The Gospel According to John

A Depression 2.0 How-To

You guys, I have a problem.

I am unable to stop listening to the Spice Girls.

Ever since this, I simply can’t stop. I have spent over $30 on Spice Girls music on iTunes. This is currently in my DVD player. I created a playlist called “Spicy” (an action so cripplingly gay it makes me feel like I have a dick in my ass just typing it [eew! Who said that?! PURILE]). It is completely out of control, and I am at a loss as to what to do.

I EVEN BOUGHT THEIR SOLO MATERIAL.

EVEN POSH’S.

(But not Scary’s, cuz hers blows.)

AND I LOVE IT.

I know!

In an effort to confront my demons, I have been doing much soul searching as to what exactly is compelling me to spend nearly 100% of my music-listening hours blaring various and sundry Spice into my ears. I’ve come up with three causations.

1—Obviously, it is because Posh’s celestial perfection touched my heart and my aching soul is longing to praise her as she should be praised and open a portal through which her galactic benevolence can flow into the hearts of others. This goes without saying.

2—All music I was hotly anticipating in 2008 ended up blowing real hard, leaving me with nothing better to listen to:
*Madonna’s Hard Candy came out in April. I was over it by June
*Beck’s Modern Guilt is a load of art-for-art’s-sake horseshit
*Jem’s Down to Earth is an SNL Stuart Smalley sketch set to electronic music

BOOOOOOOOO.

I suppose these two are reasons enough. But they still do not explain why I choose, as my dear friend, Gospel reader and fellow Posh devotee Miss Kate and I like to call them, Les Filles D’Epices, over, say, simply a different Madonna album than Hard Candy, in the absence of good new music.

But I’ve figured it out: Depression 2.0.

Think about Depression Beta and its artistic legacy. Jazz. Big band. Fun, peppy songs like “We’re in the Money” and “I Got Rhythm” and “C’mon, Get Happy.” Irving Berlin. George Gershwin. “Rhapsody in Blue” anyone? Please. And need I mention musical theatre? The likes of Show Boat and Anything Goes? And how about movies? Busby Berkeley? The Marx Brothers? Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers? Grand Hotel? 42nd Street?

Pretty light-hearted stuff, no? In the face of war, economic fallout and a complete and total lack of certainty, it’s as if everybody said, “What we need here is some glitter, foolishness, and *flourish of the arm* tap! DANcing!”

Now, fast forward a good 75 years, and what have we here? A shitstorm of epic proportions. War. Economic fallout. Sarah Palin. And for the first time SINCE the first time, a total lack of certainty.

Plus, if you’re me, you’re about to turn 30. It ain't cute.

Now. There may no longer be youth. There may no longer be stability. There may no longer be job security or, you know, two pennies to rub together.

But goddammit, there ARE the Spice Girls.

Seriously, trust me on this. I’ve been listening to them while I commute. I’ve been listening during my runs around the reservoir (all four of them). I’ve been listening to them while I touch myself. Whatever. They are all-purpose purveyors of transcendent joy.

Here’s a fun little tidbit to brighten your day: Try to identify whose voice is whose. It’s particularly fun to do with Posh, because her voice sounds like it could be anyone’s—mine, yours, the dry cleaning lady's, Barbara Hershey’s, whoever’s. Is that Posh’s solo line, or is it just a subdued Mel C or a higher-pitched Mel B or a lower-pitched Emma or a toned-down Geri? There’s no tellin’! It’s anyone’s guess!

So certain am I of the Spices’ perfect suitability for these shittiest of shitty times that I am here going to share with you the most cogent evidence thereof, litigious record companies be damned.

Herewith, the delicious and incomparable sublimity of “Voodoo,” which I discovered last week while feverishly combing iTunes for Spice songs with which I was not yet familiar.

Ahem:

Spice Girls: Voodoo

I mean...

How is it possible to feel down about things when you have Posh narrating—because that’s the only word for it—each chorus with “So baaaad!” and “You can!” How can you worry about the state of the world when you have a bridge composed of equal measures Sporty takin’ it to church and Posh…well, narrating again? Please. Heeyyy heyyyy party la, indeed!

And how can you watch this and not laugh your ass off, and, hence, feel a little better about things? It’s five minutes of five grown women doing nothing but pawing themselves!

Now, of course, there will be days that feel impossibly bleak, when you’re, say, eating ramen noodles you bought with your credit card while attempting to keep warm by scalding yourself with tea kettle water and swallowing lit matches.

