Michael Jackson is dead and the world is better for it. I met MJ once at Patches, a notorious gay bar in Toledo’s east end. He held up his gloved and said, “I jack off with this.” We talked for a while about the Mud Hens – MJ was a die hard minor league baseball fan – but it was awkward. He offered to pay for my Long Island Iced Tea, but I declined. I knew where that could lead and it was no place I wanted to go.
A month later I saw him again, this time in the press box at Ned Skeldon Stadium. He was chatting with Neil Kwiatkowski about Propofol. I said hello and we shook hands.
“You look well, Fletcher.”
We exchanged pleasentries before Michael excused himself.
”Sorry guys but I must run, I have a date.”
After he left Kwiatkowski turned to me.
“You know who he’s dating, right? BB Nichols. The gay icon and cultural avatar? Shit. Some guys have all the luck.”
