,

MJS

xxxxxxxxxxxxx