Hey Paula, Dept.

I may have written in these pages about my opinion of Paula Cole's song, "Feelin' Love." My uncertainty is rooted in the fact that I can't be arsed to rummage about my archives, 'cause that's just the kind of lazy shitsack I am.

At any rate, Paula Cole. I myself was not a huge fan of hers back when dried semen on a blue dress was the greatest of this nation's problems. I didn't particularly like "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" or "I Don't Want to Wait," but mine was a lonely dissenting voice in Lilith Fair America. Young women were discovering not only the magick of their bodies but also their God-given right to give vent, bitterly if tunefully, to their crippling penis envy. We owned the CD, heard those two songs and that was about that for the oeuvre of Paula Cole.

Fast-forward to the mid-Oughties. The country is, by this point, well and truly screwed without a smile. Your sobsister is aimlessly trawling the Webs, when I come upon a site at break.com. For those of you who are still here, having resisted the temptation to open a new tab and bail, break.com is aimed at those young fellows who find maxim.com a tad too intellectually rigorous. Features like "Dude Slips Pipe Inbetween (sic) Bikers (sic) Tire" and "Hot Chick Kicks Boyfriends (sic) Ass." Yes?

At any rate, I land there and see some sort of competition they sponsor. Videos of "babes" or "chix" or "gashes" or however they refer to women are voted upon, and one lucky damsel becomes "Break Girl of the Day." This was the winner the day I visited.

Yes. Lalita. La. Lee. Ta. Not to get all Vlad the Impaler on y'all. But I have to thank her for a number of things, not least of which is the fact that she burned "Feelin' Love" onto my musical motherboard. I'm usually not a huge fan of the YouTube Lipsync. Gawky girls flying their goofy flag high. Or smudgily aping moves kiped from BET videos. The 21st century equivalent of singing into a hairbrush while jumping up and down on the bed. But this particular effort I found...engaging. Yes. Engaging. All the more so given that it appears to have been shot in an attic closet. And, then, when I found out that homegirl is based here in Choc City, well, how could I help but admire her achievement. By which I mean her apparent ability to transcribe the Declaration of Independence by using a pen attached to her pelvis.

"Lalita" has a MySpace page where fellows can apparently implore her to slip their straining members from the surly bonds of denim, and on which she notes, "I'm a laid-back girl that can be girly as hell but I can also kick it wit da boys. So holla atcha girl if your interested in being friends or something more." Yes. Opening at Feinstein's next week.

But, yeah, "Feelin' Love." Hottest fucking song EVER. And the referenced a perfect video introduction to it. I have a newfound admiration for Paula Cole as a songwriter. To begin with.

The lyrics:

You make me feel like a sticky pistil leanin' into a stamen.
You make me feel like a Mr. Sunshine, himself.
You make me feel like splendor in the grass, while we're rollin'.
Damn skippy, baby!
You make me feel like the Amazon's runnin' between my thighs.

(Chorus)
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love-ah, love-ah.

You make me feel like a candy apple, red and horny.
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde in a centerfold,
the girl next door.
And I would open the door, and I'd be all wet,
With my tits soaking through this tiny flannel t-shirt
that I'm wearing,
And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.

(Chorus)

Lover, I don't know who I am.
Am I Barry White, am I Isis?
Lover, I'm laced with your unconscience.
I will be your Desdemona.
(take you home)


Damn skippy, baby.