City Wendy

Unfiltered

This is such a 1st world whine, but I don't wanna wait 5 more weeks to go on my honeymoon. I want to go now. I mean, it makes sense that we're waiting until September — it's too hot in Spain and Portugal right now, too touristy, and everyone pretty much closes shop for the entire month of August there — but still, it doesn't seem right to get married and then go back to your regular ol' boring routine right away. I need a filter for the newness. I need a place to sit and think and bask for a little bit.

My friend Chad's in New Zealand right now. He left a few days after the wedding and he'll be there for about 3 weeks studying the Maori art of story-telling. I looked up the time difference between Auckland, where I think he is at the moment — and New York and it's 16 hours. That means it's already after 7 AM tomorrow morning. I emailed Chad and asked if it's really green there like I imagine it to be. I told him I bought two kiwis at the farmers market today and thought of him. I wonder if he'll run into Jermaine and Bret while he's there.

I'm not used to wearing a wedding ring yet. Honestly, I don't think I ever really got used to wearing an engagement ring, and now I've got 2 bands of white gold around my finger and they're heavy. In the winter, my engagement ring never fit comfortably on my finger — it wobbled and twisted between my first and second knuckles, sometimes turning itself in a complete circle. In the summer, it sits perfectly still, never twisting, never moving. The wedding band holds it stiller, still, and together they feel like such a...presence.

Yeah, I need a honeymoon, I need a filter. I need to get lost in translation, sit in a world of foggy jetlag, get found again. I want to go far away somewhere and feel what it's like to see brand new stuff through a different lens. Will the same old stuff look different when I get back? Will I feel different when I get back? Will things keep moving forward? My biggest hope in marriage is that things always keep moving forward. Well, that's my biggest hope in life, really. So far, so good.

Looking Forward

Now that wedding stuff is just about over (we still have a reception in St. Louis this weekend with extended family who couldn't make it to NY), I'm turning my thoughts to other things on the horizon I'm looking forward to, including:

• The honeymoon! We leave for two weeks in Portugal and Spain in early September. I've never been anywhere special for my birthday, but this year I'll turn 33 in Lisbon. With my husband (still getting used to saying that...). Pretty special, I'd say.
• "Mad Man" Season 3. August 16th, bitches.
• Nailing a headstand. I continue to go to yoga 3-5 times a week and although I'm seeing definite improvement in my overall tone, I have yet to get anywhere close to mastering a headstand. Also, I've not learned how to chant without feeling like an asshole.
• My first August with Drew. I don't even mean my first August as his wife (still getting used to saying that, too) — I mean my first August with him ever. He was in China last year and the two years we were together before that, I still lived in Chicago. So, August in New York with Drew — makes me think of a line from a Vivian Gornick book in which she describes August in New York as the city being under siege. I wouldn't normally say this, but I'm looking forward to being under siege.
• Open houses. We've been talking about buying a place for the last few months but decided to wait until after the wedding before we really started looking. Now I find myself religiously scanning the Times' real estate section, daydreaming about a Brooklyn brownstone with a yard and a fireplace and an extra room or two for you-know-what. Guests, of course.
• Less rain.

I Do, We Did!

If you're ever at a point in life when you're debating between eloping or throwing a wedding, go with the latter. A week ago I'd have advised otherwise, but now on the other side of the affair, I can say wholeheartedly that throwing a wedding was the second best thing I've ever done. Marrying Drew was the first, of course. Throwing a wedding was also the most stressful thing I've ever done, too.

Oh my, was it stressful — especially that last week. Everyone says it will be — common sense says it will be, but Drew and I were both cocky enough to think we'd somehow be the first couple in the history of marriages for whom the last few days before the wedding would be a total breeze. But then I got sick — and I NEVER get sick — but I was sick-sick (even two days before the wedding), like up all night hacking and barfing and definitely not sleeping at all. And the weather sucked those last couple days before the wedding, too. There was a torrential downpour Thursday night and several out-of-town guests — including my sister — had their flights canceled and barely made it in at all. Even the morning of the wedding there were thunderstorms in the forecast, but luckily, everything worked out; I got better by Friday (thank God for antibiotics!) the rain never came that day, and just minutes before I walked down the garden aisle in Central Park, the clouds broke and the sun came out.

