I have a confession to make. I have a horrible secret, one that may ruin any bits of a social life I have here at Penn, one that I did my best to keep secret, a part of my life I thought closed when I left all those who knew me as a child. You see, in my younger days, I idolized Michael Jackson.
Eventually, we all outgrow our child idols. The Bible says something somewhere about putting away our childish things. I wouldn't know the exact quote, not into the whole God thing, but you get the point. So, I put away my Michael Jackson tapes for years, but oh, the Internet is a godsend, for I legally picked up a copy of Michael Jackson's Thriller -- and it is good. OK, a further confession: I lied before when I said Thriller was good. In fact, it is the perfect, the ultimate pop album. MJ's thrilling vocal theatrics over Quincy Jones' masterful production are delicate and powerful at the same time. Go back and listen again to the strength and the smoothness of "Billie Jean," the magical horror of "Thriller," the sappy sweet love ballad, "Baby Be Mine," and the soul-searching "Human Nature." Sorry, Justin, you just don't come close.