Have you ever wished for an endless night?
Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight?
Thus far three resounding reasons have been offered here as to why the Oughts did not pass through time like a “Lost Decade.”
Now, let us ponder this:
In order to thunder from heaven with a clap of reverberating pop-music genius, it appears to be necessary to have a one-syllable nom de plume that begins with P.
“What part of party don’t you understand?”
Look, she rocks. I don’t care that she throws around f-bombs like petunias at a Jessica-Lange garden party. I don’t care that she takes stupid, predictable pot-shots at Holy Church in her videos. I don’t care that she writes self-righteous letters for dumb, trendy causes. And I don’t even like “Don’t Let Me Get Me.”
But she enchants like a siren.
“Glitter in the Air,” “Raise Your Glass,” and “Sober.” “Who Knew?” and “So What?” “Just Like a Pill” and “Please Don’t Leave Me.” Are you kidding me? One poke-me-cause-Im-dreaming work of excellence after another.
If I could get away with it, I would sing the chorus of “F**king Perfect” to everyone. I cry every time I hear it.
I am not ashamed to admit that I love P!nk and wish her happiness with her newborn baby girl.