Apparently, I'm Coming Out

The following letter from a concerned reader is in response to a Diana Ross preview I wrote for our Weekend mag. (Click here for my story.) Maybe the Forever Fiancee and I should have a talk:

Another "Treatise" on Divahood by a gay persona? Excuse me if I can rightfully be accused of making an assumption, but, after reading your melodrama critique of Diana Ross, I just couldn't help myself!

Why is it that whenever I read a critique of Ross, I can always tell whom might be homosexual and whom might be not? Shall I say it is something unpalatably undefinable? The critique is usually centered on the hair, makeup, gown, and mannerism yet almost never the depth of her voice, phrasing, articulation and skill of singing a lyric and breathing life into it.

No wonder Ross has earned the title of "Gay Icon," which, I shall add, burdens the poor girl like the "Proverbial Albatross"! This singular perception is her crucifix, and her continued association, her walk to Calvary!

Brusha! Brusha! Brusha!

Poor Kid Lulu: Due to her nasty apple juice habit (I blame her mother), the lil' squirt's got a few cavities. I didn't get my first cavity until 12 -- and, despite my Snickers-intensive diet, I never had another one. But the Lu obviously has lousy teeth (I blame her mother). So today is dentist day. It's gonna be a nightmare of drills, tears and everlasting parental resentment. The best way to deal with stress and fear, of course, is vodka, Red Bull and tapas. But she's only 3, so tapas are out. Anyway, here's a dentally challenged playlist for my kid:

With Teeth -- Nine Inch Nails
Love Bites -- Def Leppard
Spit Proper -- Busta Rhymes
Ain't Talkin' -- Bob Dylan
Dentist! -- Steve Martin
Bad Mouth Kid -- Ghostface Killah
Hurt Me Bad (In a Real Good Way) -- Patty Loveless
I Want Candy -- Bow Wow Wow
Drill, Ye Tarriers, Drill -- the Tarriers
Ouch -- Be Your Own Pet

New Dylan Song: "Huck's Tune"

This one's growing on me. After reading my scintillating prose, hit iTunes and check it out... (Oh, and on iTunes, I also recommend buying Carrie Underwood's charity single I'll Stand By You. Did you see Idol last night? Real nice version. Plus you'll be absolved of guilt for 99 cents.)

Album: Lucky You Soundtrack (Columbia)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Director Curtis Hanson’s poker drama features Dylan’s first new material since 2006’s Modern Times. Sure, it’s just one song, but Huck’s Tune is a slow, bittersweet keeper that sounds very much part of Bob’s recent “trilogy” (especially 2003's Love and Theft). Plus for the reclusive sleuths in Bob Nation, any peep out of Zimmy is reason enough to ditch work and start deciphering.
Why we like it: Dylan and Hanson have hooked up before: Bob recorded middle-aged lament Things Have Changed for 2000 dramedy Wonder Boys. Huck’s Tune isn’t as sturdy as that gem, but it’s still a thrill to hear Dylan use poker as a metaphor for bad love. “The game’s gotten old / The deck’s gone cold / I’m gonna have to put you down for awhile.” By the way, the rest of the soundtrack is pretty good, too, with cuts from Springsteen, George Jones and Bonnie Raitt.
Reminds us of: That for all his complexities, Bob's always been an incurable romantic.
Download these: Huck’s Tune and, in case you don’t have it, Springsteen’s swaggering rocker Lucky Town
Grade: B

Your Next American Idol Is...

...Miss Jordin Sparks.

"You'll Never Walk Alone"? And she nails it?

It's over.

Seriously.

OVER.

Jordin wins.

You know that, right?

Damn Yankees

Anybody see the Rays-Yanks game last night? Good lord was that satisfying. Led by ubercocky B.J. Upton (also a proud member of the Jim Rice Glare), our hometown rookies beat NY 10-8, despite two homers from supernatural talent A-Rod. It feels good, sweet, life-affirming even when the Yankees lose -- unless you're this yabbo on the left, who is no doubt teetering on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. I imagine the Trop was three-quarters stuffed with pinstriped fans last night -- I also imagine most of those same bandwagoners were cheering for the Rays by game's end.

