It wasn’t until the advent of pop phenomenon Britney Spears that I realized I was aging far faster than I had previously imagined.
Yup, gone seem the days of Carole King and Joni Mitchell ballads; with the success of Britney wiggling and jiggling her way across the globe, it appears the poetic lyrics and well-crafted melodies of my youth have gone the way of the Vac-U-Form. (If you have to ask what that is, my point exactly.)
It’s not that Britney’s music is vacuous...okay, it’s a close call but, after all, it's the buying public that’s buying. The youth dollar has ruled the music industry for a very long time, so why shouldn't producers cater primarily to the budding libidos of their youthful patrons?
Ah, sweet youth; hit me baby one more time...
Anyway, perhaps to permanently capture a piece of youth, the name "Britney" has become popular among people for assignment to their cats, dogs and/or iguanas, not to mention scores of newborn girls. But God help the hip, pop parents who attach a clever spelling of Britney to a male child; I can only hope they do not despair when Junior grows up more partial to lacy leather than to football.
I have nothing against Britney Spears, mind you. She’s a perky little bundle of undulation and breasts akimbo but her music? Gee, open a can and there you have it. It's somewhat reminiscent of The Partridge Family although Susan Dey only wishes she'd had it so good.
Well, color me elder or at least permanently out of the youth loop. And, if this commentary has been just another exercise in placing my size seven in my mouth, all I can say is "Oops, I did it again..."