Baby, One Last Time

Today I pause the “This I Believe” series (or maybe just end it entirely) to honor the passing of a dear friend. Some called her “overprotected.” Some “crazy.” Some “lucky.” To me, she was always stronger than yesterday. From the bottom of my broken heart, Britney, I’ll miss you.

Hold up a minute -- don’t direct your browser to E! Online yet. Britney hasn’t exactly gone to the Great Dance-Off in the Sky. If her bellybutton ring seems a bit tarnished, it’s not because the pearly gates have poor disco lighting.

And, okay, Britney’s not exactly my friend either. I like to think we’re connected in the Kevin Bacon sense. That’s my prerogative. Britney provided the soundtrack for my first and only karaoke performance, circa 2002. In a Houston, TX sushi buffet/dance lounge, my TFA roommate Danielle and I delighted eel-lovers and pedophiles alike with “Oops....I Did It Again.” We didn’t shut the place down, though federal health inspectors might have appreciated the favor. The two-for-one crab roll special distracted our audience, as did the sake.

And -- not to get too literal, but -- we did have a tough act to follow. Our “opening number” could’ve been mistaken for a young 50 Cent, had he been young or black. He’d mastered the bling-bling, and the lingo (sort of). “Are you ready, bitches?” Before anyone could go for plate refills, Fitty cued “Tainted Love,” that Soft Cell classic beloved in elevators and C-grade strip clubs nationwide. It was the “extended version” with the “baby, baby....where did our love go?” Supremes riff. Fitty locked eyes with the front row. “Don’t you want me?” He hoisted a folding chair to the stage. “Don’t you want me no more?”

Any chance Danielle and I had of convincing the audience we “weren’t that innocent” fizzled as Fitty took his seat. No, I mean he really “took” his seat. The “burnin’ burnin’ yearnin’ feeling inside” was perhaps biologically akin to heartache, but anatomically....Fitty had another body part in mind.

To lose all his senses, well, that was just so typically him.

In 2002, I was almost 22. Danielle was 24. Britney was 21. That’s in chronological years. In experience, where seduction was concerned....one of us belonged in a younger generation. It wasn’t Danielle. “Oops....I Did It Again” practically demands a well-orchestrated wardrobe malfunction. I went for the camp counselor version. “Oops....I did it again / I played with your heart (hands over heart) / Got lost (hands over eyes, searching the terrain) in the game (hands arranging fictional chess pieces).” The deejay Handi Wiped Fitty’s chair. The audience drifted into an all-you-can-eat coma.

How times have changed. Britney and I aren’t girls anymore. We are, in fact, women. Only, Britney has eagerly compiled the Greatest Hits of womanhood -- career, husband, baby, second pregnancy. I’m content with the single track. (How’s that for metaphor? I’m addicted to you, but I know that you’re toxic!). Instead of decrying Brit’s exposed thongs, the tabloids now focus on her visible stretch marks. Or on her missing car seat. Or on K-Fed, who doubtless preferred “Cops” to “The Mickey Mouse Club.”

Britney’s latest oeuvre is not an album or a fragrance, but sad poetry. “Silly patterns that we follow / You pull me in / I’m being swallowed.” Oh, Britney. Bring back the routine with the snake? Please?

Then last week Matt Lauer made Britney cry.

I refuse to watch this journalism tidbit. I prefer to remember the old Britney. The “made you believe / We’re more than just friends” Britney. Mystery was always Britney’s hook. Was she a rule-following Catholic schoolgirl or a behind-the-bleachers cheerleader? “Hit me, baby, one more time” or “Don’t go knockin’ on my door”? “Slave 4 U” or “Cry Me a River”? (Actually, “Cry Me a River” was Justin, but who started those tears?).

Sometimes she ran; sometimes she hid. But she never pleaded for respect on national television. Not until now. The end of an era. I wrote a song about it. Wanna hear it? Here it goes:

The Day That Britney Cried
(to the tune of “American Pie”)

A long, long time ago
I can still remember
How her music used to make me sweat
‘Cause I knew if I had my chance
I’d tempt the boys with modern dance
Or, maybe, just bust club moves I’d regret

But time’s grim march, it made me dour
Like one too many happy hours
Bad news kept a’comin’
Like Bun 2 in the oven.

I can’t remember tears I shed
When she said “I do” to her K-Fed
But, oh, the existential dread
The day that Britney cried.

So, bye bye, those skirts up to her thigh
Once seducing, now producing offspring with Shar’s throw-off guy
And my spirits sank low, although the ratings went high
The day that Britney cried.

Did you write those songs ‘bout lust,
And did you have surgeons build your bust
Like the tabloids said you did?
Are you all done with rock ‘n’ roll
Has marriage taken such great toll
And can you teach me how to shimmy on a pole?

Well, I know you’re not in love with him
He doesn’t rap like Eminem
Call Justin for some back-up
Here -- I’ll help you pack up

I was a lonely post-pubescent doe
With furniture from Rooms-to-Go
But I knew someone’d stopped the show
The day that Britney cried.

So, bye bye to that gleam in your eye
That “come hither” now has withered, and we all wonder why.
The ‘razzi was dismissed, but now the fans are left dry
The day that Britney cried.