Music aside - if that’s possible - few articles are going to catch the tragedy of the man’s life in such clear, heartbreaking detail.

Michael Jackson’s Celebrity Suicide

Born to stardom, he never knew what it was like to live or even behave normally
By Bill Wyman

Link: http://www.salon.com/ent/feature/2009/06…

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Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Errico/8888939428
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids

By Mike Errico

I add this here not out of interest in the question Vibe is asking, but in the abject racism that is filling the comments. The final four is a predictable cast: Biggie, Tupac, Jay-Z and Eminem. But check out the comments. Eminem defenders and haters square off, summon Elvis, insult moms and generally freak out.

Like most Web polls, this may well be “decided” by Vibe’s editors (I know, shocker), but as in most things Web, the comments are oftentimes a more enlightening read.

Site: http://www.vibe.com/bestrapperever

PRESS RELEASE

VIBE MAGAZINE’S 2009 BEST RAPPER EVER COMPETITION
ANNOUNCES RAPPERS ADVANCING TO FINAL FOUR IN BID FOR COVETED TITLE

June 23, 2009, New York City - Who will hold the illustrious title of being
The Best Rapper Ever? VIBE magazine and VIBE.com are one step closer to announcing the winner of their 2009 The Best Rapper Ever competition with the revelation of the Final Four. More than 730,000 votes have been cast, setting the record straight on old rivalries and creating new ones.

Three No. 1 seeds have advanced to the final four, including easy victories by Eminem and 2Pac. The Notorious B.I.G. narrowly escaped defeat by Nas with 53 percent of the vote. No. 2 seed Jay-Z took down No. 1 seed Rakim by 20 percent.

To vote on the current round of the competition, visit http://www.vibe.com/bestrapperever.

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Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Errico/8888939428
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids

Dad breathed as if he were asleep. From under the piano I watched his feet in ravaged dress shoes, sometimes flecked with cast plaster or blood from patients he’d seen during the day. Chords rang out from above, the creak and thump of the mechanisms inside dampening and striking strings with hard felt hammers. When he pivoted on his heel and pressed down on the far right pedal, the entire internal framework of the piano would lift from the strings, leaving them exposed and resonating all at once. They decayed into what seemed like infinity.

In the perfunctory book section of a Chelsea gift shop, I flipped through a copy of Oliver Sacks’ Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain. Father’s Day dinner was in an hour, at a rustic Italian restaurant downtown that reminded us of home though it bore no resemblance. We’d eat and drink, and Dad would pick up the bill. He was still the only one who could afford it.

I landed on a section of the book about a man who gets hit by lightning and becomes passionate about concert piano. I found a card with a picture of a beach at sunset and florid script describing the quiet majesty of fatherhood.

Two very effeminate men stood behind matching cash registers along the thin stretch of store. They were tall with dyed black hair, their skin spray-tanned to a pumpkin hue. They looked like Muppets. One chattered incessantly as he rang up customers, the other smiled and nodded, mute. Overhead, Abba played “Dancin Queen.” They swayed along in time.

A 40ish woman with an assortment of bags stood at the counter as the talkative salesman prepared to gift wrap several candles and picture frames for her. I stepped up to the mute’s register with my book. He reached for it slowly, and twisted it around in his hands, searching for the price.

“It’s on the back,” I offered.

At the other register, the chatty salesman commented on each of the woman’s purchases as he scanned them in.

“Vanilla. Mmmmm. Makes such a yummy room.”

She smiled.

“Well, I have to say, it was a very considered choice. I think you smelled every candle in the store! Ha, I’m just the same. You’re getting this wrapped, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Great. And the frames - they’re for Dad, too?”

“No,” she responded flatly. “My dad’s no longer with us.”

“Oh, well. I’m very sorry to hear it.”

Abba chugged through the awkward silence that ensued.

He continued, “Well, you know - what’s the saying - ‘thanks that they got us here.’ I mean, really, right? They got us here, you know? It’s incredible. Really.”

“Yes. I suppose that is true.” She seemed exhausted. Her bags weighed her down. Her hair was cut short, but looked dirty, with gray roots pushing through mousey brown dye.

My mute cashier had by now located the price tag, and pointed the scanner at the bar code. “You know, maybe I can take the gift wrapping with me, if that’s OK,” I said. He stared blankly, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

Next to me, the dialogue went on. “Well, you’ll light a candle for him in church or something, won’t you?” Both cashiers smiled at the comment.

Her face twisted. “My father sexually abused me as a child.”

I flashed a desperate look at the mute. The bar code had not read properly, and he was now most of the way through manually entering the $14.99 price into the register. I searched my pockets for exact change. Abba, and the other salesman, continued.

“Oh. Dear. Well.” He softened his voice. “This must be a complicated day for you.“

“Yes,” she responded. “He was not a good man.”

I rapped my knuckles on my side of the counter. “Would a twenty cover it? And yeah, the gift wrapping I can do at home. Kind of a rush.” The mute sighed at the general rudeness of customers. People, really.