Anyway, I've probably cursed TB for tonight's rematch (go get 'em Kaz), but what the hell: Here's a playlist dedicated to Yankee bashing, Yankee suckdom, Yankee angst. Feel free to play along, sing along...and boo the hell out of Jeter.

Joe Lies -- Lili Taylor
Don't Believe the Hype -- Public Enemy
Pressure -- Billy Joel
We Are All on Drugs -- Weezer
Rattled -- Traveling Wilburys
Mofo -- U2
Hero Takes a Fall -- the Bangles
Disease of Conceit -- Bob Dylan
Money for Nothing -- Dire Straits
Paranoid -- Black Sabbath
Shoot the Runner -- Kasabian
There Goes the Fear -- Doves
Surrender -- Cheap Trick

Hey! Hey! You! You!

Never paid much attention to Avril Lavigne before. But I had four hours to kill while taking my online Defensive Driving Course this weekend, so I popped the Canadian star's new CD into the player and turned it up. Go figure: It's not great by a long shot, but a few of the cuts rock and pop just right, like Toni Basil trolling a skate park. The following review won't run until next Sunday's white-hot Listen to This column. But unlike Steve Spears at Stuck in the '80s, I actually care about my readers. So here's an early peak...

Avril Lavigne
Album: The Best Damn Thing (RCA)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Now that she’s bleache-blond, married and shopping at Fred Segal instead of the Salvation Army, the 22-year-old Canadian pop urchin has been accused of selling out and losing her bite. Please. Although catchy and fun, her 2002 breakout hit Complicated was about as edgy as a spork. And besides, as a wise poet once said, naughty girls need love too.
Why we like it: Lavigne still has more chutzpah (and a far filthier mouth) than Hilary Duff or Hannah Montana. Her third album gets same-sounding after a while. But at its best, it blends the speed of the Ramones with the candy-apple smile of Josie and the Pussycats.
Reminds us of: “Oh Mickey, you’re so fine! You’re so fine, you blow my mind! Hey Mickey!”
Download these: Girlfriend and The Best Damn Thing
Grade: B-   

In Sean's Mailbox: The Kid's Paying Off

I took Kid Lulu to Indian Rocks Beach yesterday. Just the two of us; the FF was off spending millions on even more unncessary pillows for our house. Good times, good times: We splashed around in the subzero waves, we got sand in uncomfortable places, we tormented each other with seaweed, we cried when we changed each other's pull-ups. But the best part was my 3-year-old's ability to lure cute, tan women to our beach blanket. As I've remarked before, my body is not built for speed; it's built primarily for Funyuns. But as my flabby form chased 3-year-old Lulu around the beach, the usual "Ewww"s magically turned into "Awww, she's so cute." Score one for fat guys with adorable toddlers. I've never been so proud.

In other news, here's today's CD haul. Some good stuff in this batch, including the Lucky You soundtrack, which has a new Dylan tune.   

Dylan, Springsteen -- Lucky You soundtrack
Wolfmother, Jet -- Spiderman 3 soundtrack
Avril Lavigne -- The Best Damn Thing
Sly and the Family Stone -- Stand!
Sly and the Family Stone -- There's a Riot Goin' On
Sly and the Family Stone -- Fresh
Golden Smog -- Blood on the Slacks
Patti Smith -- Twelve

The Body of a Poet

Curious convergence of events at the ol' Daly manse lately: Kid Lulu, my 3-year-old daughter, has learned the word "boobies." Boobies this, boobies that. Boobies, boobies, boobies. It cracks her up. I thought it was pretty funny, too, until Lulu said, "Mommy has boobies" and then turned to me and stared at Daddy's not-so-rock-hard pecs. She didn't pull the trigger, but she was thinking it.

So I've started exercising. Walking, playing hoops. I want the word "boobies" to be funny forever. I don't want to be the victim of my daughter's "boobies" assault. Last weekend, I grabbed the trusty iPod and walked the Feather Sound Loop a few times, trying to burn off some lbs. As I've said before, I have strict "No Forwarding" rules regarding my iPod's Shuffle function. The shuffles must be pure, just like God intended. Not all my shuffles were great, but the following one made the walk go so much faster. We'll call it "The Boobies Mix."

