November 2011

I am compelled to sing to celebrities.

Specifically, I sing to musicians.

Even more specifically, I sing THEIR OWN SONGS TO THEM.

You guys, this is no joke. It is my secret shame. I’m almost too embarrassed to even write about this on my own blog, but they say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem — and oh boy, I do.

It all started when I met Ludacris at a red carpet event. I happen to be intimately acquainted with Ludacris’ work, which is my fancy way of saying that I have a lot of his songs on my iPod. His words have been inside my ears — so we’re practically BFFs.

So I gave Ludacris a nod, smiled and said the first thing that popped into my head, which was, “Move bitch. Get out the way. Get out the way, bitch.”

He kind of stared at me, and I figured he was confused. Perhaps he did not recognize his own song. Maybe he thought I was simply asking him to step aside.

I tried again with lyrics from “Roll Out,” which is clearly a much better conversation starter since it involves interrogative sentences:

“Now where’d you get that platinum chain with them diamonds in it? Where’d you get that matchin’ Benz with them windows tinted? Who them girls you be with when you be ridin’ through? Man I ain’t got nothin to prove, I paid my dues breakin’ the rules, I shake fools while I’m takin’ a cruise.”

He just shook his head and moved on. And then I prayed for the red carpet to swallow me whole.

Then there was Usher, who had the misfortune of being seated next to me at President Obama’s inauguration. I’m sure my rendition of “You Make Me Wanna” assured him that he did not, in fact, wanna.

It happened again at a Warner Music industry party. I was a couple of wine glasses into the evening when I was introduced to David Foster. And I think we all know where this story is going … a Chardonnay-soaked female doing a screamy version of “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion).”

“You remember that one?” I said.

“Yes. I wrote it,” he said.

“I know every word.”

“I believe you. But you don’t have to keep singing it,” he said. “I wrote it.”

At the same party I ran into Josh Groban. I thankfully managed to avoid serenading him, only because I don’t know what he sings. Instead I just said, “What up, Groban? I saw you on PBS,” and then threw down a random gang sign.

I know. This thing I do is crazy horrible, and I wish I could stop. Unfortunately, I’m a lot like an overflowing washing machine. Once those bubbles start to rise up, there’s no hope of pushing them down again.

Believe me, I feel awful about it. Look at how miserable I made poor, delicate Sean Lennon.

Now check out how much Josh Homme wants to kick my ass.

At least the British are polite. Upon meeting Gavin Rossdale, I suggested he sell the song “Glycerine” to Listerine. And then I sang his song, substituting the name of the mouthwash for the real lyrics, just in case he didn’t quite get it the first time.

This is him pretending to be amused.

I just hope Prince never crosses my path, because I have an entire medley prepared — from “When Doves Cry” to “Gett Off” — and I’m ready to go. And that includes choreography.