And remember all that anxiety about walking down the aisle? Unnecessary! It was fine. Better than fine. Being surrounded by the people you love most, walking towards the person you love best on a beautiful day in a lovely location? Nothing better. Some of the pre-aisle pressure was taken off when I realized I wasn't actually the star of the show. That honor went to our ring bearer and flower girl, Drew's (and now my!) niece and nephew. I don't think there's ever been a cuter sight than these two blondies holding hands and heading towards their daddy at the Chuppah. Little Dylan made it all the way, then turned around and ran back down the aisle yelling proudly at his mom: "I'm not scared!" Thanks to him, I wasn't either.

The Rabbi said some nice stuff, the Cantor (who sang at Drew's Bar Mitzvah) did some beautiful singing, we said our vows (I choked up over mine — the only time I got too teary — and ended up skipping half of them) and we were pronounced husband and wife at 12 noon exactly. Afterward, we boarded three buses and headed to Becco on 46th street. If you're ever planning an event under 100 people (we had 65) and looking for a great restaurant to hold it, I highly recommend Becco. They're fabulous to work with — totally accommodating, very reasonably priced, with excellent food, perfect service, and a "relaxed elegant" ambiance (we rented the back room, which had a mahogany wine wall and two big sky lights).

After the reception, Drew and I walked the 6 or so blocks back to our apartment down 9th avenue, me still holding my bouquet — which I made myself — and Drew carrying a few wedding gifts. We popped our heads in our favorite shop on the corner of our street and waved hello to the owners before heading into our apartment. We had the afternoon to ourselves, but at around 9 or so we kicked off an "after party." We'd spent the last couple of weeks decorating the rooftop, cleaning our place, talking menu with a friend who graciously — and skillfully — catered the affair as a gift to us. I haven't seen a single photo of the party yet, which is a shame because I really loved the dress I wore and want to see if it looked as good on as it did in my head.

I can't remember the last hour or so of the shindig, but the hours I do recall were fantastic. I loved seeing my Chicago friends mingling with our New York pals, watching people who hadn't seen each other in years get to catch up. Again, the rain held out, despite warnings of thunderstorms, and we were able to enjoy the roof, which was a great respite from the heat of our apartment (a 1-bedroom gets hot FAST when you pack 50 people in it). Anyhow, I woke up around 6 AM on my bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed, contacts still in, and my hair plastered to my face. I'm told I passed out around 2 AM, shortly after barfing in the toilet and telling Drew I loved being his wife. Klassy!

The rest of the weekend was great. We did a boat tour around the city with friends and family on Saturday evening and spent Sunday afternoon picnicking in Central Park with my Chicago peeps before they all headed back home. Oh! And after the boat tour on Saturday evening, the bunch of us took a stretch limo back to midtown because the cost ended up being about the same as what a few taxis would have been and we thought it'd be fun. We made several stops and my friends who got out at the Edison hotel said they were greeted by papparazi who thought they were part of J. Lo's big 40th birthday bash entourage that night. Apparently, the framed black and white photos of the hotel that usually line the walls of the ballroom were replaced with gigantic, ridiculous photos of Jenny from the block, one after another after another, and the staff spent three days decorating the place to her liking. Sounds like more work than throwing a wedding. Almost.

The weekend was finally capped with a wedding announcement in the Times, something we got a pretty big kick out of. And now Gawker is calling Drew "such an AIDEN." As I said on Twitter, he's much more of a Steve, really. And I'm glad as hell I married him.

The End!

*Photos (with the exception of the last one, which I took) were shot by various guests. We're still waiting for the professional pictures.

Til Death Do Us Part

The day was perfect! Story and more photos coming soon.

UPDATE: We have a wedding announcement in the Times today! Buy a paper or check it out online. The friend who is mentioned in the announcement — Marguerite, the one who set is up — is in the photo above. She's the one on the left smiling us on with her new husband at her side. She met her match shortly after introducing me to mine.

And In Health

It's two days until the wedding now. I slept better last night than I have in a week. I started taking antibiotics, I gargled with warm salt water, I ate two raw cloves of garlic with honey, I took Nyquil tablets before bed, I took your advice and now I do feel better. Not great, not yet, but I have two more days to go.

Yesterday, I picked up my dress from the dry cleaners and had a full "dress rehearsal" at home, complete with hair, makeup, shoes, accessories. I was happy with everything (even my hair!) except the dress. Suddenly, it seemed far too clingy, too thin, too damn see-through. The seams of my underthings were showing through, the cups of my bra runneth over a bit too obviously, every imperfection — every bulge and dimple of cellulite — seemed to mock me beneath the far-too-unforgiving fabric of my dress. I had a meltdown. I hyperventilated. I pulled the dress over my head and smeared lipstick all across the front of it. I frantically dabbed at it with soap and water. I made it worse. I sat on the floor and cried. And then I pulled myself together, took the dress back to the dry cleaners and headed to Saks to look for: a) another dress (I didn't find one) and b) other underthing options. I also took a Xanax.

I feel better this morning. Not great yet, but better. I've taken off work for the rest of the week. I'm getting a facial today and going to yoga. I'm enjoying a quiet morning before things get hectic again. I got 6 full hours of sleep last night! My parents arrive this evening and tonight we'll have dinner with Drew's family and everyone will meet for the first time. Tomorrow my friends arrive througout the day. I'll get flowers from the wholesale flower market and make my bouquet and centerpieces for the reception. I'll have a drink in the hotel bar where my friends are staying and we'll toast to my last night as a single lady. I'll spend the night in my sister's hotel room, and on Friday morning I'll wake up, get dressed, put a flower in my hair and go get married. It will be a happy day.

In Sickness

I'm sick, you guys. Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick. It started as a sore throat last week and lasted about 4 days before I dragged myself to a doctor. I don't think I'd gone to a doctor for a sore throat — or anything else other than a pap or routine physical — since college. But my throat wasn't just sore, it was on fire and hurt so bad, I hadn't been able to sleep in days and was worried I might have strep, and with a wedding less than a week away, I knew I had to get better fast.

So I saw a doctor and he said I was fine — just a red, raw throat was all, and he suggested Gatorade and rest. So, I guzzled Gatorade all damn day and actually felt well enough by the evening to trek out to Brooklyn for a BBQ. Aw, but by Sunday night, my sore throat turned into a nasty, wet, hacking cough and it's only gotten worse in the 36 hours since. Now my wedding is 3 days away and I still haven't gotten more than, like, 10 hours of sleep total in the last week. Ask Drew! I've kept the poor guy awake with my coughing and hacking and barfing for the last couple of nights. We're both so exhausted, I don't think either of us could tell you our middle names. Really! Ask me! I haven't a clue.

There's still rain in the forecast for Friday, but I don't even care anymore. I don't care about the nerves, the anxiety over walking down the aisle and saying my vows in front of everyone, the worry that my hair will look stupid. I just want to be well on my wedding day. So send some good vibes my way, would you?

Don't Make Me Over

I'm not much of a crafter, but there are several elements of my wedding that I am DIY-ing (or, I guess DIMyselfing, really). I couldn't be bothered with folding the invitations like origami cranes or making placecards out of, like, pressed hydrangeas or anything, but as a former floral designer I think I can handle making my own bouquet, Drew's boutonniere, and ten small centerpieces for the reception. I'm also taking a stab at doing my hair and makeup — I figure if I take care of that stuff on my own every day anyway, why can't I do it for my wedding day? But I figured a tutorial wouldn't hurt, so this past Friday afternoon, I stopped by Sephora for a little bridal makeover before purchasing some new makeup products for the occasion.

I took one look at the "makeup artist" I got paired with and knew things weren't going to go well at all. With her teased bags, navy blue eyeliner caked raccoon-style around her eyes, heavily-lined bright pink lips and matching long pink fingernails, and a crisp white dress shirt tucked into a pair of those Juicy Couture velour pants, she looked like a rejected extra from the Real Housewives of New Jersey. "Oh dear," I thought, "this is not going to be good." But how do you tactfully get out of such a situation? You can't very well say you want a makeover and then just suddenly change your mind when you find yourself face-to-face with a stylist who looks like she's 20 years too late for a starring role in "Heathers."