Boulevard -- Jackson Browne
Nasty Naughty Boy -- Christina Aguilera
The Sweet Escape -- Gwen Stefani
Help Yourself -- Tom Jones
Bingo -- M.I.A.
London Bridge -- Fergie
The Green Manalishi -- Judas Priest
God Only Knows -- The Beach Boys
Mary, Mary -- The Monkees
I Keep Forgettin' -- Michael McDonald
I'm Alive -- Jackson Browne
Kiss The Girl -- Ashley Tisdale
Instant Karma! -- John Lennon
I Wanna Be Sedated -- The Ramones

Song of the Week: "Chick Habit"

So I ditched the world the other day, and holed up in the local googleplex to see Grindhouse. Not sure I'd buy the double-feature homage to B-movies on DVD -- or two DVDs, seeing as how they might split Planet Terror and Death Proof to boost sales -- but I was nevertheless entertained by the hellzapoppin' hyperactivity of it all. Plus I had my heart-clogging popcorn, my far-too-large cup of frothy Pepsi and a seat right in the middle of the theater, so I was a happy camper.

For me, the best part of the movie was the very end, when a trio of tough women is kicking the stuffing out of psychopathic baddie Stuntman Mike. As "THE END" zooms onto the screen, a cheeky, vampy, go-go-'60s song starts blaring. Because of the jumbo trough of Pepsi, I really had to go to the bathroom. But the song was so good, I risked bladder infection anyway. When I got home, I did some iTunes research and wound up finding and buying the song. (If you want to buy it, too, search April March instead of Grindhouse. It's available in both "single" format and album-only.) So here you go...

SONG OF THE WEEK
April March
Song: Chick Habit
Album: Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof (Maverick)
In stores: Now
Why we care: This ’60s-style French-pop vamp puts kitschy punctuation on the end-credits of exploitation homage Grindhouse. The cheeky, slightly sinister March (aka Elinor Blake) used to be an animator for Pee-wee’s Playhouse and Ren & Stimpy.
Why we like it: “Hang up your chick habit! Hang it up, Daddy!” Tarantino has always had an eclectic musical ear, but this might be his coolest find: March’s little-girl sass, the stalking bass line and the blasts of car horn are perfect for the demise of Stuntman Mike, a serial killer who’s lust for the ladies backfires in a bloody way.
Reminds us of: Adam West’s 1960’s Batman series. Everybody do the Batusi!
Song grade: A

Simon's Unfortunate Eye Roll

So how much crap is Simon Cowell gonna catch for that poorly timed eye roll Tuesday? If you didn't catch "Country Night" on Idol, it went down like this: Chris "Timberfake" Richardson was absolutely lousy. And after whining something really moronic to the judges ("Nasally is a form of singing"), Chris then referenced the Virginia Tech tragedy -- never mind that Ryan Seacrest had already opened the show with a thoughts-and-prayers message. The camera then turned to Simon, rolling his eyes at what he thought was Timberfake's blatant plea for votes. Later, after Blake Lewis' Cure-meets-Tim McGraw performance, Cowell awkwardly referenced Virginia Tech again, obviously because producers told him about his eye roll. He was trying to save face. Cowell shouldn't take any crap for it -- he was right to think Chris was being manipulative -- but he probably will.

IN OTHER NEWS: I'm now thoroughly convinced Martina McBride is a robot. I'm also convinced there's going to be a surprise vote-off tonight. Maybe Sanjaya, who was strangely charmless. Maybe LaKisha, who WAS SHOUTING "JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL" REALLY, REALLY LOUDLY.

Sean's School of Seduction

The Forever Fiancee and I are going on 14 years together this year. The lady knows all my wooing tricks: the Dance of the Seven Buttons, the Cowboy, the Whirly (send a self-addressed stamped envelope and $9.99 and I'll provide full instructions for each. Assless chaps not included).

Anyway, when you hit the 14-year-itch, and you can't get by on your rock-hard abs anymore, you have to mix things up. And when I say "things," I mean great quantities of booze. The FF and I are all about mojitos these days. And nothing goes better with those randy spirits than a little bossa nova. So next time you're in the mood for a little nook-nook, pull out the sugar cane, pull on the chaps and play this new album by the devastatingly sexy Bebel Gilberto. You can thank me during that post-romp smoke.

