Don't be a prima(hey!)donna.

That's about as clever as a combination of Madonna and Justin Timberlake gets. Remember when Madonna "came back" out of hiding (where she apparently spent her time adopting half of Africa and working out at least as much as my Mother [who, in case I failed to mention previously, has a slight obsession with her "power walking" and does so at least three hours a day]) in order to show off her disturbingly fit body in that disturbingly crotch-emphasizing one-piece gymnast outfit? You know, that video where people are randomly dancing in unconventional locales (the roof of a building?! Why, that's not a place for dancing!) and Madonna uses every excuse to spread her legs apart while sprawling on the floor of some dance studio? No, you don't remember? The lyrics involved something along the lines of "Everything you say or do...come on.....I've had enough of you." Anyway, that first comeback was unnecessary enough. By now, to retain her iconic status, Madonna should have either disappeared into obscurity in the Himalayas or committed some type of extravagant suicide (like the crotch of her once-piece gymnast outfit riding up so high that it slices her in half). Madonna should not grow old and Mother children and bake bundt cakes.

If you have read my blog in the past you should already be aware of my general dislike for Timbaland's production. He is not a bad producer, but artists who already possess some ingenuity do not need his prodcution graces (nor do they need his insistence on always appearing in the songs he produces to add in those much needed "uh huhs," "yeeeeahs," and that stupid "breeka breeka" sound he makes). Alas, Madonna has given in and allowed Timbaland to produce half her new album and has thus become as homogenized as the rest of the hip-pop genre. Soon every poppy hip-hop song will have that fat-headed buffoon's synth-dependent, "uh huh, yeeeah, breeka breeka" stamp of production on it.

Finally, the "subtle" implication in this song that Madonna is going to mount Justin Timberlake makes my stomache a little uneasy. First of all, isn't she dried out by now? The woman is going to be 50 in a few months. Timberlake is 27. I try not to put too much emphasis on age, because age is really a state of mind. However, the idea of Madonna trying to generate enough moisture to wang-chung Timberlake disgusts me. She really should have just gone the pills and alcohol route. It all went downhill once she stopped sporting that phony beauty mark.

I came home as someone else.

Today I created a tangent of thought. It all began with Journey. The band Journey. I was in the mood to hear "Separate Ways," if not for its generic lyrics about love, then for its sweet synth/thumping guitar intro. As I listened and pumped my fists while feeling the two halves of my broken heart going their separate ways, I was reminded of "The Vegas" episode from the first season of The OC. That's right, I'm not scared to admit that I actually enjoyed the first season of The OC. Okay, actually just typing that sentence embarrassed the shit out of me. Jesus am I ever lame. Thinking of The OC immediately made me think of Phantom Planet. Isn't that unfortunate. 

I will skip the biography of Phantom Planet that you probably already know far too well. Yes, Jason Schwartzman left. No, I don't hold that against him, he's still awesome. Anyway, it is a sobbing shame that any mention of Phantom Planet creates a banal word association game that always ends the same way: with me winning (can you win at word association?) by saying "The OC!" and then whooping it up, bumping chests with my bros, shotgunning beers (Colt 45, yo!), and listening to one of the Queen songs that have unfortunately become bro anthems (fortunately, bro-dudes have no idea what irony is, otherwise they would realize how fucking ridiculous it is for them to sit out on the "party porch" of the frat house and yell at "fags" who pass by while listening to A Night At The Opera). Phantom Planet was written off long ago and it's about time I do something to set things straight. They deserve far more credit than they receive, which is generally none whatsoever. Their last two albums are fantastic. Take a listen...

Phantom Planet - Phantom Planet

Phantom Planet - Raise The Dead

I am Spartacus.

Yes, you are Spartacus. The idealized male was once a strong warrior who could wield a sword with one hand and chauvinistically whack women's behinds with the other. That idealized male certainly was a complete buffoon. Conversely, what the fuck is this new male? Why does he need a swingamajig for his testicles?

Yes, you are the new male yuppie. You get the occasional manicure. You drive a hybrid car. You drink Fair Trade coffee. You partake in a weekly yoga class. Your morally superior life was motoring along so well (fueled by ethanol, of course) and leaving such a miniscule ecological footprint, until your yoga instructor decided to have a little field trip and hold this week's class on kitsilano beach, where the majority of your ass is visible in your new mansy one-piece yoga suit.

This blog post is by no means a hearkening back to a simpler time when men were less gay. Nor does it aim to suggest that metrosexuality is so progressive a movement that all should embrace it. Lululemon laid out an April Fool's prank and I happily took the bait. Maybe I'm not as metrosexual as I thought.