"So, you're getting marreeeeed?" she squealed when I told her why I was there.
"Yeah," I replied.
"OH MY GAWD! That's, like, SOOOO exciting!!!I love weddings — they're, like, my favorite thing! Are you so excited?"
"Yeah, I'm getting pretty excited."
"Are you gonna get married in a big church?"
"No," I said, "the wedding's in Central Park, actually."
"Ooooohh," she replied sympathetically like I'd just confessed my fiance was incarcerated and we were having the ceremony at his jailhouse, "Well, that's okay," she said patting my shoulder, "I'm sure it'll be just fine! Are you wearing a pretty dress at least?"
"Yeah, I think it's pretty. It's simple, you know. Not poofy or anything. It's from JCrew, but I got it on eBay."
"Oh." she said and quickly changed the subject. "What about a cake?"
"Actually, we're not going to have a wedding cake," I replied, "I mean, not a traditional one with, like, tiers and a topper and stuff. We'll just have an assortment of desserts and a small cannoli cake."
"Oh..." she said again, completely deflated, "How do your parents feel about all this?"
"I'm sorry?" I asked.
"Are your parents okay with this being....um, a uh, casual wedding?"
I then suggested we get started on my makeup so I could get it over with, pretend to like it, and get on with my life.

After she picked out some stuff according to my desire for a "natural" look, she took out a giant paint brush and —  I shit you not — literally starting painting makeup all over my face like she was the Bob Ross of makeup artists. Then, rather than pick a feature or something to complement me on like they always do on all those makeover shows, she started ranting about ugly I am — how I'm like one of the most hideous looking people she's ever had the displeasure of working with.

"It's very hard to work with your face," she said, furrowing her glossy brows, "because you're SO pale, but you have these really dark circles under your eyes...and you know, lots of freckles we need to cover up."
"You don't have to cover my freckles," I replied, "I don't mind them."
"They won't look good in photos," she said matter-of-factly, "And neither will your dry skin. Wow, it's really dry!! Do you do anything to care for it?"
"Well, I wear a lot of sunscreen." I replied, starting to feel a little defensive. "And I put on moisturizer and eye cream every night."
"Hmm," she said, unconvinced. "You have short eyebrows."
"What?" I asked.
"Your eyebrows," she said, "they're short. I mean, they just stop. Like halfway before they should stop. I'll do my best to fill them in, but I can't promise anything."
"Um, whatever." I said. "Do whatever. I don't care."
As she continued to work on making me look less like the monster I am, she turned the subject back to the wedding and how awful it's going to be.
"So, your parents really don't care that it's just going to be in a park and you're not wearing a nice dress?"
"Well...." I said, trying to figure out exactly how to reply to something like that, "my parents aren't like that."
"Are you going to have kids?" she asked. "I bet your parents are really ready for grandkids!"
"Yeah, I guess they'll enjoy being grandparents." I replied.
"I mean, you'll probably want to get started really soon, right? Because of your age?" she said.

Look, I know I don't look 18 anymore, and I know I'm not, like, a super model or anything, but at 32, I think I can still pass for mid to late 20's on a good day, and other than a few nasty internet trolls, no one else has ever accused me of being unfortunate looking, so I'm just not sure where all this was coming from, and frankly, I'd had enough.

"I think we're done here," I said to her.
"Oh, but we still have to do your lips!!" she said.
"No," I replied, "I'm good. My lips are good."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I've never been more sure about anything in my life actually."
"Okay," she said, "but you have to look in the mirror before you go! I swear, you look SO MUCH BETTER NOW!" she said. And then she handed me the mirror, and internet, if there was ever a time I wished I'd taken a photo to share with you, that was it. But I was so verklmept, so shocked by how OLD and TIRED I looked and how much like a boozy flight attendant who'd just gotten off a 17-hour flight across the Pacific, and so NOT like a fresh-faced, pretty bride, that I hightailed it out of there as quickly as I could, ran home and scrubbed my face raw.

Needless to say, I'll definitely be doing my own makeup on Friday. And yes, I think my parents are fine with it.

Things I'll Remember About The Summer I Got Married

With just 8 more days to go until the wedding, the final countdown is ON. I think the anxiety is starting to get to me, though. I haven't slept well the last couple of nights and this morning I woke up feeling like my throat had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. I also feel a little pukey, to which my mother, of course, would excitedly say: "Morning sickness?!" Well, yeah, but not that kind. It seems, instead, I have a serious case of The Nerves.

But I'm trying not to think about all the things that still have to be done in the next 8 days, or how the second group of musicians I've hired has now gone AWOL just like the first group and they aren't returning my emails or phone calls. And I'm trying not to think about the thunderstorms now forecasted for the wedding day and how, if we have to move things indoors, ugh, EVERYTHING WILL BE RUINED (except that little part about marrying the man I love — there's still that I guess).

