Leave It to Bieber

Over Easter Brunch, I confessed to have not only watched MTV's dopey SILENT LIBRARY game show, but also aware of one Justin Bieber. The former, an admitted guilty pleasure (especially girl eating Cheetos off a fat hairy guy's naked torso), featured the latter on the first episode I watched, but I didn't have a clue who this lil' fella was until I heard his name. Later, I saw him on another guilty pleasure, CHELSEA LATELY w/ Chelsea Handler, someone I have completely turned around on in recent months. (In fact I highly recommend her book, ARE YOU THERE, VODKA? IT'S ME, CHELSEA) Anyway, this Bieber boy, all adorable and flirty and already on track for a beat-down, is 16 but looks 12. Was he fed some kind of stunted growth hormone? He gets by on his looks for now, looking like he should be named Cubby then rocks out that early Beatles moptop 'do of his. I did have to acknowledge that I was unfamiliar with his music. Fortunately, I was able to find a video on demand and didn't retch. The kid's got somethin' goin' on, a little like early Timberlake. He beats the hell out of Leif Garrett. As it turned out that I couldn't get that stupid catchy song out of my brain pan, a phenomenon that occurs more often than not, and found myself singing "Baby, baby, baby...Ohhhhh!!!" to myself in the car. (In the name of the father, the son and the holy guacamole....what is happening to me?)

The "Baby" ditty is at least better than that wretched "Fireflies" song by Owl City, definitely the most vile song of the new millenium. ("I'd get a thousand hugs...from ten thousand lightning bugs..." Bluch!!!!!There goes breakfast, lunch AND dinner...) I keep thinking of John Belushi's Bluto smashing the folksinger's guitar to smithereens in ANIMAL HOUSE. I see the appeal of Bieber Boy, but I am creeped out by the drooling of soccer moms who sitting in their mini-vans dreaming of this UNDERAGE star on the rise while thumbing through the TWILIGHT series for the umpteenth time like a rabid pack of Mary Kay Letourneaus in training. This cougar crap is getting way out of hand. Cradle robbing is turning into grand theft larceny. Meanwhile, Roman Polanski is sitting in his chateau screaming, "Foul! Double standard!" Shut up and drink your cocoa, Roman. No, you can't have a marshmallow. I saw what you did with it last time, you sick fuck.

As for his shelf life, I think he's got a future. Bieby isn't one of these generic concoctions from the Disney factory like dullard Zac Efron. (Mark my words. Z's going to look like Peter Gallagher when he ages, Frida Kahlo unibrow and all) If JB can avoid the tabloids as much as humanly possible in this day and age by at least not dragging his own name through the mud, he could make it up to legal age with career intact. Then again, he could succumb to some Melanie Griffith lookalike and go down the same unpaved highway as Edward Furlong. Drugs and drink could take a toll on that pretty face o' his, landing him in the ditch with Lindsay Lohan. Now THERE'S a potentially sordid future soul mate for him, turning them into the latest star duo, Crash and Burn. Or he could go quietly and not age well naturally, ending up in the same trailer park as Hanson.

But why do I feel the need to know who Justin Bieber is and why do I care?

Maybe what's really at stake is my on-going battle against the clock, fearing that I'm going to be left behind or in the dark if I can't name the three Kardashian girls. (Kim, Khloe and Kourtney...oh God I am pathetic beyond reproach)) I want to be able to get the references, folks! Y'see, I figure if I fill my head with these insignificant disposable diapers that pass as today's stars, I can also feel younger than my years and maintain my hipness in the process. Of course, it's all a sham. I recognize that. But I do it anyway. It's all fast food without a lick of nutrition or enrichment for my soul, but it can be a real hoot in hell to mock indignantly while taking it all into my poor beleaguered mind. Yeah, I hate to admit it, but I feed at the same trough at everyone else. I just do so with a sneer on my face.

So there. I admit it. I know Justin Bieber.

Now who the hell is Michael Buble?