The woman, equally resigned that her packages would never be gift-wrapped, began opening up. “He was tough. A paratrooper in World War II…”

I looked at the mute. “Please.”

She put her bags down. “I mean, who knows what he went through, himself…”

“Who knows, exactly. Who knows…” the salesman interrupted.

“Forgiveness, you know? I’ve spent a lot of time on it. Not easy.”

“…must be so… yeah. So much.” Both salesmen were now focused on her, nodding in time with Abba.

I slapped a twenty down on the counter. “Just…the box. I’ll figure it out at home.”

The mute spoke. “Do you want a bag for that?”

“Sure just hand it to me.”

He handed me a shopping bag, robin’s egg blue with the store’s name, RAINBOWS AND TRIANGLES, emblazoned in pink across the top. Under the logo, a rainbow arched over a shining, golden triangle. It was as if I’d bought my Father’s Day gift from My Little Pony.

“Veteran’s Day…things got really bad around the house.”

“Oh, my God. Of course. That makes so much sense…”

I headed for the door, for dinner, for Dad. The draft from my passing body engaged the wall of wind chimes which tinkled with metal fairies, flattened spoons and dark stained bamboo stalks that clucked in low, exotic tones.

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Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Errico/8888939428
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids

By Mike Errico

I drove until it got dangerous for me to be driving, and pulled into a Super 8 somewhere along the Maryland/Pennsylvania border. Only smoking rooms were available. I parked two feet from my door, its wooden frame split straight to the ground, the chain lock on the inside dangling from exposed screws. I peeled off my wet stage clothes, draped them over my guitar cases, and dreamed about people sitting in the room, smoking and watching me while I slept.

I woke up early and carried my guitars out to the van. The sky was gray. A thin, unshaven man in his 40s leaned against a nearby pickup truck, smoking. I nodded his direction and popped the back door open. He looked at the guitars, then at me and growled, “You in a rock band?”

I looked around. “Uh, yeah.”

He flicked his cigarette and walked around the back of his pickup. I thought, this is a strange way to die. I’d pictured something sexier.

He came back around the bed of his truck and walked straight at me. I inhaled. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card, glossy and exploding with fluorescent blues, yellows and reds that radiated from its center, like Spin Art. He flicked the card between his fingers and held it out to me.

“I do laser light shows,” he said.

“Really,” I responded.

He looked around the lot. “I’m not from here.”

I followed his eyes. “Me, either.”

He continued. “I’m just down here helping some guys fiberglass a pool. I don’t know how. They’re showing me.”

One of the ground level doors creaked open and two men stumbled out, one supporting the other who had lost the use of his left leg.

“We went out last night,” the grizzled man continued. “There’s a bar down the road. Lots of heads on the walls. I think he hurt himself dancing.”

I thought, that man doesn’t look like he hurt himself dancing. He looks like he’s been beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat.

“That can hurt.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It might be his disc. We’re gonna have to get him to a hospital.”

I nodded. “That sounds like a great idea.” The injured man whimpered while being pushed into the passenger seat of the pickup.

“There’s no good breakfast in this town,” the laser light show guy informed me, lighting another cigarette. “You’d be better off if you went down the road a bit.”

I nodded. “I think I’ll do that.” The pickup started.

“I do all kinds of laser shows. I can travel. Think about it.”

I looked back down at the multicolored card. “I will do that.” I placed my guitars in the back of the truck, feeling him stare at me until the pickup rolled between us.

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Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Errico/8888939428
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids

Official press release. There goes another one:

‘Performing Songwriter’ Publishes Final Issue

“As sad as change and letting go are, it feels like a celebration of accomplishment more than anything else,” said Hutchinson. “There was a moment of clarity after we signed off on this June issue, telling me that now is indeed the time to let go and end at its peak. This publication started with no funding 16 years ago out of my guest bedroom and has never taken one penny of investment money. It’s been completely supported by advertisers, subscribers and the community it represents. Performing Songwriter has always had a big heart, and our job was to take care of it so it could do its magic. By ceasing publication now we know the magazine will never risk losing its integrity and or its quality. All of us here are grateful for this journey, and feel like we’ve crossed the finish line with our heads held high.”

etc. etc….

The complete column is available on the Performing Songwriter website at www.performingsongwriter.com.

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Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Errico/8888939428
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids

Surprise

By Mike Errico

The phone rang. My machine picked up. I made a bet with myself that it was MCI, calling to collect. It seems unfair to be able to harass with unlimited free phone calls. Harassment should at least cost both sides.

A woman’s voice began leaving a message. “Um, hi, is this Mike Errico? The musician? I hope so. Anyway, if it is, my name is Olga Terlman, and I’d like to talk to you about hiring you for a private party…”

I fumbled with my guitar and picked up, speaking as the receiver approached my face.