So, I'm trying not to think about all that stuff, and trying, instead, to focus on the good things I'll remember about the summer I got married. Like, I'll remember how, starting around two months or so before the wedding, I'd wake up in the morning and say to Drew "Two more months until we get married!" and then "Eight more weeks!" and then "One more month!" and then, before we knew it, I was saying: "Ten more days until we're married!" And it came just as quickly as that and every day I got a little more excited (and nervous) and a little happier to be so excited. And in those final few days before we got married it seemed hard to remember a time before the excitement and before I knew Drew.

On the summer solstice, 5 weeks before the wedding, I took a free yoga class in Times Square and suddenly something clicked. I felt like maybe this was something that could ground me in New York and help me stay connected to myself in a harried city during a harried summer. So I joined a studio and started going to class four or five times a week and after three weeks, I felt different — stronger, calmer, a little less harried. Some of the stretches and the fluidity between poses reminded me of the ballet classes I took when I was a kid. I went to class after school four days a week for four years and I loved it. I would have kept doing it but I was getting to the age where girls had to decide to be serious about it or stop doing it altogether, and I didn't want to be serious about it — I just wanted to twirl from one side of a room to another a few times a week. So I quit.

Sometimes in the summer I got married, I would remember a time before I met Drew. I'd remember a lot actually, and sometimes I'd miss it, and sometimes I'd think of something and wish Drew could have been there, too, to remember and miss it with me. Mostly, though, I was glad to have my own history, something distinctly mine that I could share with Drew in stories and pictures and the people I kept. And I was glad to have a whole shared future to daydream about with him. We'd imagine the kids we'd have some day and the house we might buy and the projects we'd create. And never was fantasizing about my future as much fun as it was the summer I got married when everything was a blank canvas and I had the perfect person to paint it with.

God, I'm ready to get on with it.

Let This Be A Lesson To You

Patience has never been a virtue I've come close to embracing. Long waits for the subway, traffic, people who insist on stowing their carry-on bags on the plane before letting me pass by are all enough to make me reconsider the benefits of ever leaving my house. I'll be the first to skip into a men's bathroom if the line for the ladies room is even one person longer, and if I have to wait more than a minute or two for my check after I've finished a meal, my heavy sighs are audible five states over. Add my increasing stress levels in these final days before the wedding, and leaving the apartment is pretty much a recipe for disaster.

Take Tuesday, for example. Among the errands I had to run on Tuesday was exchaging a dress at Zara. I'd bought the dress the day before when I happened to notice a big "50% off" sign in the store window as I passed by on 5th Avenue. I haven't had time to do much shopping this summer and was in the market for some new sundresses, so I went inside to look around. I spotted a dress I liked that was marked down to an incredible 20 bucks, so I grabbed a size 'large' and after spotting more than 2 people in line for the dressing room, I shrugged my shoulders and headed straight to check-out. My reasoning, of course, was that I could always exchange the dress if I discovered at home it didn't fit, which in my unreasonable mind seemed like less work than actually waiting in line for 90 seconds to try it on first. Well I bought the dress, got it home, tried it on and sure enough, it was way too big. So I found myself at Zara again on Tuesday afternoon to exchange it.

This time the lines were even longer than they were the day before. Word must have spread about the big sale and loads of cute dresses for 20 bucks. The check-out line reached all the way to the front door! I made my way upstairs, found my dress in a smaller size and waited in line to try it on. In the dressing room, I was struck by genius. What if I made my exchange in there? Who would know? Who would care? I'd already paid for the dress. Why did I have to wait in line AGAIN to do what could easily be done in the privacy of my dressing room? I have things to do, people — I'm a busy person, I don't have time for lines! So I took the dress I'd bought the day before and slid it on the hanger to put back on the floor and folded the smaller sized dress into my bag to take home. No big deal! Done and done! Long line averted, I'm brilliant!!!

So, I'm making my way out the door of the store feeling pretty smug and everything when the sirens suddenly go off. Oh shit, I thought. I guess there's like a magnetic strip on the tag or something? I don't know — it's not like I'm a shop-lifter — I don't know how these things work. Fuck, I said under my breath. Okay, stay cool, stay cool. So, I stayed cool, and I kept right on walking as non-chalantly as I could, right across the street and down the block, the doorman at Zara yelling after me the whole time. "Miss!" he yelled, "Miss!" I sped-up a little and when I was pretty sure I was no longer in view of anyone at Zara, I just started booking down the street, finally making it home safely with my dress — the dress I DID pay for, so it was rightfully mine and definitely not stolen.

