Despite the fact that Britney Spears just cut off all her hair, I can’t help but love her. Go ahead: laugh, point, snicker, cry, vomit – whatever. I’m willing to admit my undying love for, and worship of, Britney Spears. I won’t deny it; I’m not trying to hide it.
I spent a good portion of my teenage years denying my love for her. After all, I was lying to myself and the world that I was straight, and what kind of straight guy listens to that crap? But during my final relationship with a girl in 2004, I became enlightened to the pure pop deliciousness that is “In the Zone,” Britney’s fourth album. I had just graduated from high school, and I listened to that album with reckless abandon, no longer fearing retribution from anyone other than my siblings (who still give me crap about my musical choices).
Next came Britney’s greatest hits album, and my love for it was even stronger than for “In the Zone.” It was Britney’s best songs all rolled into one album, from “…Baby One More Time” and “Lucky” to “Toxic.”
However, I’m not going to sit here with my bombastic song references and call myself the truest of Britney fans. During the K-Fed period, I lost a lot of respect for Britney, and I retained what little respect I had because I knew she was smart enough to eventually leave K-Fed.
I think everyone is allowed at least one gay shriek in life, and I definitely used mine when, in November, I got on the Internet to the most fantastic news in years: Britney was back, and she was divorcing K-Fed (henceforth referred to as Fed-Ex)! I could finally profess my love for Britney again, and the love came back in a chaotic rush of hair extensions, lip-synching and Pepsi commercials. I downloaded her entire discography with BitTorrent (outrageous, I know). I watched countless videos of her on YouTube. I bought the DVD “Britney Spears: Live from Las Vegas.” I haven’t been able to stop listening to her third album, “Britney.”
Yet, despite everything she does (vagina-flashing and baby-dropping included), I just can’t seem to stop. Some of her music may be ridiculous (see “Born to Make You Happy,” a feminist’s nightmare), but at the same time incredibly catchy and easy to sing along to. There’s no denying that “…Baby One More Time” is an incredibly effective pop song. She’s also an incredible performer, even if she doesn’t actually sing all the time, and I’m definitely anticipating the day that I’ll be able to see her in concert for the first time.
My false idolatry aside, I’m willing to admit that she’s having issues right now. If I had spent my entire youth in the eyes of the public, I’d be pretty messed up, too. And I don’t blame her for almost dropping her son while a vicious gaggle of photographers circled around her. I’m clumsy as hell, and it would take a lot less than a camera flash to make me drop something as heavy as a small child. Give the girl a chance to breathe, though, and I’m confident she’ll resuscitate her image and make a full-on comeback. She’s working on a new album right now, and her producer has said that a release toward the end of the year is likely (and hopefully her hair will have grown back by then).
That’s right: Mona Lisa is on her way back, girls and boys, and I’ve just begun (having my fun).