Britney’s weird, wedded bliss
Music critics, pop pundits and snarky gossipists — and they know who they are! — wrote Britney Federline’s entertainment obit a long time ago, dismissed her belly-baring, lip-synching, barefoot, chain-smoking, Cheeto-loving ways as so 2003.
Even Brit herself seemed to buy into the proposition over the past months, dropping out of sight and canceling her world tour because of a knee injury that left her unable to perform on stage — but still flexible enough to frolic on the beaches of Santa Barbara all autumn long with her sartorially lamentable chin-strapped husband.
Whatev.
That’s not really the point here. The point is, last Sunday, a dream came true for the Kentwood Kitten, the Bayou Beach Bunny, the Faux-Lesbian-Lip-Locking Louisiana Lynx:
After being shut out as a Grammy favorite for the past five years, after more than a half-dozen nominations with nothing on her mantel but a few empties of Red Bull to show for it, the Magic Moment finally arrived — a Grammy win! — and where was she when it happened?
At her pinnacle of musical validation, Britney was at the Sonic in Kentwood getting cheese fries and then roaming around her private estate in the woods on an ATV. No red carpet. No party dress. No Joan Rivers. Instead, one tabloid reports that she capped off a few rounds of target practice with her handgun in the back yard the afternoon of the broadcast.
What’s not to love about this girl?
Do I write about Britney Spears too much? Did you know that her name is an anagram of PRESBYTERIANS?
She has basically done her best to try to disappear into wedded bliss with K-Fed, her beloved self-titled “Pimp Daddy,” and she has come home to roost, as it were. She’s been up in Tangipahoa Parish for more than a week now, lying low and posting on her Web site diary:
“For some reason, I can relax so much better when I’m in Kentwood. It’s like food for the soul. I think when Kevin and I start a family we might build our dream home right behind my mom’s. It’s true; home is where the heart is.”
She also writes about how her little pocket pooch poops on her mom’s nice white carpets all the time. Britneyspears.com. Check it out.
What’s with these fabulous tabloid babes and their accessory dogs? I believe that a tiny show dog tucked into your elbow causes loss of perspective. Brit dresses her pup (named BitBit) in designer clothes (freebies) and even tried to bring the thing into the LSU commencement ceremony this December for a cousin’s graduation.
Repeat after me: No dogs at graduation. I know it doesn’t say that specifically on a sign above the door but, you know . . . you can’t bring your Rottweiler to the spring recital, OK?
Anyway, these days, the Federlines live out their lives distinctly on their own terms, in what, for all intents and purposes, looks like B-roll footage from the TV show “COPS”: Convenience store cowboys with dangling cigs and matching tattoos and wife-beater tees, baseball hats and bags of cracklin’s.
The Federlines, they’re in love.
For Valentine’s Day, Brit hired New Orleans actress Suzaune Yee McKamey to drive up to Kentwood and deliver a singing Valentine to her hubby.
McKamey wore a red heart-shaped outfit — “tastefully cute,” she says — and knocked at the gates of Mama Spears’ mansion, called Serenity. There, McKamey twirled, charmed and serenaded a surprised Kev with a medley of “It Had to Be You,” and other romantic jazz standards.
Then she read to him a poem Britney had written for the occasion, a sweet, charming, almost school-girlish ode to traditional love in iambic pentameter.
It’s not the kind of language that’s about to backfire on the avowedly uneditable Britney again. Now, I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to see the interview with the Federlines in the newest Details magazine, but let’s just say the Valentine poem lacked the spunk and vinegar — and the multiple F-bombs — of Brit’s more recent off-the-cuff observations of life and liberty.
Anyway. Weird thing about the Valentine’s visit: McKamey received close scrutiny before being allowed onto the grounds upon her arrival; some guy had just shown up at the gates of Serenity not long before her claiming to be a — get this — singing Valentine.
That is creepy beyond distraction. The whole Britney-in-Kentwood thing has gotten surreal. The longer she stays, the weirder it gets.
She’s home — here on our blessed Louisiana terra firma — and she’s our girl, the most famous kid ever to come out of Louisiana. And if you’ve learned to question or even loathe some of her bizarre career decisions over the years, maybe next week’s column will give you at least a little sympathy for Britney, as we stalk the paparazzi horde who stalk her in the northern woods.
It’s not pretty.