Maybe the universe wants us to be happy again. That's why Duran Duran is returning. They're like my favorite kind of stomach flu. Everytime they're near, I feel happy...and sick. The trauma of our governor's hooker-hobby will fade to my subconscious, where no doubt, he'll appear in a bunny costume and tango with Tom Cruise. At least that's how my dreams usually play out.I'm thankful for this guilty pleasure even though it carries with it some adolescent pangs. My first love looked like John Taylor and he broke my heart, ate it, puked it up, spat on it, then set in on fire. Is it wrong that I love their latest album so much? That "The Valley" gets me on the treadmill? Or that "She's Too Much" bolsters my confidence in fatherhood? I'll be naive for a while, believe that Simon Le Bon is the perfect, loving father to three girls, that Nick Rhodes really is as genius as Einstein, that not everyone leads a secret life, and that my cat, for one night, won't pull my tablecloth and spill my coffee all over my books. Who knew Duran Duran could stay in my life for a solid six months (okay, it's really been twenty-five years), having so recently graced Broadway.
Hooker who?
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