Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

Normal anomalies

I'm quite the sucker for the story of the obscure individual who flies below the radar and, in the midst of their anonymity, does something that catches everyone's attention.  So it took me all of a few seconds to fall in love with this NPR story.

See, it's about two things that, more than likely, I will never experience.  On seemingly opposite ends of the spectrum, nonetheless.  On one end it's about $4 million.  I just can't get a grasp on that kind of money, you know?  Heck, I just finished paying the monthly bills last night and got that dense feeling in the pit of my stomach when I glanced at the remaining amount in the checkbook.  Yuck.  We're trying to figure out how to purchase a second car.  Four mil would go a long way in helping us do that - four million that I don't (and probably never will) have.  Because, you know, that is a friggin' TON of money.

On the other end of the spectrum, this NPR story is about homelessness, something else I can't fathom.  For all my years I've never had to worry about whether I'd have a roof over my head.  Well, I take that back.  There was a time about fifteen years ago when I was dating this girl whose father happened to be my landlord.  Let me strongly advise all of you: never date your landlord's offspring.  Nothing good can come from it.  When I broke up with her (which I had to do, long story) I seriously thought I was going to wake up the following morning and find an eviction notice plastered to my door.  That's if he didn't come in on his own and kick me out himself.  The guy was also my barber, too.  True story; I kid you not.

In all seriousness, I'm typing this blog as I'm sitting quite comfortably in my two-story, brick 2200-square foot home in Mayberry.  It's muggy and threatening rain outside, but it's 68 degrees and dry in here.  We just had the outside trim painted and the porch re-screened.  We are truly blessed.  The closest I ever get to homelessness is paying a visit to our local shelter in town or speaking with the man who stops by the church with eviction notice in hand (which he got because he's out of money, not because he broke up with his landlord's daughter).  Every day of my life I'm pretty much shielded from the roughly 3 million people in our country who have no place to call home (according to this study).

So the only thing I have in common with $4 million and homelessness is that I have very little in common with them.  I'm going to assume that the vast majority of you are with me on this, as the two rarely go hand-in-hand.  Unless, by chance, your name is Richard Walters.

Which brings us to the aforementioned NPR story.  See, Richard Walters, an honors Purdue grad and Marine, had his feet planted firmly at both ends of the spectrum.  As the NPR story chronicles, this man died two years ago as a homeless man who slept on the grounds of a local senior center.  He also left behind an estate of $4 million, all donated to various charities (including, as it turns out, NPR).

$4 million.  Homeless.  Does not compute.

Frankly, it's amazing to me that this story is amazing to me.  And if I'm honest with myself, I think this says a lot about our culture and the preconceptions we typically make.  Specifically: homeless people must not have any money, and millionaires must live in fancy homes.  I have to be careful about this; we all do.  Because none of us know the full story of anyone unless we actually take time to get to know them; to know where they're coming from and where they're heading then.  And even then we're only hitting the tip of the iceberg.

Here's my point: take a look at this picture to the left.  Go ahead, look at it.  Now - say you're strolling downtown one weekday afternoon and see this guy at the corner.  What are your initial thoughts?  Be honest now. Is he there because he got laid off from the factory down the street that closed?  Or is he simply lazy and playing the system?  Does he have some mental illness?  Or is he in his dire situation because of a string of bad luck that would knock any of us off our feet?  Most importantly, how do our assumptions about him affect our response to him - do we approach him to offer help, or do we cross the street and walk on the other side?

Here's another one: imagine you're cruising through the posh part of town and turn at the stop sign (which is color-coordinated with all the other signs in the development) to see this.  Quick, what are your first musings?  Do you try to guess what company its owner is CEO of, and whether your raided 401-K was used to finance it?  Is there a brand new, fully-loaded Lexus parked in one of its three garages?  And how many people have full-time jobs simply to keep up the appearance of this monstrosity? 

The harsh truth of all of this, of course, is that we really don't know the answer to any of these things. But that doesn't stop our assumptions from making sense to us.  People like Richard Walters, however, do not.  People who refuse to fall in line with our stereotypes seem strangely odd, a novelty that must be seen like that miniature horse or smallest woman at the county fair. 

I'm not saying Walters was right in what he did.  Personally I think the guy was crazy to not at least rent a one-bedroom and some basic furniture, you know?  But that's the thing: it's not really an issue of right and wrong.  Walters did what he did, and we're still talking about him two years after his death because of it.  Well, at least NPR and I are.

