Bloody smashing, dah-ling

On my way to a Halloween party last week I was listening to the radio, something I can’t stand to do in the morning due to all the incessant chatter and forced hilarity. But this was evening, obviously. Have you ever been to a Halloween party before noon? No matter. It was evening and I was driving and I wasn’t wearing a costume because moving is expensive and my bank account needs money for things like automatic car payment drafts and cell phone bills, not Slutty Cop costumes or Skanky Nurse outfits.

In lieu of a costume I’d paper-clipped a small note to my shirt with the previous date stenciled in my very best handwriting. All night long people asked what I was, to which I replied, “Yesterday.” It wasn’t really that funny, at least not as funny as the time in college when I stapled a note to chest that simply read “Thirsty?” Because I wasn’t sporting a toga or recognizable Star Wars costume, I got puzzled looks followed by a confused reading of the index card. “Thirsty??” they’d say. To which I’d reply, “Why yes, I am. Could you be a kitten and get me a beer?”

The ensuing party and my non-costume were the last thing on my mind, however. As previously stated, I was listening to the radio, one of the generic radio stations this town produces that spews out American Idol emoti-ballads and bleeped-out rap songs. Got to keep it clean for the kids, you know. *cough.

The song for the evening was one by Fergie, the lone female addition to the Black Eyed Peas. I don’t really have any problems with the Black Eyed Peas, besides the fact that their name makes me think of rubbery bacon stewing in a pot of actual black eyed peas. The bacon makes the peas taste good but it always looks pale and trembling, as if to say it had prepared itself for the hot crisping frying pan but this slow, painful and watery death is just more than it can bear.

Fergie apparently struck out on her own with this new CD and really, who can blame her? If someone is stupid enough to fund your debut solo album then by all means, take that check and run. Should I end up hating your efforts, I’m old enough to change the radio and you’re rich enough to buy a radio station. I’d say that makes us pretty much even.

What confused me about this song is that I finally took a moment to listen to the lyrics, lyrics that are a direct contradiction to the video I saw on MTV the other day. Those lyrics are: “How come every time you come around my London Bridge, wanna go down like London Bridge.” I’ve omitted many, many instances where words are used twice and sometimes thrice to fill the beats of the song because someone, somewhere was just too fucking lazy to write out a whole verse that made actual sense.

In the video we see Miss Fergie making clear intimations that her sole source of happiness stems from a certain act performed on her knees. The London Bridge Gatekeeper people, who have special English names and special furry tall hats, are oblivious to her groping and ass rubbing, but you can totally see the struggle in their reserved British eyes. Should I abandon my post of duty and allow this scantily clad American to fondle my private bits, they seem to say. And then we cut to lots of other scantily clad non-Fergie people dancing around and making more ass rubbing movements. It’s great fun, really.

My first problem stems from the fact that the video seems to say that the London Bridge she’s referring to lives on these lovely British men, the ones who repeatedly get her face buried in their crotch. But the lyrics imply she’s empowered with her female-ness and the London Bridge lives in her pants and that the men are so crazy about this bridge they want to, ahem, go down. Hence, I feel she should obviously fire her creative video director and take some lessons from Janet “Ms. Nasty” Jackson.

My second problem relates to dear Fergie and how she used to be such a cute little bugger. You see, I remember Fergie as Stacy Ferguson, the blond, annoying and slightly chubby kid on Kids Incorporated during it’s mid-eighties run. She was the one who followed Jennifer Love Hewitt around and always got into trouble because, dangit, she was just so fumbly and clumsy and cute. What happened to that Fergie? When did she take a turn for neon wearing, eyebrow piercing, heavy lipliner sporting Hoochie? WHERE IS THE FERGIE OF MY YOUTH? And why does she sing nonsensical lyrics that somehow manage to rhyme the following:

Grey Goose got your girl feeling loose
Now I’m wishing that I didn’t wear these shoes
It’s like every time I get up on the dude
Paparazzi put my business in the news