Two people who were never connected in life, now connected in death.
I never met Farrah. I wish I had. Seeing her in her latter days bereft of her famous mane of hair would seem to reinforce the notion that fate can be ironically cruel. On the other hand, I did meet Michael Jackson. Well, “meet” is a bit strong. “Encounter” would be more accurate, and it was one of the strangest experiences I’ve had in my rather strange life.
I was walking around Disneyland. I was by myself, which probably means that it was after the San Diego Comicon. I was at the far end of Main Street near the Magic Castle, and I saw what looked like the wife of a sultan coming toward me. Very tall, swathed from head to toe in robes, with only the eyes visible. She was bracketed by four Disney security guards: guys dressed in black suits with Disney name tags. Her gaze was darting around; she looked nervous. Also, for some reason, the eyes looked vaguely familiar. And there was just something…odd…about the way she moved. She didn’t actually seem to walk so much as glide. The only other part of her body that was visible were her hands. They looked rather large for a woman, the fingers tapered, the skin pale.
I put it together in about three seconds and, as I passed, I said just loudly enough to be heard, “Nice disguise, Michael.” Michael Jackson’s head snapped around, the eyes crinkled slightly as we made eye contact, and I heard a very soft chuckle even as he kept going. Later on I happened to encounter another Disney security guy who wasn’t among the force I’d seen earlier, and I said, “Excuse me…I was just wondering. Earlier today I saw what appeared to be a robed woman walking around, except was that Michael–?” “Jackson, yeah, that was him,” said the guard.
My bet is that he could have walked around wearing a t-shirt, jeans, a baseball cap and sunglasses, and people would have thought, “Check out the Michael Jackson impersonator.”
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