Binderama60for60

There was a period back in the early 80s when Michael Jackson was the most recognizable person on the planet. Maybe in history. Whatever album he had just released was backed by an overwhelming media blitz, a series of videos and a single-gloved taste-making revolution. It was a white-hot mystique like I’ve never seen before or since. Not Tay-tay, Madonna, the Beatles, Elvis, the Pope or Dalai Lama. And those are just the non-fiction mortals I’ve posited here. 

The events leading up to me spending a few days with Michael Jackson in 1991 went back several months. I was a publicist at Universal Orlando. Part of my job was to promote the attraction using any star power that came our way. Any time a celebrity was passing through town, their people would reach out for comps and tours, as one’s celebrity handler does. In exchange, we’d ask for photos to share on the wires and with local media.

In the winter of 1990/91, there was another person who attained big fame, if only fleetingly. “Home Alone” was a huge blockbuster, and its young star McCaulay Culkin’s face was everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere. And the boy himself happened to be shooting a movie in Orlando called “My Girl.” I worked some back channels to get an invitation to McCaulay and his family to visit Universal while they were in town.

Soon enough, Macaulay’s mom called me and suggested Easter for a family outing. Perfect!

Easter morning comes: I’m sprawled just inside the door of my condo at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed from the night before. Dawn was breaking and it was pouring wicked Florida rain backed by lightning and thunder. A quick diagnosis: I had no serious maladies or scars, just a head-to-toe, all-the-way-to-the-core hangover. 

What startled me awake was a page from McCaulay’s mom. (Yes, we had pagers back then. I also had a cell phone but it cost like $5 a minute.)

I called her back, praying to God that she wanted a rain check. Instead, she wanted to confirm we were still on, despite the rain, and she wanted to bring a larger group, including McCauley’s co-star Anna Chlumsky and her family. 

I’ll get to Michael Jackson shortly.

I hustled into the shower, got dressed in a button-down and knit tie from Chess King and headed into the storm to drive to the studio. Problem: My parking space was empty. WTF? WTAF?

Piecing together the previous night’s misadventures, I called my friend Paul Meena. “Dude, where’s my car?” He looked out his window and confirmed it was at his place; I’d parked it there before we headed downtown. He came around to get me, delivered me to my car, and I raced to the studio. My colleague, friend and studio photographer Kevin Kolczynski met me at the front gate. He remarked on my obvious disposition, as Kevin does, and then took some snaps of me awaiting the Culkins, a mask of junior executive dread shrouded by storm clouds.

The Culkins showed up, like ten of them, along with the Chlumskys. First up. King Kong and the obligatory photo shoot: Macaulay doing his “Home Alone” scream in front of Kong photo spot. Check that off the list and get it on the wire. (Another generational thing: back then, the film had to be developed, contact sheets reviewed and prints made; probably three days of process.)

Because of the weather, the park wasn’t very crowded, so we moved around easily. Macaulay got very little attention; he was just another kid in the park. There were a few times when other kids noticed him, especially when we sidestepped the lines, drawing some stares. The looks on their faces were of bewilderment: I know that kid, I’ve seen him in movies, he’s famous, but he’s just walking around like me. Macaulay seemed oblivious to it all.

His bother Kieran, on the other hand, was loving the special attention. I’m not a kid person, but when Kieran wanted to hold my hand as we breezed though the park, it was pretty cute. He looked up at me with big eyes and a crooked smile, not unlike his public persona these days.

A few years later, when I was living in New York, I saw the Culkins on East 86th Street, all of them scarfing on ice cream. Just another family out in the city on a nice Saturday afternoon. I said hi to the mom, she smiled, and that was that.

Oh right, Michael Jackson!

A few weeks after the Easter visit, I got a call another from Macaulay’s mom. “Can we come over again?” Sure! When? “How about today?” That can work. “One other thing, we’re with Michael Jackson. Is that okay?” Okay. “And he doesn’t want any special treatment. No security.” Ummm. Let me check on that one.

