25 Things I'll Miss Most About Bangkok and Thailand

As the old cliche goes, all good things must come to an end. Although that ain't necessarily so (The Simpsons, which many people, myself not included, consider to be a very good thing, will probably outlive us all), my time in Bangkok and Southeast Asia is about to enter its final days. When the holidays are over, I'll be heading back to Melbourne for Round 2 of life in the land Down Under. Already I'm thinking about the things I'll have trouble leaving behind.

Yes, here we go -- another list!

1. DJ Station. My home away from home in Bangkok. I laughed, I cried, I danced in a cage, and I met some of the hottest guys on planet earth. Will I ever feel the same way about the Peel in Melbourne again?

2. Flight attendants on every corner... of DJ Station. I think I must have met every member of the cabin crews for airlines that service Bangkok (KLM, Etihad, Emirates and on and on). Boy or girl, they always seem to end up on the dance floor downstairs shaking their groove thing to Lady Gaga's "The Edge of Glory" and later on, on the second floor, asking me that burning question I've been hearing on a daily basis since the day I left New York City in 2006. "Where are you from?" Five and a half years and three continents later, I'm never sure what to say.

3. Five-star meals for $3 and less. If only those street vendors didn't have to fry everything!

4. Sliced papaya. Who knew a fruit I'd never even tried before arriving in Asia would make me forget all about my beloved oatmeal raisin cookies at Woolworths.

5. The Boomerang network. TV pretty much sucks in Thailand, but thank God for Boomerang, which airs all of the beloved cartoons from my youth. I never thought I'd ever see Captain Caveman or Josie and the Pussy Cats in Outer Space again! Two questions: 1) Why wasn't Daffy Duck a bigger star? 2) Why couldn't Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo afford twin beds? Say what you will about Bert and Ernie, but I don't believe they ever slept in the same bed. Did they?

6. My rooms with a view. Bangkok is not much to look at when viewing it from ground level, but at night, 14 floors above, it's possibly the most breathtaking metropolis on earth. I've been to Istanbul, so that's really saying something.

7. Cheesy pop tunes. Last night I finally found out the titles and artists of my favorite DJ Station tracks: "Perfume" by Parade (Moto Blanco Remix) and "Happiness" by Alexis Jordan (Deadmau 5 Extended Mix). Only Rihanna's "We Found Love" stimulated me more.

8. My hotel gym. In all of my world travels, I don't think I've ever come across a fitness center that's more impressive than the one at Anantara Bangkok Sathorn, my home away from home in Bangkok. It almost makes me forget that the restaurant doesn't know how to prepare decent scrambled eggs, which happens to be the one thing I can rock in the kitchen.

9. Bootleg DVDs. Thanks to the vendors on Silom Road selling DVDs of Oscar contenders, among other D-listy offerings (movies starring former Oscar nominees like Kristin Scott Thomas and Elisabeth Shue that I've never even heard of as well as Nicole Kidman and Nicolas Cage's straight-to-DVD Trespass), I should be caught up on all of my viewing by the time the Academy Awards roll around. I can't think of a better reason to time a return trip to Bangkok for around this time next year.

10. The woman who does my laundry. And not just because she has me laughing from the moment I walk in to the moment I leave (despite the fact that I can't understand a word she's saying), but because she makes my clothes smell better than they did on the day that I bought them

11. The shirtless Thai go-go boys at G.O.D. For reasons that should be obvious.

12. Service with a smile. Sometimes when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, it pains me to have to reciprocate the borderline-fawning niceness of everyone as I pass through the hotel lobby, but it's nice to not have to pull my oh-no-you-did-not act with cranky employees. I once made a woman who worked at a winery in Mendoza, Argentina, cry after she was unnecessarily rude to me. Do you think I derive pleasure out of that? Well, maybe just a little.

13. Walking around in my Havianas slippers. I couldn't have survived the bunion on my left foot without them.

14. Waking up every day with something -- or someone -- to write about. Only Buenos Aires inspires me more.

15. Adventures in hospital. Feeling unwell is so much easier in a beautiful hospital with such lovely nurses who act like they really care.

16. The cutest babies on the planet. I'm still not convinced that I'm not leaving here without one.

17. The most beautiful women on the planet. Not the lady boys -- the real ones. Anyone who thinks French women are the world's most elegant have never been to Bangkok, where the female scenery is more stunning than the Eiffel Tower, which, unlike Thai women, is pretty ugly up close.

18. Pineapple Bacardi Breezers. The perfect night always begins at the Balcony on Silom Soi 4 with two or three of them, but I don't think I'd ever be caught dead drinking such a wimpy beverage in any other city.

19. Massages that don't involve the manhandling (and occasionally, womanhandling) of private parts. I never expected to derive so much pleasure from having my feet (bunion and all) rubbed and squeezed for 250 baht ($8) an hour.

20. Doing things I never thought I'd do. Examples: sitting out by the pool with my laptop, riding on a motorbike without wearing a helmet, and hiking through the rain forest. I'd add something about flight attendants here, but that's probably too much information.

21. Inexpensive booze. How can I go back to paying $7 for a schooner of Pure Blonde after six months of paying the equivalent of three bucks for potent Jack and cokes?

22. Year-round warm weather. And to think, just a few years ago, I actually looked forward to piling on my winter clothing. Though I can still rock a turtleneck, I wouldn't mind spending every day all year in V-neck T-shirts, track pants and Havianas.

23. Not having a local cell phone. Well, I did have one for a few weeks, but it mysteriously disappeared from one of the pockets of my baggy shorts one afternoon while I was walking down Silom Road. I never replaced it, and guess what: I don't miss it at all. It's fun giving guys I meet my email address, because if I hear from them (and surprisingly, I do more often than I did when I handed out my number), I know they actually made an effort.

24. People with no boundaries. I complain about getting felt up by strangers in bars and clubs, and the guy who works at my hotel gym made me a bit uncomfortable yesterday when he stood in front of the treadmill looking at me with a huge smile on his face, but of all the cities I've travelled to, the most offbeat characters are here. Sometimes they make me squirm, but I know I'll miss them when I'm gone.

25. My Bangkok soundtrack: Joni Mitchell's Turbulent Indigo, Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach's Painted from Memory, Kate Bush and Elton John's "Snowed In at Wheeler Street," Boston's "More Than a Feeling" and, of course, Rihanna. Maybe before I leave Bangkok, I'll find love in a hopeless place, too.

The Oscar for Most Original Use of a No. 2 Goes to...

But first, there's another imaginary Academy Award category to settle....

"The Oscar for the most overrated movie of 2011 goes to... Drive! I can't even begin to tell you how much I despised it. We're talking visceral hate. All style, no substance. 
Extremely violent yet mind-bogglingly boring. I guess that's an accomplishment!"

So said my good friend and Us Weekly film critic Mara Reinstein about what must also be one of her least favorite movies of 2011. Though she loved Moneyball a lot more than I did, my taste in movies is usually pretty in sync with hers. Before I read her withering remarks, I was all set to spend some quality time tonight with Gosling on my screen, courtesy of the Drive DVD that I picked up at the indoor street market on the third floor of MBK shopping center in Bangkok on the day I got my second tattoo.

Maybe some other night. Today I was in the mood for something a little lighter, which is why I nixed Melancholia and Martha Marcy May Marlene. I considered Crazy Stupid Love, one of Gosling's 17 other films released this year, but in the end, I settled for The Help, starring Gosling's Crazy Stupid Love costar Emma Stone, which, shockingly, I still hadn't seen.

So it wasn't all sweetness and light, and after all these years, the N word still makes me cringe. But that Octavia Spencer! Viola Davis was phenomenal (as always) and deserving of all her Oscar buzz. (Loved the scene when Davis's Aibileen starts to recount the circumstances of her son's death and pulls away when Spencer's Minny reaches out to touch her. I live for such telling subtleties.)

As for Emma Stone, I would watch her in anything, but I just wasn't buying her as a liberated woman in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi. She sells liberation just fine, but Stone couldn't be more 2011. She belongs to no period other than the one in which she's living. Kate Winslet she's not. Though I do see an Oscar at some point in her future.

But that Octavia Spencer! When Minnie showed up at Hilly's home with a baked peace offering, I was expecting it to be loaded with Ex-Lax or the '50s equivalent. My roommate in college did that to our next door neighbor, and I must have laughed out loud about it for 24 hours straight. It's a timeless prank, and I'm sure it would have gotten a hearty hahaha from me tonight, too.

When Minnie said, "Eat my shit," though, I knew exactly where the scene was going. I don't know what else she put in that cake to make it not smell like shit, but ladies and gentlemen, that's how you use bathroom humor to optimum effect. I laughed as much picturing Minny adding the feces to the batter as I did at the scene itself. Did she crap directly into the bowl, or did she carry her stuff from the bathroom to the kitchen? Was it hard or soft? And did anyone notice that when Aibileen used the bathroom in one scene, she went and picked up the boss's daughter without washing her hands?

I can't imagine doing something so heinous to someone I hate (I have no enemies that I despise quite that much), but maybe it's just that I don't know how to cook. Hmm... Maybe it's time for me to learn how to bake a cake. You know, just in case one of my rivals gets out of line.

Don't Touch Me There! (Part III): The Side of Bangkok That I Don't Think I Need to See

Don’t forget the sponge and a bar of Dettol!

I would do anything for adventure.

But I won't do that.

What's that? I'm glad you asked. Keep reading.

Today I was having lunch with a Belgian guy and his two French friends, and one of the French guys told me about a special Thai massage -- a naked Thai massage! -- that I just have to experience. Now I'll try everything twice, and I love to find myself in extremely awkward situations because they provide excellent fodder for this blog. But considering how I felt about the female massage therapist fingering my private parts from outside my shorts several weeks, ago, I just don't think I could go here.

It begins with a line-up of beautiful Thai guys. You choose: short or tall, muscular or lean, top or bottom. (Actually, that last one isn't one of the choices, but I threw that in there because it comes up in pretty much every conversation in Bangkok involving gay men.) Once you pick the one you want, the two of you get undressed and hit the shower. After he soaps you up and rinses you off -- which is included in the rate (1,300 baht for one hour, or about $43) -- the pressing and tugging begins.

Are you still with me? Because at this point in the conversation, my mind started to drift off as I struggled to keep my food down. I tried to wrap my head around the idea of getting a sponge shower by a beautiful naked stranger. What happens if you get aroused? If you grab him and start kissing him, do you have to pay extra? Are there condoms on hand just in case you want to take your steamy shower to the next level? Who applies for these jobs anyway?!

At least you know he's clean, one of my lunch mates said, and he had a point. But while it certainly would be better than getting a sponge bath from a cranky overworked nurse, I generally prefer to take a hands-on (my hands!) approach when it comes to the ablution of my nether regions.

From what I understand, the rest of the massage is pretty standard, except that the guy rubbing you down isn't wearing any clothing. I don't know which would be most uncomfortable: being stretched out on a massage table in the nude, being straddled by a nude masseuse, or both at the same time.

The happy ending, by the way, is optional.

The guys also told me about a show they went to last night that, um, climaxed with two guys actually having sex on a staircase. (Thank God they used condoms, which almost makes it seem like live porn and a public service announcement rolled into one.) I know some people like to watch, but I've never been one of them.

It's probably why I've never gotten into porn. I don't even like to catch myself in the act. It's the reason why I turned down an offer to get rich quick by doing porn shortly after I moved to New York City, and one of the reasons why I don't have sex in front of mirrors. There's a mirrored closet next to my bed in Buenos Aires, and I always had to position myself so that I didn't catch any accidental glimpses. If a videotape ever surfaced of myself in flagrante delicto, I'd probably go into hiding for a 10 years. I'm not joking.

I'm still scarred from the time I saw two guys doing it on the bar (without a condom!) in a dive in downtown New York City. For now, I think I'll stick with the shirtless Thai go-go boys dancing on the stage at G.O.D. At least they keep their hands -- and other parts -- to themselves.

Then, of course, there's the Ping Pong Show. I've been hearing about this one since I arrived in Bangkok in July, but I still haven't checked it out. In the Ping Pong Show, women do all kinds of crazy things with their vaginas, like open Coke cans and shoot ping pongs from them (their vaginas, not the Coke cans). No, it doesn't sound possible to me either, but I suppose seeing is believing.

I'll pass on the naked masseuse and the live porn, but a beautiful Thai woman opening a can of Coke with her vagina? This I've got to see. I just hope I don't get hit by one of those ping pongs!

Pop Confessions: 10 Songs I Love By Artists I Don't

I recently read an article on Ourstage, the website for which I write my weekly Sound And Vision pop music column, in which a writer listed 10 terrible songs by great artists. I couldn't argue with most of the choices, but "In the Ghetto" was one of the King of Rock & Roll's crowning mid-career achievements, and the Queen of Soul has done far worse than "Freeway of Love."

Today, instead of aiming at easy targets (Come on, "Ebony and Ivory"? "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing"?), I'm going focus on finding the good in the usually barely listenable.

"Prove me wrong," my best friend used to always say. I second that. I always try to listen without prejudice and when an artist I hate produces a song that I love, no one is happier than I am because good music, no matter where it comes from, is a gift.

Here are 10 great songs that knocked me off my feet as much because of the songs themselves as because of who was singing them.

Pussycat Dolls featuring Snoop Dogg "Buttons" Around the time that "Don't Cha" was a massive hit, one of my best friends spent months trying to convince me that PCD was the best thing since TLC. To this day, I can't understand why anyone would listen to any of the group's hits more than once -- with one exception. More recently, another friend sent me a Facebook message that went something like this: "Agree or disagree? 'Buttons' is the only reason to care about Pussycat Dolls." I couldn't agree more. 

Nickelback "How You Remind Me" So shoot me! Not only do I think the band's lead singer Chad Kroeger is super-hot (especially with shorter hair), but the hit single that made Nickelback stars gets my head bangin' every single time.

Faith Hill "Dearly Beloved" Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike Faith Hill's music? She only seems to operate in full-on Pearl Harbor power-ballad mode, delivering every line as if her life -- and the existence of mankind and womankind -- depended on it, or as if she was fronting the U.S. armed forces with a microphone instead of a weapon, which I suppose most of her songs are. (An artist like Celine Dion can get away with it, because she has the vocal power to lead any brigade.) But on this track from 2005's Fireflies album (her last regular studio album to date, and boy, do I not miss her!), she sounded footloose, fancy free and, for once, pure country.

Macy Gray featuring Erykah Badu "Sweet Baby" I never understood all the short-lived fuss over Macy Gray. To me, she was always better in theory (unconventional black woman singing genre-defying tunes) than in execution (a gratingly affected vocal style that came off as more gimmicky than sincere). But if she had to be a one-hit wonder (as opposed to a no-hit wonder), why couldn't it have been for these four minutes of quietly heartbreaking beauty?

