I'm totally a week and a half late about this, and I wasn't even planning to comment, but that's my style. I didn't get the Michael Jackson's Thriller album until late 1985, once it had lost its wonder and thorough popularity. Similarly, I'm only now moved enough to comment on his sister's not-quite-naked breast. It should be noted that when it happened, I'd only just returned from Europe, so I barely had the tolerance to read about such silliness, much less comment on it. (I love Europe. It makes one roll one's eyes ever so dismissively.)
If America was gonna get all het up about The Boobie because it was inappropriate for family programming, why did they consent to see Justin and Janet rub their groove things all over each other during half time in the first place? Is rubbing and touching ok, as long as you don't actually see flesh? And if that's the case, how do you explain Britney and Christina's careers, where all you do see is flesh?
I just don't understand America sometimes. How do you get to have places like New York and San Francisco and still be so backward? How do you get lucky enough to claim the Fab 5 for your own, and still tolerate Evil Nipple Screamers?
Ew.
* * *
Tomorrow is Friday the 13th which is supposed to suck for everyone else, but be really first-rate for Italians. It's a myth probably started by some school yard bully named Domenic or Anthony, directed to some nine year old mangia-cake unfortunate enough to live in Little Italy, and followed by a nyah nyah and a shot in the head. I'm looking forward to it myself, if only to play the lottery and stock up on chocolate.
The next day is February 14th, Valentine's Day, which has something to do with Meg Ryan-Tom Hanks movies and buying stock in Cadbury. Also, there is gin involved, but only if sipped at in the dark, quietly and without sharing. It's also a reason to consider cruising Lavalife, looking at porny websites, and crunching the numbers to figure the expense involved in phoning a dirty, dirty 976 number. Then, what happens is I'll dismiss the notion of dating services, scoff at the idea of Googling pictures of pink and hangy bits, and promptly decide that making a bald and portly house-husband breath in my ear is not only disturbing, but also, far too expensive to bother with. So instead, I'll slather on an avocado facial mask, and open another box of Lindor.
It's going to be a good weekend, I think.
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