Robbie Williams Is My Obsession: Why?
I just checked my tarot online again. It's silly I know, but I had to know. You see I have this fantasy. Even though we've never met; probably never will meet; or ever could meet, I'd like to ghost Robbie Williams's autobiography. I've read that he's dyslexic. He needs someone like me. I am sure he does.
As fantasies go, this is really out there I know. I feel ridiculous but I can't help it. He's about to turn 30. I just turned 57. Unless he is amenable to geezer sex and I don't believe he is, I can't explain why I haven't felt this way about anyone since I lost my virginity [also to an Englishman] lo those many decades ago. It certainly doesn't hurt that he's a multi-millionaire, displays an irresistibly genuine quick witted intelligence, is very good-looking, and is famously good to his mother.
You know how English performers often adopt a fake southern American accent when they sing? Not Robbie Williams. He has this unique-sounding, if unrecognizable accent when he sings. I was desperate to find out who he was ever since I heard it on the closing credits for Bridget Jones's Diary. The smooth, soulful rendition of Have You Met Miss Jones sung in that strange-sounding accent was mesmerizing.
It took a while but eventually I put face and name to the voice from Bridget Jones's on a BBC-America rerun of an English chat show called Parkinson. From that and various CDs, DVDs, unauthorized biographies, Internet news articles, TIVO'd television sightings in the U.S., a Robbie Williams personna emerged. Along with that personna developed an unshaken conviction that Robbie Williams is the finest performer that has ever walked this planet, ever. He is amazing. Millions share my sentiments. Small comfort.
I signed up to his website and found myself spending hours in his chatroom talking to like-minded obsessed woman of all ages, descriptions and nationalities on three continents.
Of course, I am convinced that I know him, but I don't really. Actually, the Robbie Williams' public personna that I have formulated isn't terribly appealing. Supposedly he's a notorious womanizer who's had a serious drug and alcohol problem possibly influenced by a mostly absent father. He dropped out of school and was sort of aimless for a while until he hooked up with a creepy boy band. The managers of the boy band were mean to him. After a while, he quit, became a cocaine addict, sobered up, found a new manager, and began writing songs about the boy band being mean to him.
Eventually, a song he wrote, not about the boy band, transformed him into a bona-fide superstar. Angels, is about being looked after here on earth by loved ones who have died. It was a smash and became the most requested song at British funerals, and weddings too, I think. A lot of his songs talk about angels or dead people. Regardless, his lyrics are distinctively expressive. In fact, my brother-in-law and several other men of my acquaintance are forever teasing me about Robbie's lyrics and how they express excessive levels of emotional pain and suffering. Lucky for Robbie Williams, it is emotional pain and suffering that most women recognize instantly.
When my sister got sick, the only place on earth where I was unencumbered by my sorrows was in one of the three Robbie Williams chatrooms. The one I frequented was fun and creative featuring an imaginary bar complete with cocopalm, hot tub, fireplace, couch, piano, and a blow-up Robbie doll. There was a menu of drinks that included stiff willies, and the the like. All we ever knew about each other were our nicknames. Through it all was the frisson of expectation that the man himself would walk into the bar. And he did, twice, while I was there. For days after, I and other chatters grilled the people to whom Robbie spoke, for every detail. The object of our obsession seemed like a regular person, a gutten nashooma in transliterated Yiddish.
For weeks I spent hours, late into night, talking to people in England, Wales, Ireland, Ottawa, Toronto, Sydney, Melbourne, Mexico City, Amsterdam, Cologne, etc. It was mid-evening on the east coast, but the middle of the night in London. I found out what O-levels and A-levels are; at least I asked. I'm still confused. I found out why English people bring grapes to people in hospitals. Tradition, that's all. I spent a lot of time explaining to scores of people that New Jersey was not a glamorous place to live, even if Bon Jovi was born there.
Then Robbie Williams closed his chatrooms without warning. I lost the only relief for my bottomless sadness. Scores of people scrambled to reassemble and a new place was created, but it wasn't the same. Nothing ever is. That's why I have this fantasy about the autobiography. I can't wait for the rest of America to discover what I have. If I ghost for him, it won't matter.
