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Twelve years or so ago, I was wandring around a comics store looking for something to buy. I asked the guy behind the counter what was hot. He reached under the counter and pulled out a mylar-bound platinum edition and said, "The Death of Superman?"
I said, "Superman died for me a long, long time ago."
Michael Jackson has been similarly dead to me for a long time. But more in the sense that a gruff Old World paterfamilias would say it to a sinning offspring: "You are DEAD to me! DEAD! I know no Michael Jackson!" |
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