THAT, my friends, is when you break out the big guns: Mrs. Victoria Adams-Beckham.

Now, of course we (by which I mean, as usual, me, you, and my non-existent editorial team) here at The Gospel According to John have made no bones about our dedication to She of Intergalactic Omniscience. This is clear. Be that as it may, I think it’s fair to say that all of us—by which I mean humanity—are dubious as to Ms. Adams-Beckham’s vocal stylings.

However. I have purchased roughly half of Victoria Beckham’s 2002 flop Victoria Beckham, and I combed the interwebs for her never-released second album, Open Your Eyes. And I downloaded the whole thing. And it is AWESOME.

First, there’s this:

You guys, she’s not made of china, and she’s not made of glass. And answer truthfully: does it shatter your illusions that this angel has a past? By which she means growing up totally regular in suburban London? (I read her autobiography. I know her dirt.)

Also, don’t wrap her up in cotton wool. Which is clearly British for like…cotton balls or tampon filling or something, and hence is automatically awesome.

Also, what in the ever-loving hell is this video about? Why are their space motorcycles? Why are there two Poshes? The obvious answer is, of course, “because if you have a Poshbot, you might as well.” But still.

Moving on.

Next, we have this:

Let your head go indeed! How much more apt to actually GO to that jazzercise class would you be if you knew this fierce jam would be playing? Also, don’t they make wacky videos in Europe? What mirth!

What’s that? You want more? Alright. How about one featuring Nas? Cuz Posh is so very, very street? Go on then.

And so, you see Gospel readers, I am done--finished--with apologizing for my love of the Spice. Sure, they may be totally passe, and sure, their reunion may have gone over like a lead balloon, and granted, nobody (including you, I imagine) cared then and nobody (including, still, you, I imagine) certainly gives a hot shit now.

But while everyone else is watching their life's savings erode while standing on the bread line and beginning to draw flies like those children in Africa on the commercials, I'll be laughing my ass off at this.

I am changed

I will never be the same. None of you will ever understand.

I won't belabor the point, because when you talk too much about a religious experience, it cheapens it. But I shared the same Earthly space with Posh for two hours, and in that time, the rays of celestial benevolence that shoot out of her eyes (they're invisible, so don't look for them) pierced my soul and now I have found a divine and transcendental understanding that I didn't know existed.

First a few highlights.

1: For the record, these bitches sing live. No joke. All of them. The harmonies are just off enough to know they're live. You can hear them breathe. Even Posh sings. They sing.

2: Speaking of which, Geri forgot to sing at one point in 'Wannabe.' That's how much they sing. Also, Geri is totally over it. She rolled her eyes and said 'Oops' and continued stumbling around the stage because she didn't give a FUC*. Bitc* is the second hottest of all of them and is done with this mess.

3: Posh gets the biggest cheers for her solo lines. This is because everyone is touched by her infinite perfection.

4: They made Mel C. look like a hipster lipstick lesbian this time around, instead of a bulldyke raver lesbian like back in the 90's. Cavalli put her in pants that made her legs look fat. It made me sad, because I secretly love her. But don't tell anyone because Posh gets jealous.

5: Eddie Murphy's baby is cute. Mel B. brought him onstage during a song called 'Mama' I've never heard before in my life. I thought it was a bad idea. Infant Spice had headphones on to protect his little ears, but still. That kid's gonna have epilepsy now from all the people jumping up and down trying to touch Posh. Bad idea. Also, Mel C. looked like she wasn't having it. I think she's jealous of Infant Spice. I think she wanted to scream at him to get his grubby Eddie Murphy hands off of her woman. And why Mel B.'s Eddie Murphy baby? Geri and Emma both just had babies too. Where were they? And doesn't Posh have like 43 kids by now, all conceived immaculately? I don't understand why Eddie Murphy's baby gets all the attention.

On to the important items.

My conversion occurred halfway through the show, when each Spice did a solo.  Geri did her cover of 'It's Raining Men' from the Bridget Jones movie. Emma did an adorable performance of a song from an album she released not long ago. Mel B. did an inexplicable cover of Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way." I don't know why, and I'm not posting a video because it didn't pop up immediately when I searched on YouTube and I don't feel like looking harder because it was random and unclear and I'd like to leave it at that. Mel C. brought the fuc*ing house down with that dance song of hers 'I Turn To You'.

But Posh, in her infinite wisdom, decided to use her time to impart her celestial perfection:

The air in the room changed. People fainted. I spoke in tongues. She took me to another astral plane and held me to her bosom while she whispered the secrets of the universe. It was transformative.