Ke$ha "Blow" I've never heard the song separate from the video (one of my favorites of 2011), so I can't say if it would hold up without the visual of Ke$ha vs. James Van Der Beek to entertain me. Whatever. It's a true example of a video really selling a song, so for that alone, Ke$ha deserves all the props I'm (finally) giving her.

Lionel Richie "Love Will Conquer All" Am I alone in thinking that Lionel Richie's solo career was one nearly decade-long study in pop treacle unworthy of the lead singer of one of the great funk and soul ensembles of the late '70s and early '80s? The former Commodore's penultimate Top 10 solo single may sound dated today, but it's the one Richie hit that actually made being in love sound kind of sexy and cool.

Michael Bolton "Can I Touch You... There?" The '90s version of Lionel Richie? Possibly. And just once, on "Can I Touch You... There?," his 1995 penultimate Top 40 hit, Bolton toned down the hatchet-faced over-emoting and sold his soul -- in the good way. I think once or twice I even may have touched myself... there.

Kenny G featuring Smokey Robinson "We've Saved the Best for Last" The sax-playing version of Richie and Bolton? Definitely. He's cool right now, thanks to his appearance in Katy Perry's "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" video and his saxophone cameo during Foster the People's October 8 Saturday Night Live performance of "Houdini," but back in his heyday, the only time he sounded cool was blowing alongside the great Smokey Robinson on this should-have-been-a-bigger-hit from 1989. (P.S. I recently heard "Songbird," his 1987 biggest single, somewhere in Asia, and it sounds a lot better now than it did back then.)

Milli Vanilli "Girl I'm Gonna Miss You" Admit it, you liked it, too. The band will remain in the hall of infamy until the end of time, and not just because "Girl You Know It's True" was such a crapfest. Had it not been for the lip-syncing scandal (and had the National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences not been stupid enough to give the duo the Best New Artist Grammy over Indigo Girls, Neneh Cherry and Soul II Soul), MV's follow-up hits "Girl I'm Gonna Miss You" and "Blame It on the Rain" would rank right up there with the best of late-'80s pop.

Justin Bieber "One Time" So shoot me again! Once upon a time, for a day or two in March of 2010, I suffered from a touch of Bieber fever when his debut 2009 hit was all over MTV in the UK. I made a full recovery, but I still love the song.

Ewan McGregor Is Hot and 10 Other Random Thoughts I Had While Watching 'Beginners'

1. I wonder if it spooks Christopher Plummer, 81, just a little bit to play dying (The Last Station) or dead (Beginners) men in such close succession. At least in Beginners (in which his character appears in flashbacks), he gets to live out his final days with gusto, coming out of the closet at 75 and snagging a hot much-younger boyfriend (Goran Visnjic). Tough work, and maybe he'll finally get an Oscar for his effort.

2. I'm so glad I came out at 22 and didn't wait until I was in my 70s. But still, I wish I had been out in college. The experience would have been so much different, maybe even better (if that's possible). I really admire guys who have the guts to come out early. Note to self: Find one!

3. When is Oscar finally going to invite Ewan McGregor, who has so many great performances on his resume, to the Academy Awards as a nominee.

4. As much as I love McGregor and enjoyed his central performance in Beginners, I'd love to see a movie with Plummer's character, or someone just like him -- a gay man who gets married in the 1950s and, after his wife's death, comes out to his grown son in his '70s -- as the lead. Maybe one already has been made. If so, can someone recommend it to me?

5. If I met a really cool guy dressed as Sigmund Freud at a costume party, and he took off his gray wig and beard and looked like Ewan McGregor, how happy would I be? A name like Oliver (always one of my favorites) would be icing!

6. Since Goran Visnjic is around my age, does that mean I still have time to be considered someone's "young lover" if I can stay away from 22 year olds?

7. Is there an unwritten law that says all French actresses (in this case, Inglourious Basterd's Melanie Laurent, who plays McGregor's love interest and is a little like a Gallic Drew Barrymore) must be unnaturally beautiful and charming?

8. "In my next life, I'm gonna marry a good hot-blooded Jew, someone full of emotion." So says McGregor's character's mom to him as a kid. Why wait for my next life? I think I'll try that in my next relationship. Less the Jew part (though we do love them, especially when they hail from Tel Aviv -- or New York City) than the full of emotion bit. Sometimes I miss Argentine guys and all their Drama.

9. I could spend all day watching love beginning.

10. I'm suddenly craving a Before Sunrise / Before Sunset double bill. (It must be the cute actor / Gallic beauty combo.) But I think my DVDs are in my apartment in Buenos Aires. Another note to self: Be sure to try to find a copy on Silom Road this weekend. I'm in the mood for love.

Hits and Misses: The Best and Worst of the GRAMMY 2012 Nominees

Part of me, frankly, doesn't give a damn.

Because, frankly, the GRAMMYs become less significant with each passing year (for reasons detailed here).

But another part of me (the part that generally avoids using Gone with the Wind references and dreams of Rihanna one day being a GRAMMY queen) can't help but weigh in on the nominations that were announced on November 30. I've always thought that the GRAMMY nominations were more interesting for the snubs than for those recognized, and this year was no different.

The absence that surprised me the most wasn't that of the year's top nominee Kanye West (7 nods) in the Album of the Year category for the rapturously reviewed My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. I suspect that by releasing Watch the Throne, his collaboration with Jay-Z, in 2011, he was destined to split votes with himself in that category. Or maybe nobody wanted to haul him off the stage when Adele wins for 21.

The one album I was sure would get in was The Union, the end-of-2010 collaboration between Elton John and Leon Russell. It was praised by critics and even scored a 2011 GRAMMY nomination for the track "If It Wasn't for Bad." But this year, unlike in the past, the National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences apparently isn't into geezers. There's no Robert Plant or Herbie Hancock or Steely Dan or Tony Bennett in the Album of the Year category to steal the top prize from Adele.

The most tenured act is Foo Fighters, who are still about a solid half decade away from being geezers, and if anyone can pull the rug out from under Adele, it's these guys, nodded here for the second time. (Believe it not, Foo Fighter Dave Grohl's former band, Nirvana, was never recognized in this category, probably because the GRAMMYs were still a few years away from acknowledging cool music.)

I'm also a bit surprised to see former Album of the Year winner Taylor Swift shut out of the major categories, but I probably shouldn't be. Speak Now was a huge commercial success, but it failed to launch the massive hit single that country albums need in order to be serious contenders in the top categories.

I'm still not sure how I feel about combining male and female performers in the vocal categories, though it will make for a bit more suspense on GRAMMY night (February 21). One thing I'm definitely liking, though, is how the top categories are divided between solidly mainstream acts (Rihanna, Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Katy Perry) and ones you're less likely to hear all over the radio (Mumford & Sons, Bon Iver, Shrillex).

But no Foster the People in Best New Artist, or Record of the Year? A travesty! That's the bad news. The trio did score in Best Pop Duo/Group Performance for "Pumped Up Kicks" and Best Alternative Music Album for Torches, which is pretty contradictory. But if calling FTP "pop" and "alternative" is what it takes to get these guys two shots at a GRAMMY, who am I to complain?

Here are a few more GRAMMY 2012 hits and misses.

HIT Robyn may still get no love in Billboard, but she's earned two well-deserved Grammy nominations, one for Best Dance Recording for "Call Your Girlfriend," a track from Body Talk, Part 3, which is up for Best Dance/Electronica Album.

MISS I'm not sure what the difference is between Best R&B Performance and Best Traditional R&B Performance, especially when neither category could find a spot for Chris Brown, Beyonce or Kelly Rowland, three of the best singers in R&B, all of whom released albums in 2010.

HIT At least we'll still get our Beyonce vs. Kelly in Best Rap/Sung Collaboration. Beyonce and Andre 3000's "Party" is up against Kelly Rowland and Lil Wayne's "Motivation." I'm totally on Team Kelly, whose "Motivation" is one of the best things I heard and saw in 2011 (the video is my favorite clip of the year), but I could see this being Rihanna and Drake's consolation prize for having such a great year.

MISS Consider all of the fantastic dance music produced in 2011. Then consider this: How did Duck Sauce's "Barbra Streisand" end up being deemed one of the six best by the Academy while Jennifer Lopez's brilliant "On the Floor" (yes, brilliant), which remains in heavy rotation under strobe lights around the world, didn't even get a nod?

HIT Colplay's Mylo Xyloto came out too late in the year to be eligible for Album of the year, but both of the first two singles, "Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall" and "Paradise," were deservedly recognized, in Best Rock Performance and Best Pop/Duo Group Performance, respectively. Here the category distinction actually makes sense.

MISS After giving Esperanza Spalding the Best New Artist Grammy over Drake and Justin Bieber last year, the Academy probably will feel the need to stay out on a limb, which is not such good news for The Band Perry and Nicki Minaj, who deserves the prize just for keeping the dream alive for Women in Rap. If Bon Iver loses, I'll eat the trophy.

But the Academy really likes to mess with us in this category, so I'll be sure to have a light dinner.

Glenn Close in 'Albert Nobbs' and Male Gender Roles: What Does It Take to Be a Man?

What makes a man a man?

A certain swagger? Or stiff, stilted repression?

Expression vs. repression.

Albert Nobbs, the upcoming film (December 21) in which Glenn Close stars as a woman posing as a man in 19th-century Dublin in order to thrive in the work force, presents both sides. Close -- all fear and self-loathing, clenched jaw and contained emotion -- represents stiff, stilted repression as the title character, a hotel butler at Morrison Hotel. Though it's as impressive a portrait of male repression as Anthony Hopkins' in The Remains of the Day, if the Oscar-less actress finally earns an Academy Award for her work in Albert Nobbs (and I'm praying to God, or Goddess dressed as God, or whomever, that she does), it will be as much for lifetime achievement as for this isolated performance

Janet McTeer, whom I loved in Tumbleweeds so many years ago and haven't seen nearly frequently enough since, is the flip side as Mr. Page, also a woman posing as a man. She's all macho swagger with gigantic strapped-down boobs.

There's a nice lesson here about the emotional and mental peril of living in closets of one's own creation (to thine own self be true), if you can get past the fact that neither actress makes a particularly convincing man in the physical sense, though Mr. Page, who unlike Nobbs, actually seems to identify with maleness, at least allows herself to emote and speak above a whisper. Close, looking like Close wearing short hair and men's suits, nails repression, but it's an asexual sort. McTeer, thanks to her towering size, cuts a slightly more mannish figure, but her mannerisms sometimes venture dangerously close into stereotypical lesbian territory.

Though McTeer's Mr. Page isn't being true to her biological gender, she's open and vibrant, and she's rewarded, for a time, with a loving wife and a stable home life. (She'll likely also be rewarded come Oscar time with a Best Supporting Actress nomination.) Meanwhile, Close, all sharp angles and controlled movements, lives alone and mostly in silence.

Even when she falls for Helen, a maid played by Mia Wasikowska who might actually love her back, her inability to fully express herself physically and to a lesser degree verbally, prevents her from reaping the rewards of love. I wish more attention had been given to this relationship, which is too skimpily drawn. Perhaps that's why Albert makes marriage sound more like a business transaction -- which in so many ways it is -- than a union of passionate souls. But that's no way to win over a young romantic like Helen.

And isn't that just like a man?

Although Close's character doesn't quite look like a man, she covers every inch of the emotional terrain of being one in denial of his beating heart. I'm looking forward to seeing the clip on Oscar night of the scene in which Albert recounts the life-changing experience that led to her becoming a he. Interestingly, the only scene in which she seems truly happy is the one in which she's running down the beach dressed as a woman. McTeer, though also limited by her natural womanliness, is like a force of nature. When she's onscreen, it's difficult to take your eyes off of her. She's too generous an actress to steal scenes and too skilled to chew scenery, but the film is most interesting when she's in it.

I was thrilled to see a supporting cast rounded out by underused previous Oscar nominees and winners Pauline Collins (Shirley Valentine), Brenda Fricker (My Left Foot) and McTeer, rising stars Mia Wasikowska and Aaron Johnson (reinforcing both the idea that girls love bad boys and good guys finish last, but I find the alpha male as tiresome onscreen as he is off), and vets Brendan Gleeson and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who both must surely have bigger offers than the small roles they play here. Their involvement says a lot about their belief in the material.

While watching, I kept wondering why it's so much easier for guys to impersonate women than the other way around. I think it's because being a woman is viewed as being more open with your emotions and movements. Masculinity, to such a large degree, is about holding back, what you don't do, so it's harder to negotiate physically. Curvy bodies only make matters worse.

But moving past the nitpicking about whether the dudes look too much like ladies, there's a valuable message here. In one scene, Mr. Page advises Nobbs to be who she wants to be. "You don't have to be anyone but who you are," she says. Go forth and find love. But first, breathe -- and live. In other words, let go of all of this repression.

She's the Lady Gaga, or Madonna, of 19th-century Ireland. "Express yourself, don't repress yourself," Madonna sang on "Human Nature" in 1994. Those were words to live by in the 1800s and the mid '90s, and they still are in 2011. Repression might be one of the key ingredients of being a man, but it can also be the one that's most hazardous to one's mental health.

How to Lose a Guy (and Get Over Him) in 10 Days

The truth: You can't.

That's not something I learned from watching romantic comedies starring Jennifer Aniston or Sex and the City. It's a cold hard fact of life. It's not just about how long you were together ("Time makes lovers feel like they've got something real," Boy George once sang, but that's just romantic naivete), it's intensity of feeling, too. The more you care about someone, the harder it is not to.

That goes double for the ones who break your heart by cheating or stealing, or the ones who break up with you before you can dump them.

A friend of mine recently broke up with his boyfriend of two years after discovering that the BF had spent the majority of their time together getting it on with boys on the side while promising that my friend was the one and only. (However you feel about monogamy and whether humans are monogamous by nature, if you and your partner promise sexual fidelity to each other, then to each other you should be true.)

As my friend told me all about his ex's sexcapades (which I'd warned him about months earlier -- I've been around long enough to know a cheater when I hear about one), I kept thinking how great he looked. He was actually kind of glowing. If I didn't know better, or that he'd just finished a month-long detox, I might have thought he was pregnant. There was no evidence of crying. He obviously hadn't been skimping on the workouts. If looking good is the best revenge, then my friend certainly had gotten his.

But as I listened to him -- really listened -- I could see through both the glowing skin, the lack of tears, and the "I will survive" monologues. My friend was hurting. I loved that he was bravely carrying on, going out with friends, planning his future and not lying down and taking the mental beating that his ex had doled out.

At the same time, I was worried for him. I told him that it's great that he's doing okay, and he shouldn't let what his ex did to him run him into the ground and completely define his life, but it's just as important not to rush the process of grieving. Another friend of mine split up with her husband more than two years ago. Although she's since moved on romantically with a really great guy, she still has moments when she stumbles down into the depths over her failed marriage.

"You must be so sick of hearing me go on and on about this, she says." (Honestly, I'm not.) "I don't know why I still let it get to me so much." (Honestly, I do.) "There's no statute of limitations on crying over the end of a relationship or marriage," I once told her, urging her not to fight her feelings, or give in to them by curling up in a ball and going completely under, but rather to just learn to accept them and live with them. It's her party, she should cry if she wants to. (Personally, I prefer to go for a run, but to each his or her own.)

My two friends represent two sides of getting over love. One seems to be rushing through the stages of grief, skipping a few of them entirely. The other one keeps slipping back into them. Getting over a guy is like coming out of the closet. We all have to do it on our own schedule. I think it's probably more dangerous mentally to rush grief than it is to wallow in it because not properly dealing with your emotions practically guarantees that they will manifest later on in some inappropriate time, place and fashion.

I'm still working through my own feelings about the recent end of an affair. Some days I feel like I'm getting over it. Some days it's harder to see the silver lining. (And if last night's dreams are any indication, it's not over until it's over.) But every day, I get out of bed, I write, I work out, I take care of myself. I'd be lying if I said that it didn't take a bit more effort than usual, but it must be paying off. I hear I'm looking great, which I don't think of as being the best revenge (thankfully, in my case, there's nothing to avenge), but I hope those compliments keep coming.

As I think of my friend with the cheating ex, I kind of wish he'd allowed himself to be more vulnerable with me, to express sadness as well as anger over what happened. But I'm glad he wasn't letting himself go. Just because we feel like crap doesn't mean we have to look like it, too. It might not help you get over a guy in 10 days, but in my experience, the better you look, the better you feel. And even if it's not the best revenge, you'll be more likely to find someone who can help you temporarily -- and perhaps, eventually, permanently -- ease the pain.

No revenge necessary -- and isn't that the best revenge?

Five great songs about life after love (and no, "I Will Survive," which I've always despised, isn't one of them):

Patty Loveless "A Thousand Times a Day" Denial never sounded so lovely.

Shania Twain "Nah!" I've always wanted to sing this to a guy.

Phyllis Hyman "When You Get Right Down to It" I always love it when I get to sing this to myself.

Lauryn Hill and Mary J. Blige "I Used to Love Him" Two divas in tip-top musical and emotional shape.

"Believe" Cher Because it's all about life after love -- when still in love and when falling out of it.

Has the Secret Life of the American Teenager (on TV and Off) Really Come to This?

Being a teenager certainly isn't what it used to be.

Neither in real life nor in reel life.

That's the conclusion I reached after watching my first two episodes of The Secret Life of the American Teenager, an ABC Family drama series that airs on the Universal Channel in Bangkok. I've seen tons of teen TV dramas over the years, from the early seasons of Beverly Hills 90210 to My So-Called Life to 7th Heaven to The O.C. to Gossip Girl to the new 90210 to Glee (I'm proud to admit, I've never seen a single episode of The Hills or Laguna Beach, which is reel life parading around as real life), so I wasn't surprised that the high schoolers are more uniformly attractive than they ever are in real life.

But in what universe are the parents just as good-looking as the kids? Well, I guess the adults have been climbing the looks ladder since the days of The O.C., and I could be simply showing my age here, but on American Teenager, some of the actors playing the parents are even more f**kable than the twentysomethings playing the teens. Molly Ringwald and Josie Bissett both look like hardly no time has passed since the late '80s and the '90s, respectively. 40 is more like the new 25!

That would make me just about the right age to wanna be starting somethin' with Daren Kagasoff, the 24-year-old actor who plays Ricky, the resident bad boy who is preppy-looking enough to be in the National Honor Society. From what I've seen so far, he seems like a pretty decent guy, but we know he's the Dylan or Ryan or Puck or Chuck Bass of these proceedings because he's super-hunky, he has a dysfunctional family, and he sleeps around.

Which is how he ended up being baby daddy to Amy, played by Shailene Woodley (with Ringwald, above), who, from what I've heard, is on the verge of getting an Oscar nomination for playing George Clooney's daughter in The Descendants. (Poor My So-Called Life's Claire Danes, who, after a so-so big-screen run, is back on series TV and, for now, must make do with her 2010 Emmy for Temple Grandin.)

But wait, they're not the only baby daddy and the girl he knocked up! There's also Ben and Adrian, who were still expectant in the season three episodes I saw (the show is now in its fourth season -- everything is behind in Bangkok, with cancelled shows like The Defenders and Hawthorne still premiering "brand new" episodes), but thanks to Wikipedia's season summaries, I know that things won't end as well for them as they did for Ricky and Amy.

While the soapy action has drawn me in, as soapy action usually does, I kept getting distracted by how high school has gotten so, well, soapy, though there's less unrealistic intrigue on American Teenager than on Gossip Girl, which seems to exist in a galaxy far far away where teenagers act like Joan Collins and J.R. Ewing. Maybe there was far juicier stuff going on behind the scenes back in my day than I was aware of, but if I were a student on TV today, I wouldn't want to miss a single day of school.

If there had been so much high drama unfolding in the hallway between classes, I probably would have spent more time in detention for chronic tardiness. Every high school drama worth its weight in teen angst has a pregnancy storyline, but in American Teenager, we get not one but two. Yes, there were teen pregnancies in my high school but not involving two couples who would have been guaranteed a spot on Homecoming Court in any given year.

And I'm pretty sure that even back then horndogs were perfecting their craft in high school, but when Adrian devised a plan to humiliate Amy by gathering all of the girls Ricky has slept with in one spot, I was shocked by how many hot girls in love he'd managed to lure between his sheets and how many of them were willing to publicly admit it. In my high school era, no girl would have done that. Apparently, he freely and casually drops the L word, too. What a bad boy.

Maybe Ricky's actually a good guy who just happens to like sex and falls in love easily. I haven't seen enough episodes to know for sure, and I'm a little off my game, so it's harder for me to spot a cad in reel and real life. Though some might characterize me as something of a cad myself, I was a late bloomer, so I know I can't use my actions back then to gauge the average behavior of my peers.

In high school, I was more concerned with graduating with honors (and a scholarship) than getting laid, and I never uttered those three magical words until I was 23 years old, which is one year older than my last boyfriend! But as unfathomable (and possibly misunderstood) as Ricky is, I'm having a tougher time buying a storyline in which a teen mom can be victimized by the common knowledge that her boyfriend and the father of her kid has had sex with a lot of girls and told them all that he loves them. At least he's in touch with his feelings. That should count for something, right? And surely a teen mom has more pressing concerns, even if her hot dad is helping her bring up baby.

As appealing as the younger actors are (and Shailene Woodley makes me even more determined to track down a bootleg DVD copy of The Descendents on Silom Road one of these nights since God only knows when and if it will open in Bangkok), as is almost always the case with high school TV dramas, even back when the parents weren't so hot, I wanted to see more of the grown folks. Why? Because, well, in reel life as in real life, 40 year olds are generally more interesting than people half their age. (If only more of them would ask me out! The average age of the guys who pursue me seems to drop one year with every year I gain.)

You can cast as many beautiful twentysomething guys to play bad boy teens as you want, but I'll always prefer to see more Josie Bissett and Molly Ringwald!

A Final Word on Katy Perry and the 2010s

I was just thinking....

When I look back at the 2010s in 2020, the Perry song for which I will remember both the era and Perry herself isn't even on Teenage Dream. "If We Ever Meet Again," a 2010 single by Timbaland featuring Perry from Timbaland's Shock Value II album, was a major hit in pretty much every country in which it was released except the U.S., where it peaked at No. 37. (As I've mentioned before, I've seen and heard it rock dance floors in Buenos Aires, Melbourne and Bangkok.) No doubt it would have fared 36 notches better had it been a Teenage Dream single one year later. In pop, timing is everything!

Why Are We STILL Listening to Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream"?

There's defying low expectations, and then there's trouncing them. By now, Katy Perry has mastered the art of both.

She had every right to be a one-hit wonder. Singers of songs as corny and novelty-esque as "I Kissed a Girl" deserve what they get, and usually it's a career that's over in 15 minutes flat. But that Katy Perry. She defies expectations. Her follow-up singles were better, and a few of them were even hits. By the time her second mainstream album, Teenage Dream, rolled around in August of 2010, we had every reason to expect it to be a respectable hit -- one million copies sold, a number one single, maybe two, another Top 10, and then on to the next one.

When I woke up in Melbourne in October of 2010 with Brendan singing "Teenage Dream," the album's second single, in my ear, never in my wildest middle-aged dreams did I imagine that more than a year later, Perry would be entering the Top 10 with "The One That Got Away," her sixth single from the album. (I wonder if Brendan woke up this morning singing that song and thinking about me.)

But what was that I said about Perry and the trouncing of expectations? Despite receiving pretty crummy reviews upon its release, Teenage Dream ended up bagging Perry several Bad when "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" became its fifth No. 1 hit. My best friend Lori recently said that years from now when we look back at 2010, Teenage Dream, an album that was released under a dark cloud of critical contempt, will be regarded as the defining music of its time, and you know what? I don't disagree. But it will be more because the music was that inescapable than because it was that good.

key 2011 Grammy nominations, including Album of the Year. She continued to score No. 1 singles from it and eventually tied the record set by Michael Jackson's

Unlike artists who defined the music of other times with one or two key albums (Alanis Morissette in the mid-'90s, Nirvana in the early '90s, Michael Jackson in the '80s, Fleetwood Mac in the late '70s, Carole King in the early '70s), Perry has no solid musical identity or creative vision. Teenage Dream is all over the place -- moving from techno-lite pop to pure pop to soft-rock-inflected pop but never settling into one particular groove. How could she with so many different producers and songwriting collaborators, many of whom have their fingerprints on so many hits of the moment? She's a singer of great singles but not necessarily great songs.

So why can't we seem to get enough of them? Great videos help, and Perry's recall the golden era of '80s videos when the clips in heavy rotation on MTV had actual storylines and weren't just an assemblage of quick-cut shots and a billion back-up dancers. In Perry's case, they have to be great, because more than with any of her peers, they sell her music. It's hard to separate "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" the video from "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" the song. Without the mini-movie clip, I doubt she would have matched Michael Jackson's record. And had a song as average as "The One That Got Away" been sung by Rihanna or Britney Spears or even Lady Gaga, it wouldn't have gone anywhere near the Top 10. But listening to it while watching Perry's video, it's not only tolerable but almost likable.

Then there's Perry's image, which is something she got right from day one. She's just like one of us -- or she's skilled at making us believe she is. Rihanna might be the fantasy of every straight guy -- and, as the Rated R track "Te Amo" suggests, every lesbian as well -- but she's too out of their league. Lady Gaga is too weird -- or she tries too hard to be. Beyonce is too glamorous, Ke$ha's too skanky, and Britney Spears has too much baggage.

Perry, though, is the perfectly relatable pop star. She plays in the big city and smalltown U.S.A., on the coasts and in Middle America, at home and abroad. She can hang out with Snoop Dogg, Kanye West and Rebecca Black and never seem out of her element. She's the ultimate egalitarian A-lister, with a name that's as suburban and down-to-earth as her music and image. She's gorgeous, but not intimidatingly so. One could easily imagine her working the phones in a doctor's office or behind a cash register at the local mall. She could be the best friend who listens while you share intimate details about your love life, offering sympathetic nods and the kind of uplift that only a BFF could give. Her biggest fans probably thought she was singing "Firework" especially for them!

She's also not afraid to downplay her beauty. Hollywood actresses get ugly to win the attention of Oscar. Perry does it with less lofty goals (an MTV Video Music Award?), whether it's dressing up as a sister from another planet in "E.T." or doing her best nerd imitation in "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)." I can't think of another pop goddess who would put on old-lady makeup and age herself 50 years, as Perry does in the video for "The One That Got Away." But that's precisely why most of them have released several albums during Teenage Dream's chart run -- and Perry didn't even have to stoop to the expanded-edition ploy to keep the big hits coming (though she did have to add Kanye West to "E.T." to give it edge and a better shot on Billboard's Hot 100).

I wouldn't be surprised if next November when Rihanna is already releasing her next album, Katy Perry is still squeezing hits out of this one.

In Praise of Robin Gibb

His was one of the great, underrated voices of the 20th century, and now that tremulous tenor, which often made him sound like he was holding back tears while delivering one of his devastatingly beautiful and haunting vocals, is in danger of being silenced forever.

This, however, is not a premature obituary for the great Robin Gibb, who has been diagnosed with liver cancer. Though he was recently hospitalized, has had to cancel a number of live performances, and has suffered several health setbacks over the last two years, he says that he's now feeling much better.

Barry Gibb was always the most popular of the England-born, Australian-bred and, later, Miami-based Bee Gees. He was good-looking, sexy, and his falsetto carried the trio through its most commercially successful period, the '70s disco years. During most of that era, Robin and his twin brother Maurice, who died in 2003 from a heart attack suffered during surgery for a twisted intestine (Robin underwent the same medical procedure last year), were on the sidelines providing sturdy harmonies and co-writing support.

I hope the Gibb family won't have to endure more loss anytime soon (the youngest Gibb brother Andy died in 1988 of myocarditis, just five days after turning 30), and that Barry and Robin continue to make music for years to come. While we wait for the resolution of this chapter of the Bee Gees story, here are five great Robin-sung Bee Gees tracks that cement his musical legacy.

"I've Got to Get a Message to You" and "I Started a Joke" Though Barry was indisputably the star of group throughout the '70s, it was Robin who provided lead vocals on the Bee Gees' first two U.S. Top 10 hits in 1968.

"Massachusetts" It just missed the Top 10 in 1967, peaking at No. 11, which, at the time, was the highest position attained by the Bee Gees in the U.S. The band's fourth Top 20 U.S. hit that year, it was also the first Bee Gees single to reach No. 1 in the UK. Way to go, Robin!

"Holiday" When Robin swoops in after Barry's opening couplet, he immediately elevates this mournful tune -- and the Bee Gees' third Top 20 single of 1967 -- into an instant classic.

"I Still Love You" By 1981, disco had faded and in the eyes of pop fans, Bee Gees were little more than a washed-up joke. Too bad. This album track from 1981's unfortunately and undeservedly overlooked Living Eyes is one of the very best Bee Gees ballads.

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

Besides the days-off aspect, I've never been much of a holiday person. I'm not saying, "Bah humbug," but I always resented the fact that on a day I didn't have to work, I couldn't just spend it all in bed. On holidays, you have to force yourself to have a good time because no one wants to hear your sob story when they ask, "How was your holiday?"

