Monday, April 20, 2009
I have nothing to say about her, really; she broke as a global village phenomenon while I was off duty (a blogger should never admit to be being off duty, but I was off duty) and has somehow lingered for a week or two more, generating reams of bits and bytes and analysis and overanalysis. What will her fans think, though, if the Sidney Falcos combing through her trash discover that maybe she doesn't like cats? Or has been kissed? (The Victorianism of it all!) And you can see the trajectory, as sure as a chalk outline around a murder victim: The second thoughts ("Is she really that good?"), the little touches to make her just a little more attractive, like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie, the sudden, unanticipated displays of diva behavior, the wearing away of the "authenticity" as she buys in, wraps herself in ermine and emeralds, and marries Colin Farrell. (Well, my crystal ball may be a little fuzzy there.) For now, at least, she's as pure as a Manhattan snowfall before it turns to slush, before we realize we can't protect the virtue and innocence we feel she represents and that we covet. It won't be pretty to watch us tear down what we have built up. In the meantime, I don't mind putting my cards on the table and admitting that I want some of that hit action, too, so if titling a post "Susan Boyle" somehow raises my numbers, hey, I'm in the Susan Boyle business, too. Aren't we all in the Susan Boyle business?