I contacted the security lead. They were not so confident in the arrangement but said they’d try to give the impression of compliance. The van arrived. It was from Walt Disney World. It parked at the operations building where I met them. The Disney tour guide got out of the passenger seat; he was actually a high-up executive who had handled Michael for years. The Culkins got out of the back; some general niceties were exchanged. And then Michael Jackson stepped out.

Okay, I’ve already shared my whore-dom for celebrity in an earlier 60|60 post. So when the biggest star in the world appears right in front of me, yeah, it was pretty goddamn cool. He was dressed in what had become his signature red shirt and black fedora (so was Macaulay), with tendrils of hair creeping past his ears. He had a small bandaid on his nose.

Michael FUCKING Jackson was shaking my hand and thanking me for letting him visit. This guy did the moonwalk, was besties with Princess Di, hung with Warhol and Bowie at Studio 54, was in that “Thriller” video, drove music and pop culture to new heights all over the world, and here I am making small talk in a parking lot. My job was to be cool, professional: he’s just another guy getting comped into a theme park. But yeah…

By now, the security team had decided that one uniformed guard would accompany the group. Others would stay close, some in plain clothes.

Then we walked into the park. Fast. There were about eight people in the posse, with Michael in the middle of the formation. We walked so fast that several times idling guests were swallowed up as we marched over them. Michael bumped into an oblivious Japanese woman who was having her picture taken. He stopped and pivoted back to apologize. She accepted and then realized who it was. We were 20 yards on when I looked back to see her drop to her knees and just wail at the realization she’d just been touched by Michael Jackson. Big time Beatlemania vibe.

Word hadn’t get out about his presence in the park until we entered the Back to the Future ride. When we exited, the building was surrounded, people were cheering and screaming. Michael waved. We convinced him to hide out behind the scenes for a while.

My colleague Kevin had already burnt a few rolls of film: Michael and Macaulay with Beetlejuice, E.T., King Kong, but now we needed one that would go global (there was no viral back then). We were near the Animal Actors show, so we called over and arranged an impromptu tour of the cages and pens backstage. Michael loved it, even when one of the chimps was howling and slinging poo at him. For the photo op, Kevin suggested we have an orangutan join us on the stage. One of the trainers got it to do the Macaulay face and boom, worldwide publicity for a park that badly needed it right about then.

The coolest thing

We retreated from the theater away from the public so that an audience could load for the next show. Sitting at a picnic table in an employee break area, I made the worst kind of small talk with Michael. Not gonna lie. It wasn’t Chris Farley and Paul McCartney bad, but he laughed and fake punched me in the arm for the rest of the day. This guy had been talked to, screamed at and worshipped by strangers for his entire life. He deserved to have a messiah complex, but he didn’t show it. He was a very sweet and gentle man, curious too.

From the picnic table he saw an employee wheeling a bin of garbage to a dumpster behind a restaurant maybe 50 yards away. He gets up and approaches the older black steward whose face turns nuclear at the sight of Michael Jackson walking right up to him. We had a policy at the park: employees can never approach celebrities; you got fired. The guy looked at me in a panic and I shrugged like, I’m good if you are! Michael asked him his name, what he did, where he was from, etc. All while the stench of the dumpster radiated in the Florida heat. I’d love to hear what that guy told his family that night. I hope they believed him.

Eventually we escorted Michael back to his Disney van and off he went, very gracious to thank each of us.

A few months later, Disney contacted Universal through proper channels to arrange another Michael visit. This time, my colleague and roommate Matt got the call and made arrangements. I was driving to work when I heard on the radio that Michael was at Universal. I caught up with Matt and Michael on another low-security tour. When we suggested a photo op somewhere, the same Disney tour guide said to Michael, “You remember how disappointed Michael [Eisner, the CEO of Disney] was the last time you did that.” With that, Michael Jackson demurred.

We coulda’ made him famous.