Bebel Gilberto
Album: Momento (Ziriguiboom/Six Degrees)
In stores: Tuesday
Why we care: Just call her the Bossa Nova Baby. Brazilian beauty Bebel is the daughter of Joao Gilberto, a founding papi of the bossa nova movement. With her pillow-soft vocal and a flirty ear for seductive lyrics, the 40-year-old star is sexy chip off the old block.
Why we like it: A burbling backdrop of electronica gives this, her third album, a mellow modern lushness. Gilberto and special guest Sabina Sciubba (from indie faves Brazilian Girls) make for the most intoxicating pairing since Tanqueray and tonic.
Reminds us of: Another girl from Ipanema
Download these: Bring Back the Love and Cacada
Grade: B+

In Sean's Mailbox: Apocalypse, Etc.

Leave it to Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor to find comfort, hope and hooks at the end of the world. The new Year Zero, out tomorrow, is the most accessible NIN record yet. (There's also a viral marketing Year Zero "game" spread all over the Internet. You can get started here.) Is it the best NIN disc yet? No, but you also won't want to shoot your dog and yourself by the end of it. Mr. I Wanna &!@* You Like an Animal sounds downright accomodating as a faceless sadistic government tries to suck his brains out with a straw. I'm writing up the review today (it'll run on Thursday), and I think I like it for the most part.

I was also gonna blog today about how porky my beer-swilling a-- is getting, but I'm too winded. So here are the new CDs I've recently found in my mailbox...

Nine Inch Nails -- Year Zero
Dolores O'Riordan -- Are You Listening?
Dirty Dancing 20th Anniversary DVD + CD
The Kinks, the Fratellis -- Hot Fuzz soundtrack
Laura Veirs -- Saltbreakers
Ryan Shaw -- This Is Ryan Shaw
Test Your Reflex -- The Burning Hour

Playlist Challenge: The Brat Mix

My 3-year-old daughter is turning into Beelzebaby. For so long, Kid Lulu was a sweet, giggly, Daddy-worshipping tot. But the tyke hit 3 in a hard, hard way, and is in a perpetually crabby, pained, don't-harsh-my-buzz-old-man mood more akin to a Ibiza club urchin.

The other morning, Lulu and I reenacted a classic Three Stooges routine. It was time to take her to Jesus school, so I turned off a movie (The Fox and the Hound) and started gathering her Jesus backpack. She immediately started wailing and clawing at the TV. I picked her up and tried to calm her down, but she slapped me with her left hand. So I grabbed that hand -- but she slapped me with her right hand. Then I somehow managed to pin both hands, only to have her kick me in the cojones. In her defense, I'm not sure the ball boot was intentional; still, it was a helluva shot.

As the echoes of pain reverberate in my bathing suit area, I now present this playlist dedicated to my precious little wonder with the sweet left hook...

Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing -- Chris Isaak
(Hit Me Baby) One More Time -- Britney Spears
You Really Got Me -- the Kinks
Baby, What a Big Surprise -- Chicago
Daughter -- Pearl Jam
Problem Child -- AC/DC
Naughty Girl -- Beyonce
Miss Independent -- Kelly Clarkson
Just Like a Woman -- Bob Dylan
Isn't She Lovely -- Stevie Wonder

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

This is what greets you on Kurt Vonnegut's homepage today. The wrinkly, curmudgeonly truth-teller died Wednesday at the age of 84. I first read Vonnegut in college; the timing couldn't have been better. Slaughterhouse-Five, Cat's Cradle, Breakfast of Champions, Galapagos, even Hocus Pocus. He was savage, hilarious, bleak, and curiously hopeful in relaying his "we're all screwed...unless" message. For a kid who didn't give a crap about anything but beer and Buffalo wings, it was the best education I could get. Someone once called Vonnegut "a moralist with a whoopee cushion," which was just about right. (Hell, for all his crankiness, he was still cool and funny enough to show up in Rodney Dangerfield's Back to School.) Anyway, if you haven't read any Vonnegut, go hit the library and start reading. Start with the titles I've listed above. His dying comes at a rather appropriate time; we should all be heading back to his books these days. I was going to dedicate a few songs to him -- maybe Warren Zevon's Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner -- but I'll just say "So it goes" and move on.