Thanksgiving, though, was always the one for which I had a soft spot. I'm no fan of turkey, so that was never much of a draw, and pumpkin pie is never my first choice when I'm craving dessert. I loved the idea of the entire family gathered around the dinner table passing dishes and sharing stories, and afterwards, watching The Sound of Music, or whatever classic was on TV that evening. Most of all, though, I loved Thanksgiving because it's the one holiday that always came with two days off instead of just one. Yes, Turkey Day might be the single thing I miss most about living in the United States.

Today my brother reminded me of my earliest experiment in poetry and public speaking when I was in fifth grade. It happened to coincide with Thanksgiving season. My class was assigned to write a poem celebrating Thanksgiving, and the teacher liked mine so much that he made me recite it in front of the entire class. I could have sworn a few of my fellow students were fighting back laughter!

Reading it after all these years, I have to ask myself, "What was he thinking?" But I suppose beautiful prose is in the eye of the person reading it, or in the ear of whoever is hearing it. And I was only 10 years old at the time and a few months away from deciding that I wanted to be a journalist when I grew up. I had a long way to go!

Judge for yourself.

Thanksgiving is a time of love
To God up above

It's a time of thanks
Because the Mayflower could have sank

To the bottom of the sea
So as far as I can see

It's the best time of the year
To have a fair

With lots of turkey
But don't be a monkey

And eat more cake
Than you can take

Today's Themes: Epic Romance (with Ralph Fiennes Above the Title), Coldplay and Dreams of Paradise

Today I have no pearls of wisdom, no meaningful musings, no lists to share. I have a few decadent stories, but I should probably keep those to myself since they all involve whiskey and nudity. So I will slightly alter the title of this blog and turn my attention to themes for great cities, particularly the song that's been playing in my head and on my computer since last night.

A wise man once told me that every day deserves a perfect soundtrack. Wait, it was my best friend's hairdresser, with whom she was trying to set me up. Anyway, if that is so, then today my soundtrack would be "Paradise," the latest single from Coldplay, who recently revealed that every teardrop is a waterfall, which couldn't be more true, especially today.

I not only learned that Robin Gibb of my beloved Bee Gees has liver cancer (coming soon: a proper Bee Gees post to honor the best of the trio's non-disco years, which, incidentally, included its own "Paradise," from 1981's Living Eyes LP), but I had to watch Matthew Buchanan die on One Life to Live, and I learned that Prospect Park has abandoned its plans to continue the series online after its ABC run ends in January. As the Brothers Gibb once sang (on the appropriately titled "Tears"), "I will not sleep tonight. There will be tears."

But maybe I'll put it off until tomorrow, when the Bee Gees will no doubt provide the soundtrack. Today is all about "Paradise" found. I'd never paid much attention to the Mylo Xyloto track until last night when it started playing on the radio in the taxi I was taking to Silom Soi 2 just as I noticed that the driver had taken a wrong turn.

As I tried to get him back on track, suddenly, it hit me: What a brilliant song! It manages to merge classic Coldplay with the electro sound currently dominating pop without straining to be a hit. But more than anything else, it's a grand, romantic musical gesture, the kind I used to snicker at in private. I've spent most of my life refusing to assign the "romantic" tag to myself, preferring the stamp of cool, collected cynic, and finally, I'm learning to embrace it. I'm a hopeless romantic, after all (not only regarding matters of the heart but regarding life in general), and today, "Paradise" is my song.

Romance has been creeping up on me since yesterday's song, "Snowed In at Wheeler Street." I imagine the epic musical love story that begins a little bit like Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" and is sung over the course of centuries by Kate Bush and Elton John on Bush's new album, 50 Words for Snow, as a three-and-a-half-hour movie starring Julianne Moore and Ralph Fiennes, who, in a case of egregious Hollywood injustice, has spent the last 15 years without an Academy Award nomination or even serious Oscar buzz while having to suffer the ignominy of watching his costars get nominated and occasionally winning them.

But boy do I digress. If Moore and Fiennes are not available, I'd settle for Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz (one of those Oscar-winning Fiennes costars), since they already played lovers across centuries in The Fountain. "Paradise" would accompany the closing credits.

In a month where I've had both sleepless nights and ones filled with strange, vivid dreams, tonight when I shoot out the lights and close my eyes, I hope to fall asleep quickly and dream of para-para-paradise.

Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh.

Why I Don't Think Adele Is the Best Thing Ever

Put down those sticks and stones. I'm about to say something that may result in tons of criticism, if not outright broken bones.

I am not in love with Adele.

There, I said it.

Don't let me be misunderstood: Man cannot live on Katy Perry, Rihanna, Lady Gaga and Britney Spears alone, and for that, I will be eternally grateful to Adele for making the Top 10 classy again. When the dust of the 2010s settles sometime around the summer of 2020, "Rolling in the Deep" will go down as one of the most electrifying singles of the decade. It proved that you don't have to look and sound cookie-cutter to hit number one (twice! in one year!) on Billboard's Hot 100.

That said, Adele's massive second album, 21, the biggest seller of 2011, is not the savior of pop that everyone seems intent on making it out to be. My best friend recently compared it to George Michael's Listen Without Prejudice Vol. I, a daring work of auteurism -- Michael wrote, arranged, produced and performed it almost in its entirety -- that 21 can't come close to matching in terms of sheer pop iconoclasm.

Few albums begin as promisingly as "Rolling in the Deep" and "Rumour Has It," but 21 ebbs and flows creatively over the course of the remaining nine songs. No, it's not Katy Perry's Teenage Dream, but that doesn't make it groundbreaking. For every display of musical cojones (the aforementioned tracks 1 and 2), there are several of utter, middle-of-the-road safeness elevated only by the sheer power of Adele's voice. If you're going to cover a Cure song (and why more artists haven't done so is beyond me), why not go for something a bit more surprising and challenging than "Lovesong," the band's biggest hit?

Take a closer look -- or rather listen very closely to -- "Someone Like You," the second No. 1 single from 21. Yes, Adele's vocals are, as always, utter perfection, but beyond that, what you've got is a fairly routine piano ballad about love lost. Melissa Manchester used to crank this stuff out in her sleep in the '70s.

Yes, it classes up the Top 10 a bit, but I've never been a sucker for a power ballad, especially one masquerading as a defining moment in musical art.

Yes, a girl bringing on the heartbreak by singing while accompanying herself on the piano is a beautiful thing indeed (see Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, Fiona Apple and Lady Gaga, among others), but really, it's been done to death over the years, frequently better than Adele on "Someone Like You" (see Aretha Franklin, below).

Give me a beat!

From day one, "Someone Like You" was never a 21 favorite of mine. Though I respect it as an example of sturdy songcraft, frankly, it kind of bores me. I first noticed the chinks in its drowsy production when I arrived in Bangkok in July and started hearing it on dance floors all over town, only with a heavy backbeat replacing those tremulous piano notes. Finally, I was able to listen to it without nodding off. (Bruno Mars' "Grenade," so similar in love-martyr tone, was improved in a comparable fashion.) I'd always felt the title "Someone Like You" was more worthy of the disco-diva than tortured-songbird treatment -- or maybe those were just my suppressed memories of the late great Sylvester's fabulous 1986 single of the same name.

My disregard for "Someone Like You" in its original album form was cemented when I watched the mash-up of "Rumor Has It" and "Someone Like You" on the November 15 episode of Glee. I might be in the minority when I say that I like Glee more for its uniquely dramedic take on life as a high school outsider than for its music, but perhaps for the first time ever, I preferred the Glee version of a song featured on the show. Why hadn't Adele and "Someone Like You" co-producer Dan Wilson (formerly of Semisonic, whose "Closing Time" is one of my fondest memories of late-'90s pop-rock) thought of adding that nasty beat?

