My dad has a knack for betting on the wrong technological horse. Our first VCR was a betamax, which he proudly brought home, (correctly) assessing it as far superior to VHS. He only gave up that ghost when we eventually couldn’t find a single store in town that rented beta. A Commodore 64 would be next, followed years later by a very cool, almost instantly obsolete LaserDisc player.

I mention this only on background for my earliest memory of Michael. My parents had a faux wood paneled stereo in their bedroom, featuring a turntable and another loser on the media landscape, an 8-track player. I would sit in front of that behemoth for hours, in ill-fitting cans collapsed over my ears, a cassette to 8-track adapter, playing and rewinding ‘Thriller’ over and again.

Later, in that same house, my younger brother and I would play ‘Bad’ on the new Sony boombox we somehow convinced a doting family member to gift to us. Anyone who had that cassette knows included in the liner notes were Michael sanctioned dance moves that aspiring pop stars, even unlikely white boys in the deep South, could practice. We put together more than a few routines that my mother patiently and lovingly edndured, crotch grabs and all. Later, I would squander otherwise beautiful summer days waiting for new video premiers and all day Michael marathons on MTV.

Eventually, I’d become culturally aware enough to realize that Michael Jackson was a phenomenon everyone knew about, pervasive as air, obvious if I hadn’t been blissfully ignorant to the fact that Mobile, Alabama wasn’t exactly cool. Coming of age, as I did, almost exactly as Michael was making headlines more for his personal life, I still loved the music, confused though I was about what kind of “statement” that made about an awkward teenager. At the same time I was discovering The Pixies, Nirvana and Dr. Dre, I was also listening to ‘Dangerous’ and even bought the HIStory double album, despite snearing looks from friends and too cool record store clerks. Even though I’ll laugh at the jokes at the man’s expense, and have to own up to the fact that ‘Bad’ is probably his last album worth listening to, I still dance (badly) to ‘Beat It’ and sing ‘PYT’ (badly) in the shower more than a grown man should. Because despite the fact that I will never, ever be cool, Michael helped me fake it.