After I wondered briefly what Paul Rubens was doing in his life to make him so cheerful [and then paused to think, "Does David Gest have a son? No, no, I think I'd remember something that impossible"], I took a closer look at the above photograph and with a gasp recognized the visage of the throaty-voiced capitalization-repellant that is k.d. lang. (Honey? You're grown. So unless you are e.e. cummings, there is no excuse for insisting upon skipping the shift key.)
Ms. Lang -- Lang, I shall heretofore insist upon typing with defiance -- has always had a touch of the butch, but if this close-up shot is any indication, her exit from Lake Estrogen is now both complete and permanent. She always had sort of an endearingly hopeless fugocity, but there was at least some longer pieces of hair, some clumsy, careless makeup, funky jewelry... Now it's gone, and she's shot past androgyny straight to masculinity.
She's so dull and plain. Look at her. She doesn't want to sing about craving; she wants to do your taxes, or scour Consumer Reports for news of the new Chevy Malibu. She doesn't want to push the envelope -- she wants to put the cheque for her Readers' Digest subscription inside it and then lick it, stamp it, send it.
I think I miss the feminine side of her fug.
Again, perusing archives and feeling compelled to comment on things posted over 6 months ago.
Did you catch Ms. Lang on the Leno Carson tribute last week?
Um, hi, yeah. Bare feet? Doesn't make up for the extra padding under your man-jacket.
Get a fuggin life. I had to close my eyes in order to listen to your beautiful voice, and even then, the sight kept flashing on that weird little black screen behind my eyes.
Wow... for a second there, I thought that was the guy that played Data on Star Trek: The Next Generation!