“…llo? Hey, this is Mike… sorry, I was just…in… the shower…” As I reached to place my guitar back on its stand, my finger caught under the B-string, emitting a wild PING like a cartoon bedspring firing from a mattress.

“Are you OK?” Olga said, suddenly concerned.

“Ha, oh yes. Fine. Just… in the shower,” I repeated, realizing that this would mean I was naked. And wet. Business acumen is not where I shine, generally.

“So,” Olga continued, “I got your number from a friend of your cousin’s who has seen you a bunch of times. Just so you know I’m not a stalker.”

“Oh, that’d be fine.” See? Acumen.

“Ha! That’s funny,” she said, somehow relating it to a time on stage when I must have made her laugh.

“Yeah, ha…”

“So, here’s the deal. My friend Jessica is, like, a humongous fan of yours and is having a 29th birthday party at her apartment this Friday. There will be like 30 to 40 people, I think. Anyway, instead of just getting a gift, I was thinking I could, like, hire you for a surprise set at the party. Just like, sitting on her couch. She’d totally freak. I don’t know – do you do that kind of thing?”

“Um, wow… well, I’ve never done it before…”

“…we’d totally pay you, of course…”

“…but I’m certainly always down for new things…”

“Really? That’s awesome!” she exploded. “We’d have to keep it a complete secret, though.”

“Easy enough.”

“Oh, man. This is going to be so cool!”

“Awesome. I’m so glad.” I really was. Flattered, grateful, impacting lives I didn’t even know.”

“Would you play some covers, too?”

Fuck.

* * * * * *

I walked into the steel and glass lobby of a luxury apartment building in TriBeca, and called Olga’s cell.

“You here?” she whispered. “Awesome. OK. Our friends have her out on the patio, so just come up. #7D. I’ll be in the hallway.” The brushed steel elevator doors opened. A squat, dark-skinned woman in a light blue house dress stood motionless, holding a basket of laundry. I leaned my guitar case against my hip. We rode in silence.

Olga was standing by the elevator as it opened, with thick glasses, dark hair in a tight ponytail, pressed blue jeans and a crisp white blouse that tried to underplay gigantic breasts. She held a clear plastic party cup half-full of blue liquid, and smiled warmly, revealing a row of blue teeth.

“Hi, I’m Olga! Thanks sooooo much for doing this. This is going to be awesome. OK. So, she is on the patio. Come on in. This is going to be great.”

The apartment existed in the netherworld between college and grown-up life: a cheap Miro poster hung on the wall, rows of paperback classics with USED stickers on the spines lined mismatched shelves, but the area itself was vast and fully renovated, as if someone had scored a junior position at an investment bank. Neat, clean young professionals milled around a large brown sectional sofa and on the other side of a large sliding door where the patio framed a section of the Hudson River. Walking in with my guitar, it was as if I had startled the J. Crew catalog, models all turning at once for a group shot. The Fall Casual line.

“Awesome. OK. So she’s on the patio, but I’m nervous she’s going to have to go to the bathroom. So we should get started. Right?”

I arranged myself on the sofa and tuned the guitar as quietly as possible while people began drifting in from the patio and congregating around me. I heard Olga from the other side of the sliding door.

“OK, everybody, make way… birthday girl coming through…”

Olga escorted her friend Jessica, a thin blonde in a festive red dress with yellow party streamers draped over her shoulders. Both sets of hands covered her eyes and they stumbled into the living room. Jessica’s voice was high and nasal.

“Olga, you are just the craziest thing… what are you… God, crazy!” I stood up. Olga took over.

“OK, so we pitched in and got you something for your birthday.” She winked at me. I blushed, unnerved by the proximity.

“You’re not peeking, right?!”

“I’m not!”

“You sure? OK, then. Ready? One, two… open your eyes!”

Jessica opened her eyes, blinking, blue teeth exposed, hands outstretched. She paused.

“Wait…what…”

“Hi, Jessica,” I said, warmly, but kind of freaked out. “Olga and your friends invited me over to wish you a Happy Birthday.”

Jessica’s smile became confused.

“Oh… wow. Mike Errico. Right. Wow. I used to really like him. Uh…you.”

Olga’s face dissembled. The J. Crew models fake-stifled laughter. “Awwwkward…” one fake-whispered.

“I mean, no. Not like that. I really like you. We used to go see you a lot. Right?”

Olga’s voice cracked. “Right. I thought you’d love it if Mike played some songs, just for you. For your birthday.”

“Where?”

“Here. On the couch.”

“Now?”

“Well… yes, now.”

I held my guitar by my side. “I can come back…”

“No, no!” they yelled in unison.

“This is awesome,” offered Jessica, now beginning to recover. “Thank you so much.” She hugged Olga clumsily. Olga’s eyes darted around the room. I sat back down on the edge of the couch, rang out a few chords on my guitar and cleared my throat. The party goers stared at each other.

I used to think a bad gift is hard on the giver, but it’s a lot harder on the present.

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Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Errico/8888939428
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids