I’ve been getting a lot of calls from family members the last couple of days about the death of Michael Jackson.  Travis is the one who broke the news, with a TMZ link and a text: “You doing okay?  I know how you loved him.”

Oh, how I did love him.  I was 12 or 13.  I wish I had a picture of myself but just imagine a gangly girl with braces, a Brooks Brothers argyle vest, and a barely professional perm.  I had Michael Jackson posters, copies of candid Michael Jackson photos and about 25 little buttons with his face on them.  I shudder to think of it, but sometimes I wore them all on my shirt at the same time.

He was my first love.  Thriller truly thrilled me.  He was talented and charismatic.

Then he became a little weird.  I suppose it is hard to retain normalcy after being famous at such a young age.  I felt sorry for him, but he was weird enough, I don’t think he should have been allowed to have children.

I was watching CNN last night and I remembered Michael Jackson had slept in my childhood bed.  When I was 19, my parents sold our Lake Arrowhead house to Priscilla Presley.  She asked to buy some of our furniture, including the brass bed I grew up sleeping in.  The bed went into Lisa Marie’s bedroom.  She then married Michael Jackson and if her statements today are correct, he ended up sleeping there with her.

So, goodbye Michael.  A piece of my childhood is gone, but at least I still have Ricky Schroder.