On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

The Jacksons' Victory Tour. 1984. Houston. I was there as I had been for every other time Michael Jackson performed within 50 miles of my childhood home. Mike waved to me that night. I'm not a screamer. Never have I been an overly demonstrative person. If I get loud, it's because I'm excited not because I'm obnoxious. So that night, in my excited yet not overly demonstrative way, I got Michael Jackson's attention and he waved to me. And only me. Mattered not that our seats were so high above the stage that we had oxygen masks dangling from the rafters in case of a loss in pressure. He knew I was there and he acknowledged me for the love I had for him.

I feel that way when I read certain writers' work. Especially when I am going through a difficult time. I'll run across a passage or a poem or a funny story that was obviously written specifically for me in a specific situation. Matters not that the person knows nothing of my existence. But it's especially moving when a kindred spirit says exactly what I need to hear exactly when I need to hear it.

Thanks, Flood.