Click link here to check this out!
As fantasies go, this is really out there I know. I feel ridiculous but I can't help it. He's about to turn 30. I just turned 57. Unless he is amenable to geezer sex and I don't believe he is, I can't explain why I haven't felt this way about anyone since I lost my virginity [also to an Englishman] lo those many decades ago. It certainly doesn't hurt that he's a multi-millionaire, displays an irresistibly genuine quick witted intelligence, is very good-looking, and is famously good to his mother.
You know how English performers often adopt a fake southern American accent when they sing? Not Robbie Williams. He has this unique-sounding, if unrecognizable accent when he sings. I was desperate to find out who he was ever since I heard it on the closing credits for Bridget Jones's Diary. The smooth, soulful rendition of Have You Met Miss Jones sung in that strange-sounding accent was mesmerizing.
It took a while but eventually I put face and name to the voice from Bridget Jones's on a BBC-America rerun of an English chat show called Parkinson. From that and various CDs, DVDs, unauthorized biographies, Internet news articles, TIVO'd television sightings in the U.S., a Robbie Williams personna emerged. Along with that personna developed an unshaken conviction that Robbie Williams is the finest performer that has ever walked this planet, ever. He is amazing. Millions share my sentiments. Small comfort.
I signed up to his website and found myself spending hours in his chatroom talking to like-minded obsessed woman of all ages, descriptions and nationalities on three continents.
Of course, I am convinced that I know him, but I don't really. Actually, the Robbie Williams' public personna that I have formulated isn't terribly appealing. Supposedly he's a notorious womanizer who's had a serious drug and alcohol problem possibly influenced by a mostly absent father. He dropped out of school and was sort of aimless for a while until he hooked up with a creepy boy band. The managers of the boy band were mean to him. After a while, he quit, became a cocaine addict, sobered up, found a new manager, and began writing songs about the boy band being mean to him.
Eventually, a song he wrote, not about the boy band, transformed him into a bona-fide superstar. Angels, is about being looked after here on earth by loved ones who have died. It was a smash and became the most requested song at British funerals, and weddings too, I think. A lot of his songs talk about angels or dead people. Regardless, his lyrics are distinctively expressive. In fact, my brother-in-law and several other men of my acquaintance are forever teasing me about Robbie's lyrics and how they express excessive levels of emotional pain and suffering. Lucky for Robbie Williams, it is emotional pain and suffering that most women recognize instantly.
When my sister got sick, the only place on earth where I was unencumbered by my sorrows was in one of the three Robbie Williams chatrooms. The one I frequented was fun and creative featuring an imaginary bar complete with cocopalm, hot tub, fireplace, couch, piano, and a blow-up Robbie doll. There was a menu of drinks that included stiff willies, and the the like. All we ever knew about each other were our nicknames. Through it all was the frisson of expectation that the man himself would walk into the bar. And he did, twice, while I was there. For days after, I and other chatters grilled the people to whom Robbie spoke, for every detail. The object of our obsession seemed like a regular person, a gutten nashooma in transliterated Yiddish.
For weeks I spent hours, late into night, talking to people in England, Wales, Ireland, Ottawa, Toronto, Sydney, Melbourne, Mexico City, Amsterdam, Cologne, etc. It was mid-evening on the east coast, but the middle of the night in London. I found out what O-levels and A-levels are; at least I asked. I'm still confused. I found out why English people bring grapes to people in hospitals. Tradition, that's all. I spent a lot of time explaining to scores of people that New Jersey was not a glamorous place to live, even if Bon Jovi was born there.
Then Robbie Williams closed his chatrooms without warning. I lost the only relief for my bottomless sadness. Scores of people scrambled to reassemble and a new place was created, but it wasn't the same. Nothing ever is. That's why I have this fantasy about the autobiography. I can't wait for the rest of America to discover what I have. If I ghost for him, it won't matter.
Click link here to check this out!
posted by Ambimom at 5:13 PM
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