Don't act so surprised. Anyone self-indulgent enough to have a blog is certainly self-indulgent enough to use that blog to commemorate their birth. Unlike my conception, this will be brief and painless. I promise.
We've all been there. A late night, you're home alone. Your texts are going unanswered. You're starting to doubt yourself. That six pack of Twisted Tea in the fridge beckons. So you start flipping around the old idiot box. As usual, you land on Nick At Nite. And suddenly, you feel a surge of life coursing through your veins. Something deep inside of you stirs anew. It's the ladies of syndicated television. They are our goddesses of projected fantasies. But who, of our harem of hotness, reigns supreme?
I've made no secret about my love for the music of Michael Bolton. My first boat was named the "SS Michael Bolton How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?" And when that disappeared in a mysterious fire, my second boat was the "SS Michael Bolton How Am I Supposed To Live Without You? II."
That doesn't make me special. It just means I have a set of working ears. Because anyone who can't instantly appreciate the velvety tones and lyrical imagery that Mr. Bolton graces us with is either a)a hater (who's gon' hate) or b) deaf. If I ever go deaf, I might just have to end my life if I know I'll never again hear Michael pontificate on the grandeur of love.
But more than his voice, there is an essence of Bolton. An aura, if you will. It's a certain something. It's what causes a deer to look up quizzically as it laps gently at a babbling brook. It's what makes the purple mountains shine with just that much more bit of majesty. It's what gives even the straightest arrow a halfie upon glimpsing his golden mane, suggesting that perhaps in his lineage there was a tryst between a mighty lion and one of his Adonis forefathers.
It's what allows Michael Bolton to sing the following songs better than black people.