Unless you have been living in a cave on Mars under a rock, you know that Michael Jackson died. Surprisingly I was shocked. Yeah I know he was sickly, I know he looked like death, but you just don't expect someone that famous, rich and young to just keel over. The rich and famous are supposed to have the best medical care, all the advantages of special meals, and high tech treatment. Plus, being lucky enough to be rich and famous should come with some sort of charm of long life. Hell, look at Keith Richards, that guy is practically pickled in his own dope juices, he falls out of trees, and he's still walking around.
The wife unit is devasted by Michael's death. Dev. As. Tated. She cried. Real, actual, wet tears. So this entire weekend was spent watching Michael Jackson videos, tribute specials on TV, and listening to old scratchy records. Yes, I said records. I had to drag the old turntable out of the basement where it's been happily collecting layers of dust so that the wife unit could listen to Michael on her old childhood records, "as he was meant to be enjoyed".
This evening however was even more fun-filled. The wife unit remembered that back when she was a toddler she had went to some Michael Jackson concert. Thus began the "quest for ticket stubs". The wife unit read on some website that Jackson memorabilia was worth tons of cash now. So the wife unit immediately begun having alternating fantasies of either selling the ticket stubs for big wads of cash or rubbing the stubs over her naked body - or both in no necessary order. So we looked. And looked. And looked. 2 hours later, and several attacks by dust bunnies later, she finally gave up.