Haley Scarnato's Semi-Nude Revue

Before I get to Haley Scarnato's Mons Venus routine, Sanjaya's peach fuzz and a gratuitous reference to Sanjaya's sister, allow me to quote the Forever Fiancee upon seeing LaKisha shimmy and shake: "Those things are coming out!" I gotta be honest with you: I'm dead-tired of writing about Idol. Sure, I watch and I watercooler and I throw dollar bills at the TV when Haley gams it up. (By the way, I'm now convinced that Haley is the most insincere entertainer since Burt Reynolds in "The Cannonball Run." And yet, the horndog in me can't look away.) But that said, I'm ready for Idol to be over. Maybe it's because I wrote not one, but two stories about Chris Daughtry this week. Maybe it's because the Forever Fiancee is contemplating getting a "Shake n Blake" tattoo on her left buttock. Maybe it's because Jordin Sparks, once so incandescent, is now kinda annoying, too, making cutesy faces more appropriate to a hospital puppet show. Maybe I just need a nap. (If you're wondering, Phil Stacey is going home tomorrow. Sanjaya was too cool, and Chris Richardson had "special" accompaniment. So it's adios, Nosferatu.)

Questions for Miranda Lambert?

Country spitfire Miranda Lambert is always burning sh-- down. Or getting really drunk and threatening her exes. Or cocking her shotgun and giving bad dudes air holes. She's possibly psychotic. And I totally DIG that about her.

Lambert is just as sexy as Faith and Shania, but she's also as tough as Loretta L. and T. Tucker. Remember when Gretchen Wilson and Big & Rich were credited for bringing back the Outlaw movement in Nashville? Lambert makes the Muzik Mafia look like a bunch of pantywaists. Her new album, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, is one of the best albums of the year, and it hasn't even been released yet (May 1 -- trust me, I can't stop listening to the promo).

Anyway, this Friday I'll be interviewing Miranda, who's bravely bringing Gangsta Country to Music Row. If you're a country fan, or merely a supporter of sociopathic blondes, fire off some questions for Miranda, and I'll try to use as many as I can.    

The Bald Wonder LIVE

ST. PETERSBURG — Chris Daughtry looks smaller without his trusty video flames.

If you watched American Idol last year, you no doubt remember the warbling rocker’s cheezy performance backdrop, an electric blaze that helped the Bald Wonder stick in the mind of voters. Country dope Bucky Covington could barely get a stool to sit on; Daughtry, a fave of producers, was granted an inferno.

At a sold-out State Theatre Monday, the 28-year-old singer, who famously lost the Idol contest, continued to launch his post-flames career. His 2006 debut album, Daughtry, has sold more than 2 million copies, making him one of the most popular singers to come from the show.

But despite the early success, the question remained: Without all the TV trickery, without studio polish, could Daughtry deliver a ferocious live setting with just a four-piece band behind him — and without Ryan Seacrest hyping his skills?

The answer is yes. A very LOUD yes. Daughtry may be smaller in person, but he sure is a lot louder. In fact, he’s more of a metalhead than we ever knew.

In front of a 700-plus crowd made up mostly of women and their dates, tykes with their patient dads, and a hilarious smattering of middle-aged bald dudes, Daughtry spent an hour grunging up his image and power-chording his way to a promising rock career.

Dressed in black leather jacket and matching beanie — and soon doffing both to reveal gym-toned arms and that smooth-pated dome — Daughtry opened with the slow-burn grind of Crashed. He was fighting to howl over his muddling band at first, but the sound soon cleared: For (relative) ballads Used To and later the catchy hit single Home, Daughtry’s distinctive pipes sounded sublime. The guy can flat-out blow.

With a scowl on his face, a leather wristband soaking sweat, and that goofy wallet chain dangling from his hip, he seemed most inspired by the angry stuff. The best song on the album was also the best song of the night, the swaggering assault of What I Want, which is rocket-boosted by a nasty Skid Row punch.

“You’ll have to bear with me, I’m a little under the weather tonight,” he told the worshipful crowd. “So you’ll have to sing with me. Is that alright?”