Let it be known:

I have seen the light of the past, present and future, and it is Posh.

Spice Girls: A Preview of Greatness

 

I'm going to see the Spice Girls on Sunday. If you're laughing, you're making a fool of yourself, because those of us not laughing know that the reason you're laughing is because you are filled with an all-consuming, blazing inferno of boundless rage that YOU are not also going to see the Spice Girls on Sunday.

Because there is simply no reason NOT to want to see the Spice Girls on Sunday or any of the other six days of the week. They are the most entertaining women ever. Should you doubt this, I offer up the following as evidence:

I'm not sure where to begin in examination of this sort of brilliance. There are so many questions, like:

Why is it so noisy, and was that intentional?
Why is it Latin?
What does "Ha Ci Ya hold tight" mean?
Why are they riding around on astronaut surfboards, and can I purchase this in life?
What do any of these have to do with each other?

In general, what in the hell is happening in this video? It's so futuristic and ahead of its time--STILL, several years later--that it can't even be understood or explained. This is further evidenced in the lyrics, such as:

"Yellow man in Timbuktu
Colour for both me and you
Kung fu fighting
Dancing queen
Travel spaceman
And all that's in between

Colours of the world
Spice up your life
Every boy and every girl
Spice up your life
People of the world
Spice up your life
Aaahh!!!"

Aaahh!!! indeed! This is a sort of unity you and I, in our laymen's minds, cannot fathom. We cannot comprehend a world where a yellow man from Timbuktu, a martial artist, a dancer and/or member of ABBA, a Martian, and you and I can all experience a united experience of Spice. This is such profound, esoteric stuff that none of us understands it. In fact, I often wonder if the girls themselves understand it. Sometimes I think that an unseen force of divine benevolence wrote these words THROUGH them, and that is why they are so mind-boggling.

But I'll tell you who DOES, without a doubt, understand all of this, and it's this one:

Posh knows. Look at her eyes. She knows. Granted, this isn't really Posh. This is the Poshbot that does her bidding. This Posh is a cyborg that makes public appearances, much like Katiebot, except there is no real Katie Holmes. There is only Katiebot. But in this case, there's a real Posh sitting at home, controlling Poshbot with a remote control from poolside. The Posh in the first photo up top is the real Posh. If you look closely, you can see the difference. Rumors abound that Posh's corset is actually the hatch where Poshbot's circuits are held, but I don't believe it and neither should you.

Anyway, there's a reason why Posh knows the secret. It's because the band was originally called Poshy McPosherton and the Poshettes. This is not widely known, but is true. It's sort of like George Bush's Presidency--on record, he's the President, and Cheney's the veep. But off the record and in reality, Cheney's in charge. Same thing. On record, they're all a united front and equals called The Spice Girls. But Posh is the mastermind. Posh is the brains of the operation. That's why all the other girls have verses to sing in the songs and Posh never does. That's why the other girls dance a lot in the videos and Posh usually stands in one place fondling herself. It's because Posh can't be bothered. She has to run shi*.

That's why, if you look at the top photo again, you'll notice she's the only one doing it right. Geri is totally over it. She's dead inside and can't be trusted. Many don't know this, but Emma ('Baby') is actually retarded. See, you can tell in this picture. You think she's singing into that microphone, but really, all she's done is bellow "BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA." Sporty looks like she's carrying an invisible tray full of blue plate specials and her pants don't even fit. All baggety and shi*. And Scary, believe it or not, is so smacked out on Xanax that she's simultaneously falling asleep AND crapping her pants. And she can't even tell.

But not Posh. Look at her up there. Her arm is in a perfect blade. Her hips are cocked just so. Her eyes are fully open and focused. She is a gleaming beacon of bronzer, angles, tits and precision. Do you know how I know all of this?

Look at this clip:

I was in that porn shop at that very moment. You can't see me--I wouldn't authorize them to film me, because I am a very serious artist and I will not be exploited. I also didn't think my mother would appreciate me being on national television in a porn shop. My mother doesn't know what porn is, and it would have frightened her. She isn't even aware that I have genitals, let alone that I use them in any functional way. Carol is a lady. She doesn't know of such things.

But I was there. I watched Posh choose her blow-up doll. And as she left, I was right behind the camera, watching her. I've been in her presence. I've felt the radiating divinity of her unearthly power. It is an experience that changes you forever.

So laugh if you will. But on Sunday--the holiest of all days--I will be communing with her, and she will tell me her secrets.