The lost boy

“All this has happened before, and it will all happen again. But this time it happened in London. It happened on a quiet street in Bloomsbury. That corner house over there is the home of the Darling family. And Peter Pan chose this particular house because there were people here who believed in him…”

 

When you think of Michael Jackson, what comes to mind first? For me – it’s being a kid. It’s a song you sing and dance to with friends, a car ride, a guy you went to school with who knew all the right MJ moves. It’s doing the moonwalk at a skating rink birthday party. It’s a Halloween night after trick or treating when MTV is playing the “Thriller” video on repeat. 

Something surreal happened yesterday, and to say that it just happened ‘in the world of pop culture’ underestimates everything. The King of Pop is dead. And with Michael Jackson’s death, an entire generation has changed — my generation. The boy who never wanted to grow up…is making us all grow up a bit now. His melodies will still catch us just so, a youthful grin taking over our faces, but the music will never sound the same. He was innovative and influential, and he has inspired hundreds of artists. Michael was a legend even before his death. And in the wake of his untimely passing, he has become immortal. And now there’s a bittersweet feeling I can’t pinpoint. Is this what it felt like when we lost Elvis? And John Lennon? Music really does change us, doesn’t it? Picture him singing, and dancing… 

 

…in a fire engine red jacket on the dark streets where zombies sway, leather clad in pool halls and underground garages, in white shoes and a bow-tie on glowing sidewalks, in a line with 4 brothers, identical orange and yellow costume suits. Michael Jackson once told a reporter that if anyone wanted to know the truth, they should listen to his song “Childhood.” And that’s where he’ll remain now — in the corners of our minds where childhood lingers, the second star to the right…and straight on ’til morning. 

june bugs.

Heads up! This playlist functions like so: to play a song – press the 1st button, to pause it – the 2nd button, and to stop it – the 3rd. To move back and forth to the next track or previous track – press the last two buttons on the right. Hey! It’s your old friend, the boom box – you can handle it. 

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

So, I’ve created a so-called “summer mix.” It’s a collection of new tunes that mingle with a scattering of ’80s and ’90s songs. (There are 15 songs in total.) To clarify, Polaris was a music project created by the band Miracle Legion. The song is actually titled “Summerbaby” but “I Was Around” is more recognizable, and happened to be little Pete Wrigley’s favorite melody of all time. If you’re following this, you get a gold star in my book. Other songs worth mentioning, are “Doot Doot” by the obscure early ’80s band Freur, and my favorite Cake song, “Comfort Eagle.” Don’t be afraid of the Air song. It’s entirely creepy, and has an eerie Manhunter meets The Lost Boys vibe to it. But, yay, summer! 

‘Nostalgia’ is 1 year old.

Happy Birthday, Some Kind of Nostalgia! One year ago today, this blog was born. (The first article was about the former Nickelodeon Studios.) In honor of this day, I’ve decided to include an excerpt from a short story I wrote a few years ago. The idea centers around the memory of childhood, and you should expect nothing less from me. I rarely share my personal writing, so enjoy. 

(And yes, I made this candle. Thanks, Paintbrush!) 

“ We can’t help but look up, our eyes stretching as far as they can to stare into the sun, not because we need to understand what we see, but just because we have to feel it, and know that we like to be hot, or we don’t mind being cold.

I was born in the springtime, a season I can feel in my fingertips as it emerges – and I suddenly envision a bright blue sky, the glittery wrapping paper around a boxed present, paper plates and pizza, frilly party dresses with stockings and red patent leather shoes, the smell of smoke clouding your nostrils after you blow out the candles on a cake toppling over in frosting, pulling blades of grass across the palms of your hand, pigs in a blanket, and the sweet taste of ketchup. I can picture Mom with frosted blonde hair in loose curls, a dress the color of shades that remind you of ice cream, the beaming smile on my brothers and sister, and Dad waving through a large video camera, dark brown hair, and lightly tanned skin illuminated by the afternoon glow of a backyard celebration. 

Every parent forced their children to go to summer day camps. I never wanted to go. The yellow t-shirt with the cheery rainbow across the front was horrifying to me and the counselors were crude teenage girls who smelled like Aquanet. Mom would make me coat myself in sunscreen lotion early in the morning. That scent put knots in my stomach as the station wagon neared the building, and all I wanted was to digest the last hour of the afternoon. I favored the late summer . I’d sit up on the swing set sheltered by a bright yellow roof and a slide to let me escape honeybees and dragonflies. As I hummed along to melodies lost in my daydreams, the willow trees swayed with me, the light motion of their branches grazing my senses.

Summer offered tranquility on overly long, hot days that grip you with the scent of fresh cut grass and the sound of bicycle bells. On those days, you could tumble down hills to find sympathy in the ground and honesty in the clouds. When the heat began to recede, and the sun hid behind the tall chimneys, the light faded with the day. At dusk, the distinct smell of charcoal and fire hung in the air and the damp but refreshing feeling of the day stuck to the surface of your skin. Outside, the mosquito trapper rumbled and buzzed from across the street at the Shoomer’s house. We all hated that sound, but it had meaning to the summer. “