And with that, he broke into the bittersweet breakup ballad Over You, which turned into a crowd-wide sing-along, and then the power-poppin’ Cheap Trickery of Feels Like Tonight. The State Theatre is a gloomy rock club (in the best sense, mind you), but it was sweet to see the rock dungeon dotted with preteen faces, mouths agape, crooning along to every world. Daughtry wants to court a non-Idol crowd, but you could tell he was touched the loyal adoration of the wee ones who first fell for him as a prime-time stud.

So Daughtry rocked on and on (Breakdown, It’s Not Over), churning out sounds far harder than anything he unloaded on Simon Cowell & Co. And that bald head, so calm and shiny on TV, was sweating up a storm.

Yes, the flames may be gone, but this boy can still generate some serious heat.

What's In Sean's Mailbox: The Lucky Song

Here's how I feel about Peter Frampton's Show Me the Way: If you hear it first thing in the morning -- or at least that guitar solo -- nothing bad will happen to you for the rest of the day. Seriously. Same goes for Kenny Loggins' I'm Alright. Some songs are magic that way. Some songs are money in the bank. HOWEVER, if your clock radio goes off at 6 a.m., and you hear Spandau Ballet's True, most likely you will get creamed by a bus as soon as you leave the house. If you try and buck fate, thinking you can outfool Spandau Ballet by staying home, a small prop-engine plane will nevertheless hit your house by noon. Sorry.

Here's today's treasures from my work mailbox (not including two copies of Playboy magazine featuring Anna Nicole Smith):

Peter Frampton -- Frampton Comes Alive!: 25th Anniversary Edition
Timbaland -- Shock Value
Bebel Gilberto -- Momento
Lumidee -- Unexpected
Warren Zevon -- Preludes: Rare and Unreleased Live Recordings
Hellyeah -- Hellyeah
MiG -- MiG

Playlist Challenge: The Easter Mix

When I was a kid -- an only child, natch -- the Easter Bunny would leave epic-size baskets for me filled with baseball cards and J. Geils albums and magazines and T-shirts and Red Sox tickets and enough candy to kill a grizzly. The Easter Bunny would also leave perfume for mom and maybe a nudie mag for dad. On Easter morning, sometimes we'd go to church; sometimes we'd go to Dunkin' Donuts. I'm not saying that's right -- I'm just saying that's what happened.

My mother -- a grandmother now -- is Fed Exing an easter basket to Kid Lulu that sounds better than one of those Oscar Night gift bags. Supposedly it includes a Subaru and a small island in Polynesia. Maybe she'll send a little something to me. One can only hope.

We're going to our friends' house for Easter this year -- I might even sneak in a few holes of golf. The whole holiday makes me a little nervous; I feel like I'm doing it wrong. Maybe I'll drink to chase away the Catholic guilt. I'm not saying that's right -- I'm just saying that's what will probably happen.

Anyway, let's put together an Easter-themed playlist. It can be religious, it can be secular, whatever floats your basket. Here's a few songs to get us started...

I Want Candy -- Bow Wow Wow
Basket Case -- Green Day
The Rising -- Bruce Springsteen
Jesus Is Just Alright -- the Doobie Brothers
The Candy Man -- Sammy Davis Jr.   
Let's Pretend We're Bunny Rabbits -- Magnetic Fields
Dirty Old Egg Sucking Dog -- Johnny Cash

Hey, Ladies: Martina, J.Lo

Between all the panty-tossing I did at the Tom Jones show last night, and shepherding a surly Kid Lulu to a hellzapoppin' picnic for Jesus this morning, I'm ready for a %$#@! nap. So in lieu of scintillating discussion, please accept two snappy, poppy reviews, which won't "officially" run until this Sunday. Consider yourself in the loop....