Here's a radical idea: maybe guys like this are the ones who really "get it" more than the rest of us.  Maybe we're the crazy ones for making the assumptions and choices we sometimes do.  And maybe this is a truth that will take us a long, long time to reconcile.  Ah, the joys of the journey!

(but seriously, though, never date the landlord's daughter.  I'm just saying...)

The Lure of the Waves

Believe me when I say that I love my life.  Every bit of it - my job, my family, the church I serve, playing music, teaching.  Love it all and wouldn't trade it for a thing. But there's a part of me that wouldn't mind a bit if I spent the remaining moments of my life among the waves.

A few days ago my family returned from a wonderful vacation week at the beach.  It was much, much needed.  Just to break out of the routine for a short time and hunker down with family among the sun, sand and surf is worth every minute of the drive down and back (which, incidentally, was aided tremendously by the DVD car player we bought a few years ago for moments like these.  Hands-down one of the best investments we've made as parents).

Our mornings were relaxed and slow-paced and involved a leisure breakfast, grinding/brewing coffee (which I'm convinced is a form of meditation), watching a little bit of the Tour de France on TV, and then lathering up the sunscreen.  We hit the beach mid-morning; and one of the first things we did was grab the bogey-board and head off into the water to ride some waves.

I must say there is something utterly thrilling, down to my bones, about those few seconds riding a wave - better yet, bodysurfing.  I learned how to surf sans board years ago from my father on the shores of Daytona Beach, where my family vacationed every summer.  I wish I could recall the exact words he used to indoctrinate my brother and I. Perhaps we learned simply by watching him do it, imitating as any son strives to do with his father. 

So I found myself getting in touch with something deep within me, something from my past, as I maneuvered the waves of Myrtle Beach last week.  I felt an odd sense of peace out there in the water, letting the waves carry me up and down until the right one came along.  It is an art form; how one positions themselves at just the right spot in the wave.  Too far back and it simply passes you by, leaving you to lament what could have been.  Too far in front and the full force of the wave crashes down on you, hurling your body to the ocean's bottom with brute force. 

You catch the wave best at its peak, right as the crest appears.  You extend your arms forward, close your eyes and let the wave do the rest.  If it's strong enough you can lift your head up and open your eyes, like the dude in the pic above (which, incidentally, is not me).  There's nothing quite like the sensation of your body slicing through the water.  It only lasts a few seconds and then you're ready to do it again. 

The thing is, things have changed somewhat over the years.  Not the waves, of course (they keep coming).  No, the thing that has changed is me - specifically, my role in this.  Because now I have two boys, one who appears to share the same passion for the surf that I do.  So I can't just run in and out of the waves on my own.  I've got a kid to help now, to keep an eye on.  To teach.  I did a lot more helping him than getting my own surf fix.  But there's a beauty to that as well; a father passing something along to his son, just as my father did to my brother and I.  It's a different kind of thrill - but a thrill nonetheless.

I love moments like this, when my past collides with my present - it's kind of like a wave, really.  The older I get, the more I have these kind of moments.  I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but I'll take it for what it's worth, and enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Wedding procession

There is something silly and juvenile and unorthodox - and utterly, completely joyful - about this:

Play like a Champion - Today and Always! (Guest blog)

(As I mentioned in my last post, Byron Wade is our guest blogger.  You can find out more about him here, but suffice to know that Byron is currently Vice-Moderator of the Presbyterian Church (USA) and was a classmate of mine in graduate school.  Thanks, Byron, for sharing your thoughts here.  You da man!)

**************************

One of the most significant athletic events of my life happened 16 years ago. It was my first semester at Presbyterian School of Christian Education (PSCE) in Richmond, VA and I was on the school’s intramural flag football team which was appropriately named the “Fighting Squirrels.” All of the theological schools in the Richmond Theological Consortium had teams – Baptist Theological School of Richmond (BTSR), School of Theology at Virginia Union (STVU) and three teams from Union Theological Seminary (now Union Presbyterian Seminary). The history of PSCE’s intramural team was pretty sad and to anyone’s knowledge they had never won the Calvin Bowl, which is the championship game. Our team was a ragtag crew but had some good athletes and our goal was to make the Calvin Bowl. We only had one loss during the regular season and that was to Union’s top team who spanked us pretty good. However we regrouped and made it to the Calvin Bowl where we met them again and this time we won! I remember that people were SO happy to see us win and we were proud of ourselves for that great accomplishment. No longer would we be look at as “that school across the Brook” (Brook Avenue separated PSCE and Union’s campus).

