Body Of Britney Spears

Chelsea Peretti: Britney Spears Is Dead (Long Live Britney Spears?!)

“I pulled up to the Staples Center blasting Britney. Me and my boys were all wearing very tight clothes and having a craaaaazy night. Brit killed it!”

This is how I might have started this article if I were one of the many enthused gay guys dancing and singing along to Britney Spears during the entirety of her Femme Fatale concert on Monday night in Los Angeles. If I were one of the typical young ladies in attendance (please see photo for random sampling), I’d be in five-inch heels and a bunch of make-up, starting this article with: “WOOO-HOOOOOOO!!! I’M WEARING VERY TIGHT CLOTHES! LOVE YOU BRIT!! YOU DID IT AGAIN!”

Instead I’m me. I’m not a superfan, but, like you, I’ve always enjoyed Britney’s hit songs, music videos and even photos (which I’ve perused via extensive Google image searches over the last decade). Britney began to fascinate me in college, when I first saw her “…Baby One More Time” video. I was in awe of her body, tan and very non-ethnic schoolgirl perfection. I’m ethnic-ish, NY-ish and a comedian now, so while I didn’t 100% go to Monday’s concert ironically, I probably 30% did. Maybe 40%. I’m not certain of the percentage. That’s the beauty of pop music.

. In spite of Amy Winehouse’s spate of bizarre live performances, including the conversational ones on the street outside her home, I’d love to one day buy another of her albums. And in my heart of hearts, I know there will be a Bell Biv DeVoe comeback. Britney’s voice may not be on par with the Houstons, Winehouses and BBDs of the world, but as I’ve watched her notoriously hazy performances over the past few years, I’ve instinctively found myself craving a return to form. It was uncomfortable to see a once flawless pop machine, shuffling and flailing onstage. I wanted her to command it. To borrow a basketball term from one of my NBA ex-boyfriends (I forget which), I wanted her to “dunk on” her detractors, right in their face. It needed to happen for order to be restored, and to avoid a world in which chaos and darkness reigned.

When you consider the painstaking planning and grooming that went into Britney’s persona, her public transgressions were that much more extreme. I don’t know if her dramatic downward spiral was caused by depression, addiction and/or shitty personal and professional influences, but I do know she shaved her trademark hair off her trademark head in front of a swarm of paparazzi and physically attacked a car with an umbrella. As I stood in the sold-out Staples Center, it struck me that for her to even be alive seemed like something of a miracle. If you haven’t seen Craig Ferguson’s monologue on the topic of compassion for Britney in which he protectively remarks upon her public struggles in light of her age (“she’s a baby, a baby”) and his own sobriety, watch it on YouTube. I agree with a lot of what he said to the point where I cried, but then I’m a mess of a person who cries to lots of YouTube videos, including the Sh’Boss Boys .