The truth is, Adele impresses me most when she's being slightly quirky (which is why, as a whole, I prefer 19, her Grammy-winning 2008 debut, to 21), or when she's riding a solid groove. That's what made "Rolling in the Deep" such a triumph, and why "He Won't Go" and "Rumour Has It" are right behind it as my favorite tracks on 21, which is as destined for an Album of the Year Grammy as any grand opus in the history of pop, though not because it's nearly as great as Carole King's Tapestry, Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life, Fleetwood Mac's Rumours, U2's The Joshua Tree, George Michael's Faith, or The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, to name a few truly deserving and game-changing previous winners.

Alas, instead of "Rumour Has It" as the third U.S. single from 21, Adele's label, Columbia Records, is going with "Set Fire to the Rain," which I suppose is better than "Turning Tables," which has already gotten the Glee treatment, courtesy of Gwyneth Paltrow. The powers that be at Columbia Records say that it researched slightly better than "Rumour Has It" (translation: Radio programmers are more likely to play it) and therefore is a potentially bigger hit. Which means that, sadly, they are already forcing Adele to embrace convention and the easy hit. Surely market tests didn't indicate how huge "Rolling in the Deep" would be. What's next? A weight-loss plan and a sexy-slutty makeover?

Ok, maybe I'm pushing it there. "Set Fire to the Rain" is a perfectly fine song, and thankfully, a bit more forceful than "Someone Like You." But if you don't mind, I think I'll sit this one out until "Rumour Has It" (hopefully) comes around next to get me off my ass and excited about Adele again.

The Trouble with Icons: Why Is It So Hard for Them to Continue Producing Essential Music?

Today while I was listening to Mary J. Blige's new album, My Life II... The Journey Continues (Act 1), my mind began to wander -- which is never supposed to happen when l'm hearing a new Mary joint for the first time.

As my brain wandered, I wondered, "What's with that unwieldy title?" Is it meant to make what is a fairly average collection of songs (and most notable for being a sequel to My Life, Blige's 1994 second album and an enduring hip-hop soul classic) sound more important than it actually is? Am I supposed to read anything into the switch from Roman to Arabic numerals within the title, or ellipses instead of a colon after "My Life II"? What exactly makes this a sequel to My Life and not just another Blige album? Will there be an Act 2?

Then my brain landed on a far more serious matter: Is it impossible to age in pop, rock, hip hop or soul while continuing to put out fresh vital music? Consider Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, David Bowie, Jackson Browne and Elton John (among too many others to list) as well as great '80s staples like the Cure, Morrissey, R.E.M. and, to a less dramatic degree, Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys and Erasure (whose so-so, recently released Tomorrow's World makes Vince Clarke's just-announced reunion with his former DM bandmate Martin Gore for a new band called VCMG sound like one of the best ideas of the year).

For all, their best work was mostly behind them halfway into their careers. Maybe that's why Billy Joel, Sting and Robert Plant had the good sense to retreat from pop and rock in favor of more supposedly age-appropriate genres, a move Linda Ronstadt had made in the '80s, reaping astonishing commercial, creative and critical rewards.

An interesting comparison can be made here to Hollywood, where Meryl Streep, Glenn Close and Helen Mirren can continue to wow into their 60s, while Christopher Plummer can score his first Oscar nomination and Betty White can achieve peak popularity in their 80s. Great film directors are more likely to follow the creative trajectory of musical greats, soaring early, floundering later, and, if they're lucky (like Woody Allen, whose Midnight in Paris is the biggest hit of his career and a major 2012 Oscar contender), experience a late-in-life rebirth.

Of course, there are exceptions. After a throwaway decade (the '80s), Joni Mitchell returned revitalized and on fire with 1994's Turbulent Indigo, as did Neil Young with 1992's Harvest Moon. (Some would date Young's return to form three years earlier, with Freedom.) More recently, at 53, Kate Bush released 50 Words for Snow (which, like My Life II, came out this week), and it ranks among her greatest works to date. (Interestingly, its free-form, jazz-inflected sound recalls Mitchell's late-70s work, while Elton John sounds more amazing than he has in ages on "Snowed In at Wheeler Street," my favorite track at the moment.)

And last year, Sade, then 51, released the stellar Soldier of Love with her eponymous band. But here's the interesting twist with Bush and Sade: Soldier of Love was Sade's first album of all-new material in a decade, while Bush's new set comes six years after her last one, which came 12 years after the one before that.

So if you want to age gracefully in pop with excellent music to match, perhaps the best thing you can do is take extremely extended vacations, which would bode well for Bowie's return to record-making, if it ever transpires. Not that I don't appreciate her hard work, but perhaps Blige could use a long holiday. Since her debut in 1992 with What's the 411?, she has never gone more than two years without releasing a new studio album, a remix album, a live album or a hits compilation. Practice makes perfect, so at 40, her voice has never sounded better than it does on My Life II.

But musically, she's treading water -- again. Not that My Life II is a bad album (on the contrary, it's better than most of what passes for R&B these days), it's just that it doesn't feel quite essential. In fact, despite a few great singles and scattered album tracks here and there, Blige hasn't released a truly essential album since Mary in 1999. Her My Life II cover of Rufus and Chaka Khan's 1983 hit "Ain't Nobody" underscores the problem, and not just because it lacks the supreme musicianship of Rufus, which elevated the original as much as Chaka's vocals did. Blige doesn't bring anything special to the proceedings. She's coasting, which, frankly, Chaka herself has been doing more often than not since 1984's "I Feel for You."

The first time Blige covered Chaka ("Sweet Thing" on What's the 411?), she stole the song right out from under its co-author. "Ain't Nobody" 2011 just makes me want to skip to the next track -- or better yet, turn off the album completely and go digging for Rufus and Chaka Khan's original. (Producer Rodney Jerkins still rocks, but his electronic soundscape just can't touch the '80s synthesizers weaving around the live instrumentation of 2012 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominees Rufus.)

I'm not trying to get rid of Blige -- she will continue to be one of my all-time favorite R&B singers even if she continues releasing one slightly above-average album every couple of years for the rest of my life -- but at this point, new Mary J. Blige albums just don't fill me with the joy and anticipation that they did in years gone by.

I'm suffering from a similar loss of faith in Madonna, whose creatively fertile period lasted longer than that of most superstars, up to 2005's Confessions on a Dance Floor, which following the uneven Music (2000) and the atrocious American Life (2003), was like one of those late-in-the-game resurgences, only Madonna was still in her 40s. She's been less prolific than Blige over the last 20 years but only because she's too busy directing films, launching a clothing line, dating boy toys and being the ultimate celebrity to make music 25/8, to quote a song on Blige's new album that doesn't live up to its clever title.

The last time around, Madonna had to fall back on Justin Timberlake to score a hit, and the album, Hard Candy, sounded more like the work of her collaborators than the woman whose name was above the title. For the first single from her 2012 album, she's latched onto M.I.A. and Nicki Minaj, two artists I adore, but two artists who don't belong anywhere near the same song -- or near Madonna, for that matter.

The title of the song: "Give Me All Your Love." When the title of a new Madonna single makes me stifle a yawn, Houston (to invoke the surname of another singer whose recent work doesn't hold up, though for an entirely different reason -- drugs claim lives and beautiful voices), we most definitely have a problem.