The attitudes of some is amazing. Now I see why I rarely post on here. We’ll swear up and down how much we love mj and stand behind what he represented and then attack each other over the dumbest of shit instead of those that talk shit about him. SMDH.
Michael had always been against pot and other illegal drugs. But back in Miami, a year earlier, Michael had spent some time with two of the former Bee Gees, Maurice Gibb, who was on his deathbed, and Barry Gibb. When Barry told Michael that he had recorded his greatest songs when he was smoking pot, Michael was intrigued. He was a big fan of the Bee Gees. The songs “How Deep Is Your Love,” “Stayin’ Alive,” and “More Than a Woman” were among his favorites. And so Michael smoked pot with me when we were at the ranch working on the home videos, for what I think was his first time. I remember how, in that state of mind, the lights of Neverland came to life.
“Ah, now it all makes sense,” Michael had said, as we drove through the property. “This is exactly what the Indians were doing when they passed around the peace pipe.”
He liked that pot came from the earth—it helped him justify something he’d always been against. Over the past year, we had gotten stoned on a few occasions up in the mountains. Michael was extraordinarily discreet—he didn’t want a soul to know about it.
One afternoon, in an attempt to cheer both of us up, I rolled a joint and found Michael in his office, which was an extension of the main house, a warm room with dark wood floors, a beautiful desk, and a couch. Six flat-screen TVs lined one wall— each playing different cartoons. On the wall over the fireplace was a six-foot-tall portrait of Prince at age two or three, asleep, with me and Eddie standing on either side of him, keeping guard.
“Come on, let’s take a break,” I suggested.
“Yeah, okay,” he said.
We walked outside and got into Michael’s golf cart. We drove up to the mountains, and passed the joint back and forth, quieter than usual. It’s not that the conversation lagged, exactly, but we didn’t want to talk about the looming allegations, and we couldn’t come up with any other subject to discuss. I wanted to say, “I told you so,” but I didn’t. And Michael wanted to ask, “How did this happen?” but he didn’t. Instead, we were mostly quiet, and every so often I would say, “Can you believe this fucking family?”
“I can’t believe this shit,” Michael would respond.
We
would look at each other and shake our heads. It felt like a
bad dream. Ordinarily we would have driven around like
this, with or without the pot, taking in the beauty of our
surroundings and just relishing the moment. Now we were
trying, and failing, to distract ourselves from reality. To my
knowledge, that was the last time Michael smoked pot—it
was a short-lived phase for both of us.
- My Friend Michael (Frank Cascio)
Frank… Sigh…
About me
I JUST WANNA TOUCH AND KISS AND I WISH THAT I COULD BE WITH YOU TONIGHT.....
.....MICHAEL, YOU GIVE ME BUTTERFLIES...INSIDE.
