Monday, January 28, 2008

Really? Really.

So on the morning radio show I listen to, like many others, there is a "Mystery Oldie" part of the program. I usually know the answer, or at least title OR artist, and most of the time, it is at least over 10 years old. Today, however, was a different story.

Being Joey Fatone's 31st birthday, (Happy Bday, Joe!) they played "It's Gonna Be Me" for the mystery oldie. Ok, so it was released in 2000, that's 8 years old... But does that really make it an oldie? I guess it's up to each person's descretion, since a google search produced no good answers. But honestly, couldn't they have chosen "Tearin' Up My Heart" or "I Want You Back"? At least they're 10 years old.

Jeebus. 10 years.... I guess, since it is the Fat One's Birthday and since my love of "the stinky boys" (As Ma calls them) has hit a milestone anniversary (10th is traditionally tin/aluminium --wha?) I'll post my very favorite *NSYNC blog-post ever made:

Originally posted by "Rainbeaux" at on 7/24/2003

Think of how much you loved JC the first time you heard Blowin' Me Up. And then the first time you heard Build My World. And when he called you a bitch in Some Girls.

Think of how much you love him for "people" and "because yes" and "I'm 'bout to get groped" and every other piece of silly drabble that ever left those pretty lips.

Think of how much you love him in pink, and glitter, and low-rise jeans, and cropped pants, and flip flops, and more jewelry than any three boys you know combined own.

Think of how much you loved Chris for Icky Vicky. And how you loved him even more for My Shiny Teeth and Me. And how the "Word!" you and your friends always spouted from the Simpsons is now followed immediately by "Don't say that."

Think of how much you loved him when he broke up with Dani and had to have it dragged out of him on live television by an interviewer we all knew didn't know half a shit about him, her or them. Think of how much you loved him the day after his "off night" in Chicago when we found out Busta had died.

Think of how much you loved his dreads and his braids and his mohawk and his little purple streaks and how no ridiculous thing he did to his head ever seemed quite ridiculous enough to keep up with him.

Think of how much you wanted evil, creepy Justin stalking through Not Britney's house. And how the delicious chills turned abruptly to a sympathetic heartache with one twinge of his face in the last scenes.

Think of how it felt to watch him grow -- from baby Justin who owned it and didn't know it, to No Strings Justin who owned it and did know it, to Celebrity Justin who owned it, knew it, and worked it like it was going out of style.

Think of how much you loved him for the quiet "thank God" and the big hug he gave Joey when he got back to the Pop video shoot -- and, right before he backpedaled to allow for the obligatory two feet of "we're not gay" space, just how tight they held each other.

Think of how much you loved baby Lance, the towheaded half-redneck that bumbled helplessly through his first couple of years of showbiz -- shot down, spit on, downplayed, almost thrown out of the group -- and still managed to grin like he loved every minute. And of how much you loved watching the others dote over him, protect him, because goober he may have been, he was their goober.

Think of how much you love the old pictures -- drawls and y'alls and jazz hands and sequins -- and looking at what they grew up to become. And how much you love the brief moments where The Pop Star slips from his pedestal and the resignedly famous Southern boy peeks briefly around the facade.

Think of how much you loved how excited he was when he went to Russia (even if you didn't really want him to do it). Think of how easy it was to ignore the fifteen pounds he lost if you concentrated on his smile (even if you didn't really want him to do it). Think of how your heart broke when he managed to keep smiling when they sent him home (even if you didn't really want him to do it). And think of how fun it was to hear all the late-night comics talking about him, tasteless jabs or no.

Think of how much you loved Joey for taping Europe -- all of it -- and then letting us see. Think of how he pretended not to be in torturous pain during the Pop shoot, and cracked jokes about his fat legs saving him.

Think of him with a wife and baby daughter. Seriously. Just think about it for a second.

Think of how you went to see the goofy little indie film that could, before it could, just to hear him say "I have three testicles" in Greek. Think of sitting through the entire first two episodes of the God-awful sitcom they made of it, just to hear him gripe about selling fish. Think of the fact that he read the script for On The Line, and then, as an experienced actor, agreed to star in it anyway -- because, dammit, his little brother needed somebody to play his best friend in a movie. Think of watching NBC's half-assed American Idol ripoff just to see him in a tux.

Think of all the performances. The specials. Every song. Every note.

Think of *N the Mix. MSG. The Reel NSYNC. Making the Video. Driven.

Think of all the friends you've made with whom you have nothing in common but this.

Now take all of that, and put it all together. Look back at this list and think of all the beautiful things you have in your life because of them.

Think of how much you love them.

And realize that, for all this, for all we love them without ever really knowing them...

After eight years, nobody -- none of us -- can ever love them like they love each other.

And that's all I have to say about that.

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