First of all, Adam, you suck. Chuck Klosterman is lame! Also, Rock & Rollers do read and write. Morrison was a buffoon posing as a poet.

Second of all, good episode gentlemen. You made me laugh out loud a few times.

Anyway, after the interminable Transformers discussion, I was happy to hear you FINALLY got around to talking about Michael Jackson.

I think I'm a couple years older than most of the OxPosse, so the importance of Thriller is a bit bigger in my life. I still remember watching him do the moonwalk on TV, only we didn't call it the moonwalk because we didn't have words for it yet. There was no name.

For me, personally, Jackson was the first musician I really loved. I was convinced with all my 12-year-old heart that I was going to marry him.

Since his death on Friday, I've been taking a lot of shit for still holding on to that adolescent love because of what a tragic weirdo Michael became. But, I try to explain, I've mad a concentrated effort to get better at separating the artist from the art. Which seems to be something not a lot of people can do, or at least choose not to do, which kind of astounds me.

The evil that men (or women) do does not detract from the greatness of what they created before they became monsters (see: Phil Spector, Ike Turner).

And while the crimes Jackson was accused of committing are beyond reprehensible, it's tough not to mourn in some way the person who helped give the world "I Want You Back" and "Billie Jean."

You cannot tell me that Angus Young has ever laid eyes on a book. Don't let that school boy kit fool you. Keith Richards though... yeah, he is one literate motherfucker.

I'm actually reading a book right now called "What Would Keith Richards Do?"

I would bet dimes to donuts there are more literary references in rock and roll (see: Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, Craig Finn, Rhett Miller, Paul Westerberg, Ryan Adams) than there are rock and roll references in literature.

Also, isn't it alleged that Sympathy for the Devil pinched some lyrics of Bulgakov's Master and the Margarita?

Just to add to the concussion discussion, the leading explanation was that I dropped the mail while walking into the house, then knocked myself out on the doorknob while bending down to pick it up. That is a theory, however, as I have no recollection of anything that happened before Joe walked in and said "Al, what are you doing?" as I was walking aimlessly around the house. Mail was scattered all over the floor right by the door.

Thanks again for rescuing me, Joe & Tony.