Over the Christmas break, I had the chance to sit around and channel surf for hours, something I can't usually do because of that whole work and life thing I've got going. (Did you buy that? Awesome.)

The new artsy-fartsy channel Trio is on our favorites list, and as I flipped through I noticed this title: Bjork at the Royal Opera House.

Sounds innocent, right? Bjork at the Opera. That crazy Bjork, I thought. What the hell is she up to now?

I'll tell you what she was up to. It was no surprise, but there she was, wearing a very strange and misunderstood outfit. There were probably 15 women behind her, all wearing kimono-like robes, dancing like they were being electrocuted while staring off blankly into the stagelights. A weird backdrop of randomly spaced designs floated behind them. A strange-looking harp player was postioned to the left of the stage, riffing on her damn harp like she was Jimi Hendrix at the Monterey Pop Festival. Some balding guys in black putzed around with a laptop, giving each other the "thumbs up!" sign when it made a wierd cool noise. Bjork danced wildly around the stage, flapping her arms, spinning and bobbing like a bumblebee on crack.

After watching for a few minutes, I realized something very important. Something that may elicit gasps of shock and dismay. Something you may want to sit down for. (Oh, you are sitting? Right. At the very least, you should take a deep breath right now and let it out slowly.)

I hate Bjork.

That's right, I said it.

Hate. Have very strong feelings of dislike and actual repulsion and a slight bit of anger towards. Bjork.

My sister used to have a huge (much bigger than life-size) poster of Bjork on her ceiling right above her bed. Actually, I think it's still there, at my parents' house. I liked the poster, a sepia-toned image of her in a soft fuzzy sweater looking all doe-eyed and loveable. I wanted to hug her, and let her sing me to sleep.

I even like, you know, that song. The one with ""huuuhhhhaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiii" noises and the "something something else sensuality" and the overbearing synthesizer. You know, that one that everybody knows. And that video, the one for "Oh So Quiet". That was very cool. I consider myself a fan of that video.

BUT.

Let me tell you something, Bjork. I know that you are weird. I know that you delight in being weird, weird enough to be cool. I know that you like getting paid to dance like a crackhead around a great big stage, all the while with that innocent little "I'm so happy and free, wild like a bumblebee" face on.

I know that you like being weird enough to make some lofty-intelligent-cultured types think they "get" you. I know you're the kind of girl who wants to be kind of girl that only certain people "get". I know that those certain people who think they "get" you probably pay lots of money for your albums, your merch, your shows.

BUT.

Do not ever. Ever. EVER. Think that you are fooling the entire world into thinking that you are the strange-and-marvelous-not-of-this-earth-almost-celestial-being that you market yourself as.

I'm onto you, B.

I know that you wake up with morning breath like the rest of us. I know that you probably watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy reruns on Bravo. I know that you pay taxes and cut your toenails and get your eyebrows waxed. You check your email, paint your fingernails, brush your teeth, and put your bra on everyday too.

So give us a break, please. Please. Enough of the "experimental" thing. For the love of God. Just stop, and write a nice sad love song on the acoustic guitar, that you play while sitting down on a comfortable stool on a small stage in a dark bar somewhere. Maybe then we can start over, and I'll forgive you for this self-indulgent, confusing, piece-of-meaningless-crap I couldn't help but watch.

You know, maybe I just really need a piece of Nicorette.

Lucy loves you |