My seven-year-old twins wanted to know who Michael Jackson was.

Every time I flipped a channel on television, there was the name, the music, the ordinary people stumbling to say something intelligent and heartfelt about a stranger, to the somber, perfect face of another stranger with a microphone.  The kids were annoyed that I kept switching away from Nick to see if anyone was reporting actual news yet, or were they just talking about that guy again.

So, I decided to pull my growing, developing angels away from that idiot box....and gathered them around YouTube.

I Want You Back was immediately recognized as "that song from Daddy Daycare", my favorite Michael Jackson song, Smooth Criminal did nothing for them, and Don't Stop Till You Get Enough got Alex's head bopping, but prompted a lot of know-it-all rhetoric from Gio about green screens.

But the clip of MJ in his element, at the Motown event where he first showed off the moonwalk during Billie Jean, was magic.

It always is.

Alex was immediately trying, at once exuberant and frustrated and determined, slipping out of his shoes and all across the living room floor. 

Gio, the scientist, was down on his haunches, looking at Alex's ankles, then back at the screen, analyzing, asking questions, just trying to figure out how he got his feet to do that.

All evening, I'd been so annoyed at not hearing something new, I'd forgotten that this was all new to them.

Yes, yes, I'd rather hear more about Iran, and the cap-and-trade bill that is scary-close to passing (I'm turning off lights and ordering a new bus pass in anticipation) than see one more "celebrity" repeat what we already know.

But I'm glad to be reminded that YouTube has another purpose besides the weirdly desensitizing martyr-by-phone-camera videos. 

And as my kids gave up on the moonwalk, I was happy to show them Black or White and Thriller, and pull out the pictures of Daddy, circa 1984 (the year I was born, yikes) as a tow-headed ten-year-old in a red Michael Jackson jacket.

Fielding questions about the skin-color issue was not fun, and I found myself suddenly insanely concerned with Jackson's own three kids.  Yes, I know they're taken care of physically, someone in their nest will surely step in lest Gloria Allred should materialize with Dr. Phil and/or octomom in tow, and mostly I just feel sorry that whatever the word "Dad" has meant to them till now,  they'll never have again.  And they have probably totally missed out on the wonder of "discovering" the moonwalk.

So, yeah.

I apologize for clogging up a political site with my very entertainment-based first blog post.  (Yay me, first blog post!)

More political garbage next time, I promise!