Obsession songs
At what point did pop singers turn into stalkers? Or, more precisely, at what point did a three-and-a-half-minute musical interpretation of Fatal Attraction become something that the radio-listening public embraced as the ultimate romantic experience?
You see, I can remember some creepy hit songs from the '80s that made me want to bolt down my windows and buy a blow-up "Safe-T Man" from a mail-order catalog whenever Ira left for a morticians' convention. There was the Alan Parson's Project song, "I am the eye in the sky and I'm watching you," which took top-40 music to new heights of paranoia. After that Sting declared he was watching me with every move I make and every cake I bake.
Sting sang about a stalker whose love was just a bit ongapatchka, but most of the bubble-gum brained American public was oblivious to the mentally disturbing nature of the song; they chalked it up as a romantic ballad and bought it in droves. Which, I suppose, makes me glad that I'm not dating the American public!
Luckily for him, Sting isn't dating the American public anymore either (although he could probably get a few calls if he'd just use Rogaine and Menoxydil, or if he visited my father Isaac's establishment, Hairs to You, "Hoboken's first and only deluxe toupee outlet"). Instead, the public is now dating Mariah Carey, which means that her reputation hasn't changed at all since she left our home town of Centerport, Long Island; it's simply acquired larger territory.
Now it's Mariah who sings phrases like, "You're never going to shake me, you'll always be my baby" and doesn't seem to care that there's something just a tad... relentless about the tone. Mariah, honey... never? Ever? What about needing to use the restroom? Or trips to your gynecologist?
Believe me, if I were the man you were singing to, I'd have myself framed for armed robbery and then incarcerated, just for privacy. Because in all honesty, I think that belonging to some giant thug named Rocko Stonefence in cell block five would still beat being trapped in your pathologically possessive clutches.
Of course, I suppose that if a pop singer were stalking me, I would want it to be Mariah Carey. At least I'd have time to react whenever she approached, because I'd hear that screeching harpy's highpitched voice come wailing down the driveway, and before that, I'd be able to hear dogs barking for blocks. It would kind of be like in Peter Pan, the way that alligator was always chasing Captain Hook, but the alligator had a loudly ticking clock in his stomach so Hook could hear him approaching.
Speaking of stalkers, Collegian reader and Penn State alumni Jonathan Heid wrote me and suggested that "if only Auntie Syl could be bottled in six-packs the world would be a better place!" I'm sure you meant that in a complimentary way, but I'm afraid I've had to place a restraining order on you since Larry Schoeffield at the local Pepsi bottling facility said the same thing about his wife, who disappeared shortly thereafter but whose earrings turned up in a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew.
I'm urging you, the American public, to put an end to senseless stalking by pop singers! Isn't it enough that all of our child actors grow up to be felons and sex offenders? If our favorite vocalists can't sing about healthy, realistic relationships and insist instead on glorifying co-dependency and obsessive-compulsive behavior, we should stop rewarding them with lucrative contracts and corporate endorsements and just have them all locked away in padded cells. In fact, I can think of a few such facilities that are absolutely state of the arts! (The Daily Collegian)
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