Closet Full of Skeletons

I can't help myself.  

I know I shouldn't.  It just draws me in.  He, just draws me in and I have to go to him.  No matter how my wife or family or anyone else feels about it.  It's wrong.  So wrong.  So dirty.  That's part of what I like.  I throw off my shame and run towards him.  His music at least.  I love Bobby Brown.  

Ever since New Edition.  Even more so when he went solo.  A lone wolf with a beautiful howl.  A howl with a message of music.

My father is a jazz musician.  He doesn't even know.  Never came out to him.  Parents are always the last to know.  

From the outside, you could never tell.  I've always been a bit of a music snob.  Especially when I was younger and I could shop for music or go out to see bands live.  Miles Davis, Beastie Boys, Smashing Pumpkins, Buddy Rich, Dizzy Gillespie, Guns n Roses, KRS-One, Tribe called Quest, The Breeders.  Even if what I was listening to wasn't the best, or most esoteric, or newest, it was always cool, or hip enough, or important musically.  Except for him.  Bobby Brown.   Misunderstood troubadour of the heart.

I think it's horrible what he did to Whitney, but when the hopeful adolescent love of Every Little Step I Take fills the room, I forget about the Bad Bobby, and I sing.  

The Poetry of one Robert Beresford Brown:

I can't sleep at night, I toss and turn

Listen for the telephone

And when I get your call, I'm all choked up

Can't believe you called my home

And as a matter of fact, it blows my mind

you would even talk to me

because a girl like you is a dream come true

A real life faaantaseee

Its like that, it's like that guurrrrl

Every little step I take, you will be there

Every little move I make, we'll be togetheerrr.

I just typed every one of those lyrics from memory.  If you google it you'll find I'm not far off.

My wife just handles it by sweeping it under the rug.  She pretends like I am the normal, healthy man I seem to be to everyone else.  I don't blame her.  Some perversions are best left in the dark, hiding in shadows.  Under a rock.  But now, I have chased the shadows away and let the light of day shine in.  I love Bobby Brown and I don't care who knows it.  I even like the theme from Ghost Busters 2.  On Our Own.  Aren't we all, Bobby?  Aren't we all?

Thank Christ this blog is anonymous.  

Let me close with his words.  Words of simplicity.  Words of truth.

And if you find the tenderoni that is right for you

Make it official

Give her your luuhhh-uh-uhve.

                                                    Courtesy of Jerk Magazine Blog

Shamelessly,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  This is a recycled post.  When I wrote it, there were very few people reading.  I figured, "How can one air one's dirty laundry if there is no one there to smell it?"  One can't.  So, take a big whiff everyone, of my soul laid bare.  Smells like crack and failure.  Oh, Bobby.  


P.P.S.  A video was requested.  View at your own risk.  Don't blame me if you become DiscomBobbylated.  Retch.