Martina McBride
Album: Waking Up Laughing (RCA)
In stores: Now
Why we care: McBride isn’t the best country singer. She’s not the prettiest or funniest or tallest, either. But there’s something about the Nashville star (16-million albums sold, 22 Top 10 singles) that makes her so much more appealing than Faith or Shania. Maybe it’s that sweet, stable voice? Or maybe it’s those cyborgian blue eyes?
Why we like it: McBride’s ninth studio album kicks off with If I Had Your Name, the kind of boy-snubbing anthem (a la 2003 smash This One’s for the Girls) that makes her a fave with fiery women. Cry Cry (’Til the Sun Shines) is a buck-up charmer with a great chorus. Unfortunately, Martina soon gets way too meek and maudlin for way too long, but fans will eat this up regardless.
Reminds us of: Harper Valley PTA
Download these: If I Had Your Name and Cry Cry (’Til the Sun Shines)
Grade: C+

SONG OF THE WEEK
Jennifer Lopez
Song: Que Hiciste
Album: Como Ama Una Mujer (Epic)
In stores: Now
Why we care: After that foul Bennifer nonsense, we were sooo over Jenny from the block. But we’re strangely digging this single from her new Spanish-language album. We have no idea what Fly Girl is saying, but our rumpasaurus hasn’t stopped shaking since we heard it.
Why we like it: It’s stoopid and fun, and the shimmying guitar strums and conga-line beat make us bust out embarrassing moves. Plus Jen seems more honest singing in another language. Weird, huh?
Reminds us of: How she should dump creepy husband Marc Anthony. Really. He’s a drip.
Song grade: B

Get your panties ready...

Who told Victoria her saucy little secret? Who helped Frederick seduce the hotties of Hollywood? Who's the top banana in the Fruit of the Loom gang?

Tom Jones, baby!

The 66-year-old Welsh Wonder knows undies like Air Jordan knows hoops. And at Ruth Eckerd Hall Wednesday, the first of two sold-out nights, the chest-hairiest crooner in pop history was drilled with his first pair of unmentionables at the 50-minute mark of a brilliantly smarmy 90-minute show.

It was a tiny pink thong, and it hit him square in his remarkably fit chest. "Oooh," Jones purred.

Soon after, in the middle of classic sing-along "Delilah," an even smaller pair of skivvies landed at his steel-tipped leather boots. "Heh heh heh," he lasciviously chuckled.

And just about every one of his 2,200 fans squealed and swooned.

In a matter of shameless disclosure, I'm a huge TJ fan. All of his the swinging-60's stuff is sublime, of course. But for the past two decades, Jones has teamed up with modern-pop talents as diverse as Wyclef Jean, Portishead and the Stereophonics for techno-cocktail cool. It's cheesy and trippy, like glow-in-the-dark Velveeta.

Dressed in a ridiculous purple suit, Jones played some new songs (including "200 lbs. of Heavenly Joy," a great take on a Howlin' Wolf tune). He played the old songs (for "Help Yourself," he motioned to his bathing-suit area as he sang the line "Love is like candy on a shelf").

"And I'll play a few in-between songs, too," Jones cooed, making the word "between" sound like a four-letter come-on. Jones is a classic Vegas showman in every sense of the word. He chatted up the crowd, which was predominantly gray-haired but also featured a surprising amount of young women. He sweat his tail off -- and shook that tail as much as his hips would allow.

He put together a tight 11-piece rock band, complete with horn section. And he sang every song as if life and libido counted on it. His baritone remains a remarkably strong over-the-top instrument.

He's not so much a singer as a belter, pulling that microphone back two feet from his jet-black goatee for the show-stopping notes. Forget about subtlety or nuance or quiet moments: Tom Jones likes to wail.

Case in point, a cover of "Fly Me to the Moon," which suddenly sounded like the best bar pick-up line in history.

The last 45 minutes of the show was a full-on undies assault, as Jones, doffing his jacket to great effect, uncorked the classics: "What's New Pussycat?" a grinding "You Can Leave Your Hat On," the pulsating "Sexbomb" and hip-thrusting anthem "It's Not Unusual."

But he saved the randiest moment for the encore, a killer cover of Prince's "Kiss," the song that kickstarted his career revival revival in the late '80s. Over a funky hip-hop beat, he hollered "Think I better dance now!" and shimmied and juked and wiggled all over the darn place.

And making sure the crowd went totally bonkers, he then lifted up his shirt, revealing a ripped, hirsute stomach that reminded me of Chewbacca at Gold's Gym. One more time: Tom Jones, baby!

Tony + Sanjaya = Huh?

