Sanjaya Malakar, teen hasbeen and fourth recognised name in the United States, is the object of my very recent unending fascination.
Oh shut up. I know, I know! I’m half a century late but I just can’t get into anything that everyone else is into at the time they’re into it as well. It’s some bizarre superiority trip that will always, without fail, ensure I am so not with it. Ever. Not because I am uncool, necessarily, but because yeah, well, I missed the bus. But ON PURPOSE.
That is the difference. And look, I am quite happy to wait it out and bide my time until it or he or she becomes completely passe. I am so NOT with it (it being ANYTHING) that it is the ONE thing in my life I offer my much valued and very rare quality of patience. I will wait until nobody will so much as give a shit or backward glance. Until it becomes a blind spot in the papers, until the fans betray, blogs die out and web hits sink to an abysmal all time low and that whatever-it-happens-to-be-this-week/ month/ season/ year/ whatever, fades quietly, sometimes embarrassingly, into oblivion.
Then, it’s mine.
Having said that, let me continue to gush on my serious crush. One that is dangerously terrible for him, with a promisingly disastrous outcome for me. Sanjaya Malakar, teenage boy weird wonder with that angelic voice, the schizophrenic Libran hair do(s), the disarming stuck-in-the-50s song choices, and that gigawatt SMILE (holy Jesus) that made my blood pressure, my mouth and indeed gravity, drop.
I love him. I must have him. Po-hawk and all. I want it, I want it, I want it now. Yesterday, he was yours, America. YOU had him. All you millions. Now hand it over, signed, sealed, delivered. World, I can keep this secret no longer, I am coming out of the shadows and ‘Steppin out with my baby.’
Sanjaya, I love the waya your name rhymes with playa. I’m willing to wait till you’re a manjaya and I guess that makes me your fanjaya. So **** all the naya-sayas… and let me wash in your bathwater.