A few weeks ago, I told you I was working on a piece for the Walkman's 30th anniversary (July 1, 1979). Due to one of life's curveballs, I was unable to get the story done on time. But I still wanted to do something; after all, I grew up with one of those suckers attached to my hip, orange 'phones snugly over ears. So I wrote a story that blended personal, pop-cultural, etc. Maybe it's a little too personal? I dunno. You be the judge. Here it is. Enjoy. 

Miley Cyrus.

Hooker boots.

The new ish of Elle magazine.

Ladies and gentlemen, here (and here) is your weekend gossip.

Am I outraged? Not really. She's a 16-year-old girl looking to cut the Disney apron strings. I have a feeling it's gonna get racier, too. Miley likes tizzying up the moral mouthpieces of America.

So did Britney.

In related news, I won't let Kid Lulu get earrings until she's 12.

Discuss.

I've never actually read an Archie comic, and yet I'm strangely obsessed with the Riverdale gang. Here's my question: How is there ALWAYS a crisp new Archie comic in the checkout line at my local grocery store? Seriously, it's like every week. Who's buying these things? They can't survive on just collectors, can they? Is there some sort of Jughead cult? And why am I so attracted to Betty? Is that healthy?

I'm starting to think something's going on, because sandy pop waif Colbie Caillat (she of the 2007 hit Bubbly) is hyping her new album (Breakthrough, out Aug. 25) on the cover of an upcoming Archie comic. We all know that Archie and Veronica are getting hitched soon; that was big news a few months ago. But in this ish, it's Betty, his ex, who brings Archie, who should be with Veronica, to a Colbie Caillat concert. The pop star pulls Arch onstage, and flirtation ensues. So basically, Archie is cheating on two chicks, which, to be totally honest, might be good for him. He needs to mix it up more.

Anyway, here's the cover of the Sept. 15 ish. And here's a story about it. I'm not sure if this is the best way to hype a new album, but it sure is clever, huh?

Hey gang, I heard the news about MJ when I was at home, totally preoccupied. For reasons I won't get into now, I wasn't going to come in. But come on, I had to say something, right? If only because Kid Lulu looooves Michael now. Here's my MJ appreciation for Friday's St. Pete Times. I'll talk to you soon.

His legacy will be as messy, as cluttered with oddities and accusations, as his life: a dark, spinning carnival ride we peeked at through our fingers. But whether you adored Michael Jackson throughout his 50 years — or left him after the Elephant Man’s bones or the tabloid horrors or the nose that became an electrical socket — this much is true:

History, as history tends to do with iconoclasts who provide great spinning flashes of joy, will remember the King of Pop well.

Like Elvis.

Like Sinatra.

In fact, it’s already happening.

You might recoil at this notion, and that’s fine, totally understandable. But you can’t deny that the kid — and he was always a kid, for better or worse — was incandescent, otherworldly, a black Fred Astaire who shattered sales records and racial barriers, especially those at MTV, the greatest pop cultural force of the 20th century. Birthed during cable television’s infancy, the music-video channel was primarily a vehicle for white artists. Then came 1983, and Billie Jean and Beat It and Thriller — the last being an album, a video, a zipperiffic fashion movement.

One white glove for all.

Much of pop music is disposable nowadays, not meant to last longer than a million downloads on iTunes. But Jackson’s music lasts. With the exception of Stevie Wonder, there’s never been a more prodigious pop-music wunderkind. He was the adorable dervish from Gary, Ind., the smiling runt who led the Jackson 5, which was not just the greatest boy band of all time, but a black boy band beloved by all races.

Jackson’s solo career started weak, and music-wise, it ended poorly. But in the middle there? Wow. Off the Wall, from 1979, was a big fat revolutionary hit, a beat-mad wake-up call, one of the great dance albums. 

And then, of course, Thriller, the best-selling album of all time, which would be an obituary starter for any person other than someone as complex as Michael Jackson. Thriller is ingrained in our DNA, and you can summon the street-strut beat of Billie Jean as easily as you can dial your own phone number. No need to go track-by-track on that one — there will be plenty of time for appreciation (and not-so-appreciation) in the days to come.

Then came August 1993, when it broke that the Los Angeles Police Department was investigating allegations that Jackson had molested a 13-year-old boy. Almost instantly, he went from Willy Wonka-esque freak — batty but benign — to a monster in Peter Pan’s clothing.

Over the next decade, there was a sense among the general populace that it wasn’t cool to praise Jackson — at least not out loud. But I was at more than a few clubs where, when the clock struck midnight, that stuttery beat of Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ would kick in, and people would smile and move and sing in the dark, willing to forgive — or at least forget — because it was irresistible, life-affirming even.

This brings us back to his legacy and its endurance. Jackson recently embarked on a comeback, or at least planned one. He sold out 50 shows in London’s giant O2 arena, and he sold that sucker out fast. His fans, a lot of fans, still cared — and this time, they cared out loud.

But it wasn’t just overseas. I live on a street with dozens of kids, ranging from toddlers to teens. A few months ago, at a pool party, one of them brought up Michael Jackson. I had the videos and the CDs, so I brought them over. Yes, I felt a little weird about it, and I sensed unease in a few of the parents, a sense of Is this okay? But the looks on the kids’ faces stopped that fast:

They were transfixed. None of them had been born in the ’80s; only a few of them had seen any part of the ’90s. But they watched the videos — especially that awesome zombie dance — over and over. As we were walking home, my 5-year-old daughter — who up to that point had defiantly refused to listen to anything her music-critic dad liked — turned to me and whispered: “Dad, do some girls think about being married to Michael Jackson?”

My daughter was smitten. And you know what? There was nothing wrong with that. She’ll eventually hear stories about Jackson, the good ones and the nightmares, but something tells me she’ll keep on dancing and loving him. And so will her children. Because Michael Jackson, the one history will remember best, was the very definition of alive.

Like Elvis. Like Sinatra.

Like Michael.

 
After all those years of nice, bright colors, Eastman Kodak Co. is discontinuing its oldest film stock -- Kodachrome, developed in 1935. Sales of Kodachrome represented less than 1 percent of the company's total take, and only one commercial lab in the world still processed it. Kodachrome will be spiked at the end of the year.

According to wire reports, Abraham Zapruder used Kodachrome in filming President John F. Kennedy's assassination. Photojournalist Steve McCurry's portrait of an Afghan refugee girl, shot on Kodachrome, appeared on the cover of National Geographic in 1985. At Kodak's request, McCurry will shoot one of the last rolls of Kodachrome film and donate the images to the George Eastman House museum in upstate Rochester.

Rhymin' Simon wrote his tribute to Kodachrome in 1973: When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all...

Look! Another contest!

Are you double-jointed? Triple-tongued? Can you juggle three chainsaws while milking a goat with your feet? If so, click on my face for your chance at fame and fortune!

(There are billboards of this going up around Tampa Bay. Please don't crash your car while getting lost in my eyes...or chins.)

(And yes, I'll put my name and likeness on anything.)