The Michael Jackson story has arguably been the most compelling of 2009 and more than once has caused me to rearrange my own writing schedule to help clarify various aspects of the iconic entertainer and philanthropist’s legacy. Towards that effort, I have written the following blogs, articles, and poems regarding Jackson with the most recent listed first:June 25, 2009. At that point, I sat other projects aside and began to write my various memories and interpretations of his life. I also began to chronicle as a Red Room and AuthorsDen author, and as the National African-American Art Examiner, the public and media’s responses to Jackson’s passing.

It is hard to imagine that books have survived a myriad of attempts to remove them from the human cultural landscape over the course of several centuries, and yet it may be that books will not emerge from the internet era unscathed. Yes, I am employing a double negative, because even now publishers are shedding authors and old business models like so much dead skin, and bookstores, even large chains like Borders, are closing stores right and left. Such draconian measures are a direct result of the unintended consequences the internet has created. Even dear old eBay, which prides itself as being the best place to sell anything under the sun, has lowered its listing fees in order to generate more product. The problem is, booksellers know that the readers aren’t buying.

This year for my Mother’s Day gift, my daughter treated me to a movie. We watched the new Star Trek.

As a teen, I grew up with the original show. My older brother was a science-fiction addict. One of his favorite authors was Robert Heinlein. Since I loved to read, I picked up these books and was introduced to the science-fiction world. So when Star Trek hit the air waves, my brother was hooked and I watched along with him.

Dad, however, would almost always turn the channel. This meant I didn’t watch every show, but I saw enough to know the characters and to develop a keen interest.

“I don’t want to see no attitude!”

That order was given countless times by Mom when I grew up. We kids displayed our attitudes toward being disciplined with either a scowl, pouty lip, or—though, rarely–tears of repentance. But the one in particular that Mom meant was when we sassed back. That kind of attitude usually produced a ready switch in her hand that she swatted against our fannies.