Yesterday morning, as I was getting dressed for the day, I made a terrible discovery. My new dress was still tagged with one of those plastic things on the side. Why hadn't I noticed it in the dressing room?? How was I going to get it off? I couldn't very well take it back to the store now! I then spent at least 15 minutes trying to pull the damn thing off with no success. Finally, I had to break out a pair scissors and cut it off, which, of course, created a hole in my new dress which I then had to carefully stitch up, after spending several minutes locating a needle and appropriately-colored thread. The whole process — returning the dress, running from the doorman, trying to pry off the plastic thing, and then fixing the hole, all took about an hour and a half. Next time, I think I'll just wait the 90 seconds for a dressing room instead.

The MJ Effect

If there's one good thing the death of Michael Jackson and subsequent related news saturation has accomplished, it's given me something else to think about besides my freakin' wedding. I'm sure everyone else is breathing a similar sigh of relief at this unexpected perk, right? But instead of knocking what has been an absolutely grotesque coverage of a figure that sure, was arguably one of the most talented entertainers of all time, but was also thought to be by many a child molester, I've been giving a lot of thought as to why people are so fascinated and moved by his sudden death.

It can't just be the music, or his incredibly strange life (Sorry, Al Sharpton, the man WAS strange, whether you want his kids to believe the world thought so or not). It's not even the tangled financial mess he left behind or the custody question of his three kids that make the story such an interesting one. I think, more than anything, his death is about us, about defining an era as well as a generation. I never would have called myself a fan, really, and I certainly think his behavior with kids was inappropriate at best and potentially illegal, deeply immoral, and emotionally damaging at worst, but in the days since his death, I've been reminded — more times than necessary, really — of the impact his music, dancing and performances had on my generation.

Though I was a child of the 80's, I don't remember either of Ronald Reagan's inaugurations, but I remember the first time I watched the video for Thriller. I don't remember the Iran contra hearings, but I remember practicing the moonwalk with a bunch of other kids on my school playground during recess in 3rd or 4th grade. And though I remember getting scolded for singing "Like a Virgin" in front of my grandmother one summer before I even knew what a virgin was, I remember trying to learn the words to "Beat It" even more.

And now I have a new Michael Jackson moment to add to the tapestry of my own history, a defining moment in my own life. Years, maybe even decades from now, when people ask "Where were you when you heard he died?" I can answer: "I was trying on my wedding ring." Drew and I had just walked inside the little jewelery store on the Lower East Side on the afternoon of June 25th to pick up our custom-designed bands we'd ordered a couple weeks earlier when the owner of the store exclaimed, "We think Michael Jackson just died!" We then spent the next half hour alternately trying on and admiring our new bands while scanning all the news sites on Drew's iPhone for a confirmation on MJ's death. On our commute home, I kept saying, "I can't believe it." And I couldn't believe it -- that I had my wedding band in my purse, that Michael Jackson just died, that the era of my childhood was so far away now.

My parents' generation, though, I don't think they get it, and that's understandable. They remember the Jackson 5, of course, but they were just one of dozens, if not hundreds, of musical acts that hit the Billboard charts and stole a nation's heart back in the 60s. My parents never really knew the MJ my generation knew — he of the sequined glove, white socks, and dance moves that sliced through the air like a knife. They know of Wacko — who doesn't? — the perpetually changing face, the pet chimp named Bubbles, the questionable marriage to Lisa Marie, the child molestation charges, the dangling of baby Blanket over a balcony. But those aren't the things that helped defined my generation. Those were the things that, far more than his death, ended an era — ended his reign as an untouchable icon.

And the mere fact that he could be touched — that his fame forced him into a blinding spotlight and an unforgiving fishbowl, one that no doubt contributed to his fucked up mental and emotional state and his inability to discern fantasy from reality (how could he possibly even understand what reality was?) makes the story of him all the more fascinating. What child of the 80's didn't dream at one point about having the kind of talent and public accolades Michael Jackson enjoyed without ever considering the consequences? And so, maybe the fall and death of Jackson makes us — my generation — nostalgic for those simpler times when dreams were uncomplicated, heroes never had flaws, and cynicism hadn't yet crept into our collective psyche. If nothing else, I guess we'll remember the time.