The 1993 PSCE “Fighting Squirrels”
CALVIN BOWN CHAMPS!

(That's me on the first row, far right.  Steve is next to me.  A crosseyed John Calvin looms overhead in approval)

Since that time many years have gone past and we still keep in touch and/or see each other from time to time and when we do, we always reminisce about being the Calvin Bowl Champions!

They say that participation in sports makes one better equipped to handle life’s challenges. All of are now a little older and are “weekend warriors” at best. Instead of football, we have other areas in life which presents challenges – work, family, etc. And those are much more difficult than the game we played all those years ago. However I do believe that our past experiences being champions helps us to cope with difficult situations and life’s challenges. We learn that through difficult times we can stick together when things are not going well. We can rely on God’s Holy Spirit to help when we feel that we cannot handle things on our own. We learn that when we do our best, God will do the rest. And we learn that if we were successful once we can do it again. I have learned much from that victory on that will help me the rest of my life.

As you reflect back on your own life – whether you were a champion or not - I hope that you will continue to “Play Like A Champion – Today and Always.” For if you do your best, things will work out.

***************************

Editor's note: The year after Byron left, our PSCE football team had t-shirts made up; something for the fans to wear, you see.  The pic to the right is the back of the shirt (and yes, the squirrel looks suspiciously like Disney's "Chip & Dale" character).   The scripture citation from Leviticus was most appropriate - however, we did leave off the second half of the verse, for obvious reasons: ".... and they shall bereave you of your children and destroy your livestock; they shall make you few in number, and your roads shall be deserted."  Because, you know, that would've been way too much to put on the back of a t-shirt. ;-)

Introducing tomorrow's guest blogger - a.k.a., "The Man"

Normally I wouldn't do a full blog post to introduce a guest blogger.  But with my good friend Byron Wade, currently Vice Moderator of the Presbyterian Church (USA), I couldn't resist.  So many good memories....

These days Byron is pastoring in Raleigh NC and spending some time traveling our country in the name of all things Presbyterian.  Along with Bruce Reyes-Chow, PC(USA) Moderator, the two represent a remarkable turn in our denomination to younger leadership.  Since our church is inextricably interconnected, there is great truth to the expression, "Being Presbyterian means never really having to say goodbye." I've had the pleasure of knowing, to various extents, most of this new leadership.  We're in good hands.

Bryon and I spent a year together at the Presbyterian School of Christian Education, which was later federated with Union Theological Seminary, which soon will be changing its name to Union Presbyterian Seminary.  Progress, one hopes.  Back then, PSCE was a two-year graduate school that specialized in preparing those wishing to enter Christian Education or Youth ministry.  Byron was there for a year's study in the midst of his M.Div work; I was entering as a first-year student. 

The two years I spent at PSCE were some of the best of my life, and it pains me to know that others will not have that kind of experience.  I made the best circle of friends I've ever had; and even though we keep in touch loosely in the midst of busy church work and family, I still consider them my closest colleagues.   I had the pleasure of studying alongside some of the best professors - like the late Isabel Rogers, whose student affectionately called "Dr. Izzie" (herself a former moderator, pictured to the right).  She and the rest of the faculty impacted a generation of educators in ways they'll never know.

From the moment I met Byron I knew we'd be good friends.  Byron has a fun-loving, friendly personality; and his smile and laugh are infectious.  I can't remember exactly when it started, but at some point one of us said to the other, You da man!  To which the other responded, No, you da man!  This went back and forth for the whole year - in fact, we're still carrying it on today via phone calls, Facebook messages, Tweets, you name it.  I keep on trying to convince him that being the vice-moderator of a denomination has him most deserving of the title; he, in turn, keeps suggesting otherwise.

Byron was also part of what turned out to be my greatest moment of sports glory, but I'll let him tell that story.  Suffice it has something to do with football, graduate school and albino squirrels.  They do exist, you know - white as a sheet.  Here's an actual picture to prove it:

See, told ya.

