My Michael Jackson memorial experience

My phone, iPod and vibrating "Sonic Boom" alarms blared simultaneously at 4:30 a.m., and a groggy whimper slid from between my exhausted lips before I could stop it.

After two more rounds of alarms, I rolled out of bed with a groan and a creak at 4:50 a.m.

I knew today was too important for oversleeping.

I silently raced around the dark house, collecting cash, keys, pens, notebooks, sunglasses, clothes, breakfast, snacks, Band Aids (you never know), water bottles, extra pens, extra notebooks — and a pair of pants big enough to hold everything: after all, carrying a purse in large crowds is just inviting pickpockets.

And in the dewy 6 a.m. light, still finishing my oatmeal, I roared off to catch my 6:39 a.m. North Hollywood train.

An hour later, I was fully submerged in Michael Jackson memorial madness.

It was like nothing I'd experienced before.

This summer, I've talked to yoga participants convinced they belonged to a brainwashing, fraudulent cult and I've camped out at the Jackson family home in Encino the day of Jackson's heart attack and death.

Nothing compared to this.

***

Fans had already started trickling in when I arrived at the 7th Street metro station at 7 a.m., pockets bulging and notebook in hand.

Jackson impersonators wandered through the crowd, brushing boxy, military-jacketed shoulders with Gothic clowns, T-shirt hawkers, hot dog vendors, PETA protestors, spontaneous dancers, crossdressers from Holland and one or two Average Joes, looking absolutely bewildered and wondering where on earth they'd landed.

"Michael Jackson is a modern day prophet ... he's the prophet of love," Gregory Sun gushed breathily, picking lint off the silver buttons of his threadbare white military jacket. "I just love him with my whole heart. We love Michael!"

He then proceded to explain that "white is the color of innocence and childhood, which Michael represents."

By 10 a.m., the atmosphere of excitement and energy had slowed, laced with frustration and depression: as the memorial service began inside the Staples Center, those left behind desperately searched for other ways in.

"Tickets, tickets, anyone want a ticket?" muttered one man furtively, glancing sideways from under a nondescript ballcap. "I got 'em."

A few minutes later, a woman with waist-length braids snagged a wad of $20s from a blonde woman and her husband and slipped them two glittering wristbands: the Michael Jackson version of Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket.

"Hey, gotta love how we share the MJ love around here, right?" she grinned at me, spotting my accusatory stare.

The "true fans," as they called themselves, turned up their noses at the scalpers, instead hoping free tickets would simply appear in their fingers — preferably the gloved hand, of course.

It's not as far-fetched as it sounds.

Paulette Harutnian said she and her sister showed up ticketless, hoping for the best. She decided to walk towards the LAPD-constructed barrier, where a ticket is required, and hope for the best.

"As I crossed the street, I told a woman I didn't have a ticket," Harutnian said. "She smield at me and said, 'I have a feeling you'll get a ticket.'"

Harutnian said as she approached the barrier, a cop held out his hand to see her wristband.

Wincing, she held out an empty palm.

"Just then, the woman slipped a bracelet and a ticket into my other hand," Harutnian said. "She smiled and said, 'You look like a true fan.'"

An hour later, her sister scored a free ticket as well.

***

As the memorial service continued through 11 a.m., kookier vendors began to appear: MJ carpets, mirrors reading "You are 'The Man in the Mirror,'" hand-painted silk ties with Thriller-esque bloodstains and rainbow umbrellas honoring "THE KING OF POP!" bobbed up and down above the barricaded masses yearning to catch sight of the Staples Center, let alone the ceremony.

One woman handed me a brochure "honoring Michael," which turned out to be recruiting paraphenalia retelling the story of Lazarus, courtesy of an Evangelical Christian organization. How honest.

In their defense, however, multiple fans mentioned their hope that Michael would rise from his gold-plated coffin during today's ceremony.

As far as I know, it didn't happen. Someone would have Tweeted on it.

Around noon, I'd been out for five hours and severely needed a break. I ducked into ESPN Zone and collapsed on the floor with 50-odd other reporters, all nursing blistered toes, sore fingers and sunburnt noses.

We watched the tail end of the ceremony in silence, pens still, notebooks closed.

And as the final words began, we collectively dashed to the exit, where TV assaulted the first spectators to exit with microphones, furry booms and annoying questions.

The print reporters stalked the untapped masses down the street, where it was quieter.

I was back in Woodland Hills by 2:30, with two reporter's notebooks completely full — the most bizarre, fascinating and otherwordly hours of my life.

If you'd like to see photos, I'll put a slideshow in the next post.