Don't Tell Me

I went to work this morning gratefully oblivious to the threat that terrorists might want to strike the New York City subway system. I missed the whole damn thing. Got in late last night, slept late this morning. No Katie, Matt, Al or Ann for The Shan this Friday. Who knew no news IS good news? Gary Gnews!

At an undisclosed location in Brooklyn (sorry, aggressive fan club, gotta be extra careful), my early a.m. lethargy was in full swing. It's totally justifiable. After all, I worked like a bitch yesterday. All week, actually. So, I was in no hurry today. The boss is on his way to Hong Kong, and I made sweet love to my snooze button for nearly 3 hours. She's insatiable. I finally awoke from my dream, featuring hot DJs and Bollywood Electronica, only to drag ass taking my sweet time to pick out an appropriate Friday ensemble. Navy VANS, burn orange pants and my super-soft, thin as cheese cloth Barry Sanders #20 Detroit Lions t-shirt.

Hot Tip From Auntie Shan
The world would be a better place if everyone, even ugly Republicans, had a well worn, old t-shirt that slid over their shoulders and onto their torso as though it had a nipple fetish...and tickly feathers to nurture it.

My point--and I do have one--is that the beginning of my day involved no terror related anxiety. I wasn't amongst those who rode the F in anticipation of another Big Bang. I did, however, crap my pants when I arrived at the office, but in celebration, not panic. My bestest buddy, Wilson, sent me a copy of the artwork for the new Madonna album, Confessions on the Dance Floor, and my jaw dropped. Because I plan everything, right down to expressions of excitement and awe, I gently set my coffee down and took a deep breath. As I exhaled, after waiting to exhale becuase Terry McMillan told me that it builds suspense, the breath grew into a moan. Not an everyday moan, though. This was a Tina Turner, 'Private Dancer' moan. "Tell me, do you want to see me do the shimmy again? UUUUUUUUUUU-HHHHHHHHHHHH." No written words can possibly do justice to that moan. It's the second most sexy, disarming, instantly arousing aural caress in all of music. The first is Stevie Nicks' "Oooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh" in 'Edge of Seventeen.' Whew! Stevie and Tina are the proven method of sliding me outta my Jockeys in nanoseconds. Thank God that the Detroit Lions t-shirt slides off as easily as it slides on, too. Now, when I hear Tina and Stevie, I can stare at the Madonna cover. It's as hot to look at as they are to hear.

So, tell the bed not to lay like the open mouth of a grave, yeah, not to stare up at me like a calf down on its knees. Tell me love isn't true. It's just something that we do. Tell me everything I'm not. But please don't tell me to stop oogling at Madonna while Mayor Bloomberg scares the beejesus out of 4.5 million NYC subway riders. But don't ever tell me to stop caring more about Madonna than about police randomly searching my bag and violating my civil rights. Don't you ever, please don't, please don't, please don't tell me to stop discarding soda bottles filled with mysterious green liquid at Penn Station. Don't you ever, don't you ever, don't ever tell me to stop.