Last night, Shalewa caught me making fun of the wretched new Il Divo CD, saying that their Italian aria version of Mariah Carey's "Hero" was stunning garbage. I said I couldn't fathom anyone who would tolerate that song at all, let alone that version of it. I also made fun of the fact that Il Divo, essentially a manufactured opera boy band, wheeled out the corpse of Celine Dion for another painful duet. Then, I mocked their opera version of "All By Myself," which credits both Tchiakovsky and Eric Carmen as its songwriters.
"Man, you know some people love that crap," she said. And I thought to myself that I - having higher standards of taste - would never fall into that trap.
Then, I was reminded of the truth.
I just got an e-mail alerting me to a Michael Bublé concert at the Fox in March. And I know it's stupid, but I think he's completely dreamy. I own both of his albums.
I immediately e-mailed my mom to see if she'd get us tickets, but she said she'd never heard of him. I told her that he sings smooth jazz and that she would love it, but she wasn't taking the bait. Alas, I must love him from afar.
Kacoon, making fun of him, calls him "Michael Bubble," but I don't care if his music is complete cheese. I love him, particularly when he's wearing tight shirts and lotsa hair gel, and I like his voice, even though I cringed when his own website referred to its tone as "dark velvet."
I admitted my love to Lupo, who then googled Michael Bublé and found photos of him.
Then, Lupo wrote me this e-mail:
I just went to his site. He is yummier than I recalled. He looks like he's going to burst out crying at any moment so that you want to reach out and give him a hug and grab his ass while you're doing it.
I was blind but now I see....
Shame about his singing, though. I can stand like one or two songs but a whole evening of it would make me crazy.
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