Anyway, all of this is a very long-winded way of saying that Byron will be a guest blogger on Thoughts & Musings, more than likely tomorrow.  And a heads-up to FPC Mount Airy folks - Byron will be with us in worship on Worldwide Communion Sunday, October 4th, so make sure you're there.

Feel free to subscribe to Byron's Vice-Moderator blog here, even if you're not lucky enough to be Presbyterian.  Byron has a lot of great insight into matters of the church and faith.  He's also a great guy and I'm grateful to count him as a good friend. 

I'm also grateful to say, without reservation that he is indeed THE MAN. That's it, Byron, sorry.  End of discussion. :-)

Inspiration....

This week I've spent my days at a church member's mountain cabin doing some sermon prep.  I started doing my "sermon retreat" three or four years ago - twice a year I pack up the car with a bunch of books and such and make myself at home in some "other" place for a week.  I do a lot of reading, studying, thinking, and outlining six months worth of sermons (scripture, title and some general reflections for later).  That way I'm a step ahead of the game when Monday rolls around and I've got just a few days before I step into the pulpit again. 

The place I worked out of this week is one of my favorites.  It's a 20-minute trip from my driveway, straight up the mountains right off the Blue Ridge Parkway just over the Virginia border. The close proximity allows me to go home every evening and faithfully fulfill my fatherly/husband duties. 

It's also got quite a view, which I must say comes in handy.  Say I'm sitting on the porch, doing my sermon planning thing, and suddenly get stumped - no ideas!  No need to panic.  All I do is back away from the laptop, close my eyes for a few seconds and then open them to see this:

So far, the sermonic well has yet to run dry.

What you're looking at, by the way, is a panoramic view of Surry County, NC.  Pilot Mountain is visible (you can see it better in the pic below), and my town of Mount Airy is in view as well (although harder to pick out).  Pictures, as well all know, rarely do the real thing justice - although this comes pretty darn close.

Here's another one:

(You can click on either of these for larger views, by the way.  I'd highly recommend this).

The organizational nut in me loves to come away from these weeks with six months worth of sermon outlines.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say that views like this were part of the lure as well.

Gotta go folks - time for more sermonic inspiration  ;-)

What Matters Most

I knew there was a reason we had our porch painted and re-screened last month - for moments just like this.  Saturday afternoon, everyone else taking naps or feigning sleep (end result - a strange and rare quiet); the sound of an afternoon summer shower falling on the trees that surround our backyard.  Aaaahhh.  I needed this, I really did.  It's been a week of ups and downs, and frankly, more downs than ups.

I turned a year older this past week.  If you care to know how much, check out this blog post I made a year ago and do the math.  There was something unique about last year's milestone and I wore it proudly, like a badge of honor.  Kind of like when you hit 18 and achieve "adulthood."  Of course, twelve months later the novelty wears off and you're just another year older.  So sure, I could've come at it in some positive light - blessed with another year and all that. And the family certainly helped with gifts, homemade cards and an incredible strawberry cake.  But honestly, the week I had made it difficult to fully embrace the joy of it all. 

Which leads to my next "downer,"  and it happened around noon on Monday, driving down Main Street in town, at around 35 mph.  Thankfully, no one was injured.  Even the guy's car that I hit showed very little damage.  The same could not be said, though, for my car.  Especially frustrating since the same thing happened two years ago.  And in both instances, the age of the car made repairing it not an option.

There is a powerful bond between a man, his automobile and the privilege of driving.  I've seen it in older men when their declining health makes sitting behind the wheel no longer an option, and the family has to take away the keys.  You can see it in their eyes; that a part of their independence and pride and dignity has been denied.  To some degree that's how I felt those first 48 hours sans car.  And perhaps that was a good thing; a healthy slice of humble pie, repulsive as its taste may have been.

Things continued to go down from there.  Note to self: don't bother walking to work early one morning in the hopes that no one will see you and realize, as you jaunt down Main Street in your office clothes and business bag, that you have no car.  It won't work (although I am grateful to Ben for giving me a lift the rest of the way). Even my birthday had its unsettling moment, as I was (and this is a true story) pulled over by the police because the tags on my rental car had expired.  The rental car!  The overwhelming relief I felt when I realized I wouldn't be held responsible still didn't make up for the sick feeling in my stomach the moment those blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror. 

