Who am I kidding? That's a damned lie. Why does this category even exist? What kind-of self-loathing assholes would we be if we hated what we loved? I'm no longer ashamed to admit that I, Scanner Emily, love you, Michael McDonald. I want to shout it from the rooftops: I fucking love you!
So your old stuff is better than your new stuff. Still, you're totally my type: burly, bearded and, uh, a little older. I'm nostalgic and sentimental, anyway, so we can make it work for us.
Not only were you born in my home state of Missouri—thus sharing my Midwestern sensibilities—you're the kind-of guy a gal can count on. The Doobie Brothers counted on you when their lead singer got sick back in '75, and the bros loved you so much they kept you around. And why wouldn't they? There's nothing but love and wisdom behind that smooth, husky baritone voice.
So, maybe you went prematurely gray... it's distinguished; you wear it so well. And you're still young to me. And relevant! Seriously, when most girls are getting ready for a night out, they listen to a song that makes them happy or makes them feel sexy—for me, Michael, that song is "What a Fool Believes." After listening to it about seventy-five times I finally figured out what you were saying, and it touched me—I see my future flash before my eyes every time I hear that tune.
Sure, my friends make fun of me and tell me to "turn off that damn Michael McDonald song," but they're just trying to seem "with it" and "hip" by reenacting that famous exchange from The 40-Year-Old Virgin:
David: Hey, Paula.
Paula: Yeah?
David: I gotta tell you something. I'm really excited about it. Uh,
for the first time, today, I woke up, I came to the store, and I - I
feel confident to say to you that if you don't take this Michael
McDonald DVD - that you've been playing for two years straight - off,
I'm going to kill everyone in the store and put a bullet in my brain!
Paula: David, what do you suggest we play?
David: I don't care. Anything! I would rather - I would rather watch
"Beautician And The Beast". I would rather listen to Fran Drescher for
eight hours than have to listen to Michael McDonald. Nothin' against
him, but if I hear "Yah Mo B There" one more time, "Yah Mo" burn this
place to the ground.
Paula: You're such a smartass. Get back on the floor!
David: [cough-mutters] Ah-fuck you!
No, fuck you, David.
Anyway, Michael, my only regret in our relationship is that I didn't pay enough attention to your MySpace page (you're totally in my Top Friends, by the way!) to know that you scheduled two shows in New York this week. They're sold out, but I'll light up a joint and think of you—of us!— while listening to "What a Fool Believes" on repeat. Maybe those Yacht Rock guys will hang out with me so I don't feel so alone. But, honestly, they were probably smart enough to get tickets. I guess this will have to hold me over:
Ahhh! We could have made such sweet music—and babies!—back then, Michael. Maybe we still can? Call me!
Just one more time, promise:
