I’m obsessed with Gavin DeGraw.
I had no idea who Gavin DeGraw was until he got beaten up in New York and my morbid curiosity led me to his “I Don’t Want To Be” video here … Yummy Gavin
I’m a happily married, woman-of-a-certain-age who never watches music videos. I loathe music videos. I don’t care very much about musicians.
Anthony Keidis hit on me in the early 90s and I had no idea who he was and thought he seemed smelly and should put his shirt on.
I danced for INXS and thought Michael Hutchence was a snore. Yes, I’m bragging again in my sneaky, underhanded way. My point is that I think I’m having a mid-life crisis with my Gavin DeGraw fixation.
It’s almost as bad as my love of Randy Mantooth during his Emergency days in 1972.
I once got a little electric shock on my lips when my 7-year old self tried to kiss Randy through the t.v. screen as he was resuscitating a car crash victim. Oh to be that victim!
I’ve been furtively watching all the You Tube videos I can of my new obsession Mr. DeGraw and when Henry comes home I quickly erase my history and snap my computer shut.
I’ve gotten tickets to a Gavin DeGraw concert next month.
I’m going to stand in the mosh pit with all the 20-year olds and there’s a chance I might take off my bra and throw it on the stage.
Nothing is certain. Henry may have to marry my friend Patrice. She’ll be a good wife and mother. They are not allowed to know one another biblically, however. That’s where I draw the line.
Yes, I’ll be on the DeGraw tour bus serving Vodka Lime Rickeys in a g-string, but that doesn’t mean Henry gets a free hall pass. He’s no spring chicken. It could kill him. He’s just gonna have to hang those stirrups up.
I got sidetracked.
I’m going to try to ween myself off of Mr. DeGraw post concert. There will probably be some kind of withdrawal symptoms … the desire to wear ski and newsboy caps … a yearning for the blues … who’s to say.
Like Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County, I’ll make the right decision for my family. That is … unless Henry runs away with Salma Hayek. Then all bets are off.