Sometimes it's easy to get so overwhelmed by the all the muckiness around you that it gets a good grip on your spirit.  And that's when you need a perspective check - and for me, it was Friday.  The wounds from the week's mess were still tender as the family headed off on a hiking excursion - just the four of us.  It was exactly what the doctor ordered - just being with the wife and boys, seeing some cool waterfalls, marveling at the wonders of nature together.  Later that evening I was playing some tunes in Madison, NC for an Acoustic Blend gig. The place was packed and folks stayed until closing time at 10pm to hear our very last song.  That's when you know a gig is going well.

On the drive home I reflected on my lousy week and how humble pie, while sometimes necessary, often comes in portions too large for one's appetite.  I don't like feeling like I've let people down, and I don't like others being negatively affected by my actions.  At the same time I had a moment of clarity that I hope will stick with me long after this week is over.

And that is this: when you get right down to it, when you cut through all the muck that can get in the way, what matters most - to me at least - is my family and friends, my faith, and my music.  Those three, and the people and places and experiences that make them up, are what define me as a human being meandering around this planet.  They are what connect me to something outside myself.  Everything else is dressing - important dressing, sometimes expensive dressing (as my auto insurance agent reminded me this past week), but dressing nonetheless.  Family, friends, faith, music.  That pretty much sums it up.

I'm glad I've have some time to reflect on this as I'm sitting on the back porch listening to the rain make its journey from the heavens down to the earth.  Actually, the rain's starting to die down a bit, and the sun's peeking through.  Thank goodness the same can be said about this past week.  Time to soak up the sunshine and be thankful for the light and warmth of it all.

When memories no longer have structures to house them

Last week I got an email from my Dad with some downright depressing pictures.  Turns out they are tearing down my old elementary school and building a new one.  There was this huge open space behind the original building, and apparently that's where the new one is going.  All signs are pointing to it being open in time for the new school year this fall.

I attended Frances Lacy Elementary in Raleigh, NC from first through third grade, before they did some redistricting and sent the kids on my block to another school in town. Lacy was about a mile and a half up the street from our house; a true neighborhood school in inner-beltline Raleigh.  It sat at a main intersection in the area, which meant in addition to spending my weekdays there as a young'un, we'd pass it by frequently as we made our way around town - to the grocery store, the bank, the gas station.  It was a fixture in our neighborhood and a fixture in my life.  Back in my day it looked something like this (with a little more landscaping):

I have mixed feelings about them tearing down my school.  I know it's probably for the best - no telling how out-of-date the original facility was.  And given the way Raleigh continues to grow I'm sure enrollment had outgrown the building long ago.  But still - there's something about tearing down your school that just doesn't seem right, you know?  So what if it's a better use of space?  So what if the new playground will be state-of-the-art?  I rather liked the creaky old tire contraption that notoriously trapped kids and required a teacher's assistance to be extracted from its clutches.  I dug the metal monkey bars that wouldn't have a chance of meeting building code today.  I was all over the sandy, dusty kickball diamond (and really, is there any sport that screams "elementary school" more than kickball??) where we'd use leftover paper lunch bags for bases.  The incoming class will have brand-new stuff, but it won't have near the character of the old. 

The sad thing is that there will be no more trips down memory lane for me at the intersection of Ridge Road and Lake Boone Trail.  There's no outside structure to house the memories embedded deep within.  Instead I'll have to resurrect them on my own:

• First grade class in the north wing (far left in the picture above) and looking forward every day to story time because my teacher really knew how to read 'em.

• The lunchroom and the standard lunchroom aroma that, for some reason, always smelled like sloppy joes no matter what they were serving.

• One time in the lunchroom line, one of the cafeteria ladies motioning me over to very discreetly inform me that I needed to zip up my pants.  Oops.

• Having the lead in the first grade production of "The Little Gingerbread Boy."  I had lines memorized and everything.  My costume was made out of some brown fabric that kind of itched.  The media center was packed the night we put the show on.

• Cheating on a math quiz in third grade using a slide calculator I got out of a Trix cereal box.  True story.  You can read the whole thing here, if you want.  After that I learned my lesson and stopped eating sugary cereals.

• Walking down the long sidewalk from the car drop-off line to the main entrance every morning.  It looked just like the picture to the left - without the "Vote" signs, of course.

• Going to school for a few days with a patch over one of my eyes because I'd gotten some tiny piece of metal in it and had to keep it away from light.  Some kids took to calling me a pirate, which I understood to be a compliment.

• The stairs that ran down from the main lobby and classrooms to the lunchroom and out to the playground and open areas.  Nothing special about them, I just remember they were there.  Emphasis on "were."

• Years later in high school, our show choir's whirlwind day tour every December to a few area elementary schools to perform our standard set of Christmas songs. It was always like coming home when we'd go to Lacy.

I'm sure there are other things I'd remember if I thought hard about it.  The main thing is that I have memories of a place that doesn't exist anymore, and that's just weird.  There's something melancholy about that, even though I haven't been in the building in over 30 years, even though I don't live in the area or send my kids there.  There's something very strange knowing that a piece of my past has been bulldozed to the ground and hauled off to the landfill in large trucks.

I'm sure the new school (pictured below, with the old structure not yet torn down at the top left) will be absolutely gorgeous and wonderful, effectively educating a new generation of kids for life in the 21st century.  But it won't be the old school, and that's a shame.  I'm telling you, those kids are missing out.

Thinking about Michael

I remember where I was when Elvis died.  I was all of nine years old, in the car with mom and my brother one afternoon running errands.  We were at the intersection of Ridge Road and Lake Boone Trail, turning right, when the DJ announced it on the radio.  What I remember more than the news itself was the reaction it got out of my mom - an audible gasp, followed by a long period of silence.  There may have been a tear or two shed.  Mom loved Elvis - she'd seen him in concert, had a few of his albums.  It was a big deal for her.  It was a big deal for everyone.

I imagine one day we'll talk about the day Michael Jackson died in similar fashion.  For the record, I was at last week's youth conference engaged in all kinds of retreat fun - hanging out with the kids, doing energizers and feeding ten thousand or so people.  I didn't actually hear about his death until the following day. 

When I got home, though, I got a little more reflective.  It probably had something to do with the fact that every television network on the planet had quickly assembled their two-hour tribute.  I was reintroduced to his story - child prodigy who never really had a childhood, putting out solid music for decades, always surprising with his creative prowess.  There were the troubling stories too - of eccentric behavior, of the gaudy Neverland, of the children who would frequent his estate and the accusations that followed.  There was the eerie way his appearance changed over time: dark skin to light, facial features distorted, that horrible nose.  There was the very strange shotgun marriage to Priscilla Presley and that godawful awkward kiss at the MTV Music Awards.  There was the accident while filming the Pepsi commercial that apparently started him down the path of his addiction to prescription pain meds.

But through it all his talent and influence on our pop culture was undeniable, whether we wanted to admit it or not.  Which is why I did something a few days ago that I'd never done before - I bought some of his music.  I clicked the download button on itunes before I knew what I was doing.  Was it possible that I, Steve Lindsley, was actually purchasing some Michael Jackson?

The collection has it all, including stuff from the Jackson 5 days.  There were a handful of songs in there I didn't keep (every musician is entitled to a few duds), but most are songs I distinctly remember hearing for the first time on the radio or seeing the video for.  I listened to the collection in is entirety and found it took me places I hadn't been in a while.  It'd do the same for you too, I promise.  Just try not snapping your fingers to the strings and trumpet intro on Don't Stop Till You Get Enough.  Or not singing "Ma Ma Se Ma Ma Sa Ma Ma Coo Sa" at the end of Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'?  Or not smile when you hear Slash rip off his guitar riff on Black or White?  And I haven't even gotten to Billie Jean, Beat It, or the other eleven number one hits the guy had.

Say what you will about the guy, but the fact remains: Michael Jackson single-handedly changed the formula for pop music and how we listen to and understand music in our time.  He took the idea of a performing entertainer to a level not seen since, well, Elvis.  He also revolutionized the whole genre of the music video - before they were nothing more than the band holding instruments and air-guitaring the song.  Michael came along and used videos to tell a story - an odd story, perhaps, but a story nonetheless.  So call him a flake, a freak, or even something worse if you must.  Michael Jackson's influence on the music and culture of the late 20th century cannot be denied.  In no way will I ever be confused with a crazed fan, but I'd like to think I know talent when I hear and see it.

Someone I was talking with the other day referred to Michael Jackson as "the Elvis of our generation."  They also said that rarely does one appreciate the good you have until it's gone.  I'm inclined to think they were right on both counts.