sure feels good to me

Not having cable TV has turned me into an Amish person, apparently, because I have thus far labored unawares as to the ridunkulous sexual verisimilitude that is Usher Raymond’s stee. I just figured anyone who’d propose marriage to his woman MID-COITUS would have the brokest game in history. BUT! The man is hurricane charlie: his libido encompasses, and ultimately destroys, everything in its path, to nearly sociopathic levels. His props included fireworks, explosions, fog, extended video shots of flames, more explosions, the ocean, women swiming underwater, and a final eruption of confetti — which cascaded down like seed or an ego upon the screaming heads of 20,000 women and LA Reid– in the Continental Airlines Nets Kiosk, which as far as I can tell is located somewhere in New Jersey. Ever the fountainhead, Usher held his own among such biblically-proportioned imagery.
This is not to say I’m any less ambivalent about his music; I think his voice is strong, but he’s all cadence. What K sees in him, that he is a miniature pop R Kelly, does not grab me without [as-yet unconvicted/caught-on-tape chi-mo] R’s silken hooks, even including “Yeah,” which is best for Lil’ Jon and Ludacris anyhoo. “Caught Up” has that hot little breakbeat but after the concert, when the restaurant was blasting their ’89-’90 mix, I felt more emotional response hearing Lisa Lisa and Tony Toni Tone that I’ve ever felt from “Confessions.”
DISCLAIMER: In no way do I find a groomed and baby-faced narcissist attractive–but I was sucked in for a hot minute, by his fairly accomplished b-boying and the systematic removal, and recostuming, and removal, of his shirts. Most importantly, I was sucked in by his SINCERITY, read on his face through inner-pained cringes and dazzling grins (not to mention dazzling footwear). Of course I was, because that is how players work.
Except players usually trip up when the objects of their desire exercise free will. So when Usher singled out a lady from the audience to join him onstage to serenade her with “Superstar,” she was NOT having it. When he tried to stick his tongue in her throat, she brushed him off; then he basically pinned her down on a couch, and she gave him the cold dis. Only a megalomaniac such as Monsieur Raymond, self-indulgent and absurd, would attempt to dry-humping a stranger in front of thousands of people. And only a woman with a strong sense of self, and self-respect, would be able to spurn his exhibitionist advances.
Christina Milian (aka Paula Abdul II: great dancer, awful tone) opened, gave “Dip it Low” (right now, not as good to me as Nicole Wray’s “If I was Your Girlfriend,” which is number 13 to Milian’s 12, so sez Hot 97). She and two dancers proffered half-moon views of their asses, donning racing-striped leotards and letting their molded abs distract from Milian’s flimsy voice. I predicted her career will last three to six months, but Mensa Party said I was being too generous, and gave her ’til the end of the tour. Either way, the choreography was pretty all right.
Word up to stealing existentialism. Take it far, far away!
Also, I was going to write a lengthy essay about my simultaneously most-favorite and least-favorite magazine, XXL, which then morphed into the more pressing “What the Hell Are You Talking About?” in which I defend my second-favorite rap album of 2004 from a piece that can’t decide what it thinks, except that it inherently mistrusts Jadakiss for unspecified reasons. (P.S. Throw your hands in the air if you don’t want rap reviews to rhyme!) I still might.