document.write('
last night was a pristine end to our Santa Monica residency. my sincerest appreciation goes to those of you in attendance. see you on the return.
\x0aVH
\x0ai’ve been up 24 hours, partying with Oakland. the folks sold out Yoshi’s. wall to wall guys and dolls. i’m headed back to Los Angeles/Santa Monica. Zanzibar, if ya’ll do it like you did last week i might have to jump off the stage into a James Brown split on the floor.
\x0a* the after party is at Angels (25th and Wilshire). tapas and mojitos and torches on the piano. VH
\x0aget your clothes out of the cleaners.
\x0aget your hair done early.
\x0awe’re playin’ @8. don’t be late.
\x0a‘cause you gets no repeat. you gets no delay.
\x0athe band is smashin’! (if i do say so, myself)
\x0asee you then!
\x0aVH
\x0aLOS ANGELES/SANTA MONICA! i’ll see ya’ll tomorrow night! Zanzibar! no canned goods. just clunkers and car keys, please. VH
\x0a
\x0a \x0a \x0a
\x0a \x0a \x0a the stress of rhythm
\x0a\x0athe young mother’s hand hardly registered the sensation of the drip of condensation from her drink when the music started. the Jacksons were on stage. the mother sat with her five-year-old son — who had been, at nearly all times previously, unaffected. this evening held the greatest potential to reach him. by the end of the first song she noticed the boy wasn’t moving to the music like the rest of the arena; he was, in fact, encased in ice with the rhythm, as if an entangled youth. sensing the impact upon him, the mother was satisfied, but as she settled in for the rest of the show, the pounding of hertz pushed through the bottom of the boy’s seat and drove him toward the stage to the source of its power. between sliding under and around soft limbs, the child jumped to see the lead singer under the lights. “he knows i’m coming,” he thought. when he reached the pit of the audience — where the kick drum hit his chest hardest — he exploded; he jerked and tried to break his own backbone. he climbed into the throat of the beat and wrestled it to the ground. spinning his legs and splitting his legs just like the young man on stage. the audience pressed themselves together and left a canyon for the freshest dancer in the room to fan his body parts. the large formation allowed for an exhausted Michael Jackson to point joyfully to a reason to rest and ended a mother’s frantic search. only eyeing her son from the rim of the audience’s circle — because she was at once relieved to find him and afraid to touch him while he was in this trance – granted a quality to the moment.
\x0aa rare example of all the wonderful and awful things that can happen when what you were born to do changes lives
\x0a
\x0a \x0a \x0a
\x0a \x0a \x0a