I have recently become enamored with the absurdly commercialized singer/rapper/hip hop/reggae artist Sean Paul. What can't the man do?
Speak coherently is the answer to the above question.
Although I love Sean Paul---just love him---I fear my love for him is for the wrong reasons. Namely because I can't understand a word he's saying and I can sing along and make up a ridiculous nonsense lyric song with a great beat each time I listen to him. I don't think Sean Paul would approve of the reasons for my love. But Sean Paul, if you happen upon this (or if anyone out there can supply me with the answer to this question) what the HELL are you saying in your song, "Punkie"? Whatever it is, it works! I start singing the most surreal phrases and baby noises that don't amount to words at all. And it's fun to dance to! Thank you!!
Other than my new musical amour, I've been contemplating my status as Winona Ryder. At first I didn't think this was a correct correlation. I've now decided that it's pretty apt. Or at least everyone I bitch to about it says I have Winona written all over me. Ok, ok, so I secretly harbor an identification with Winona in several of her roles, especially "Girl, Interrupted". I hear she's now doing community service for shop lifting. Poor dear.
Has anyone seen VH1's documentary on the Glove Monster (Ms. Bond's nickname for Michael Jackson)? I am caught between an instinctive compassion I hold for humanity in general, especially misfits, and also a fight or flight response. Should I recoil in fear, or become even more engaged in the spectacle we call Michael, much in the same way we watched "curiousities", freak shows, at carnivals and fairs once upon a time? If you have a chance, watch the VH1 special on him. They're playing it every week, I think. A closer look at the strangeness that appears on the surface, as well as just under the surface, of the Gloved Guru.
I'm afraid I'll never dance to Thriller with the same zest for life I once felt.