Gimme, Gimme More NaBloPoMo

Britney's new album, Blackout, hit shelves on Tuesday. Now... I know what you're thinking... or well no, you're not thinking, you're judging. You are! Don't deny it. I know, I know, so she's been a little... unhinged lately. So she's pretty much pathognomonic for "train wreck," okay, I get it, I do catch the news once in awhile. Would I want her as my mother? No. Would I want her as a liability in my life? Probably not. But do I want her to reclaim her pop princess throne? A LITTLE BIT, YES.

The contemporary hits in mindless music just doesn't compare to Britney's vacuous hypersexualized pant-fests of yore. In the past three years her absence has been deafening: no melodies have been quite as catchy, no lyrics as superficially honest, no vocal artists quite as untalented, all factors making hairbrush sing alongs a brutal reminder of the divide between actual recording artists and the pop star I can be in my bedroom. Britney's music allows the diva in all of us to transcend that divide. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

I've been looking forward to this album since election day 2006 when she announced her divorce from K-Fed. I am still optimistic it can turn things around for her. Well, insofar as the money earned goes towards something other than red bulls and crack... like say, a trust fund for her babies or I don't know, underwear.

But anyway. Point is, I recognize I'm in the minority here with all the support and hope that she's still relevant to the music industry I'm harboring. This was made abundantly clear when I zipped down to Borders on Tuesday to purchase the album.

I took the escalators up and up to their music section and confronted a display of new releases that had five, yes FIVE, copies of her album.

Not because that was all that was left, but because I think that's just how many the deemed necessary to put out.

I'll admit that at that point I thought (BRIEFLY) it might be time to let go.

There's still something about her though. The album is... well, it's a little... it's kind of like a Twinkie.

When you approach a Twinkie you're a little unnerved... what is this thing? Are you sure it's really food? It's a little spongy, it's a hue not typically found in nature, and it's so chock full of preservatives it would probably be around for cockroaches to nibble after a nuclear holocaust -- in a word: suspect, but most people would eat it anyway. And once you do, oh it's good.

Sure it's not going to meet any substantive needs and it's pretty much just a batch of calories wasted, but it is just... so... good. Worth it, if you will. It's so good you overlook the artificiality and over-processing.

Well, almost. You almost do. You need the reservations at least a little bit. They're what make it all such a guilty pleasure... but! a pleasure nonetheless.

***************

I've decided to participate again in National Blog Posting Month, or endearingly, NaBloPoMo. My favorite bloggy friend, Charlotte, and I are endeavoring to do it together, because everyone knows doing something with someone else increases the likelihood of it actually happening... even though that logic didn't exactly uh, pan out last year.

So yes. Yay November.