I find it sad, and disturbing, and probable grounds for assisted-living help, that Tony Bennett was pissy with all of the American Idolists Tuesday except for Sanjaya. But not only was he kind with Malakar, he was complimentary. Did Tony really say, "I'm a big fan"? I couldn't hear too well 'cause I was nervously eating Sweet Tarts to chase away the horror of it all. (Even worse is that none of those little spoiled brats listened to Bennett. They all disobeyed his orders, including Lakisha with that Ain't No Sunshine kicker on Stormy Weather.)

Oh well. Sanjaya's hair and wardrobe -- obviously inspired by a certain pair of John Travolta films -- was amusing. But for my money, the most memorable performance was by Haley Scarnato, whose entire life is inspired by the pinup to the left. She's so fake, so phony, so Busch-Gardens-Salute-to-WWII, it's mind-blowing. And yet, I'm not going to lie to you, I'm totally hot for her. I hate myself for it. I really do. She's about as genuine as Bennett's rug. And yet, Scarnato's coconut-cracking gams have me in a sick, twisted vice grip.

So who's going home tomorrow night? My guess is Gina, who shoulda ditched the tongue ring (I'm pretty sure Charlie Chaplin did), or Phil Stacey, whose vampirical hold on America is losing its power.

The Jim Rice Glare

Because my dork quotient isn't high enough, I joined a fantasy baseball league this year. My team is named after the greatest player of all time: surly Red Sox slugger Jim Rice, winner of the 1978 MVP. Look at that glare! It's a thing of beauty. I've always been drawn to power hitters with anti-social behavioral "issues," a list that also includes Albert Belle, Eddie Murray, Jack Clark and Manny Ramirez.

Two of my favorite head cases, and core members of the Jim Rice Glare, play just down the street: Delmon Young and Elijah Dukes. Both rookies had good games on opening day, and should be fun to watch all year long. (BTW: The Glare also includes shifty error-magnet B.J. Upton, giving me the trifecta on Tampa Bay's enfants terrible. Oh, and before you belittle the Glare, I also have Roy Halladay, Miguel Tejada, Francisco Rodriguez, Erik Bedard and Josh Beckett. My crew can play, I tell ya.)

Anyway, I'm pretty sure most people have stopped reading by this point. But I'd like to salute the Jim Rice Glare with the following hardball-intensive playlist. Good luck, men.

Sinner's Swing -- Van Halen
Angry Young Man -- Billy Joel
Hard to Handle -- the Black Crowes
Big Shot -- Billy Joel
Slam -- Onyx
Only the Young -- Journey
Run, Baby, Run -- Sheryl Crow
Mama Said Knock You Out -- LL Cool J
Everybody's on the Run -- Jimmy Buffett
Hit Me With Your Best Shot -- Pat Benatar

Out Tomorrow: Fountains of Wayne

Hey gang, the new Fountains of Wayne comes out tomorrow. I won't review Traffic and Weather until Sunday, but here's a quick take. Regrettably, there are only a few bright spots, but none of them are as bright as Radiation Vibe, Red Dragon Tattoo or the incandescent No Better Place. It's rather disappointing actually, and trust me, I love these guys. (By the way, if you're interested, here's an '05 profile I did on FOW's Adam Schlesinger for the Washington Post.)

Fountains of Wayne
Album: Traffic and Weather (Virgin)
In stores: Tuesday
Why we care: The NY-NJ hipsters are the clown princes of power pop, penning Bubble Yum hooks and snarking at the middle-class. If you think they pick on easy targets (the Gap, Coldplay, Subaru drivers), consider this: I’ve interviewed Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood, and they’re as proudly uncool as their subjects. Seriously. Total dorks.
Why we like it: Okay, so this is the weakest FOW album yet — their trademark punology often borders on self-parody (Revolving Dora), and there’s nothing as memorable as past hits Stacy’s Mom and Radiation Vibe. But several bittersweet love songs are incredibly good. Michael and Heather at the Baggage Claim, which is like Raymond Carver meets The Graduate, packs an especially sneaky punch.
Reminds us of: The Molly Pitcher Travel Plaza, NJ Turnpike. Try the Arthur Treacher’s hush puppies. You won’t be sorry.
Download these: Michael and Heather at the Baggage Claim, I-95 and New Routine
Grade: C+