In Thicke

I am Mrs. Robin Thicke because he can sport a pinky ring which is really hard to pull off without looking affected and trying too hard in the worst way. Because he doesn’t sound like Justin Timberlake; he sounds like himself, which is to say he sings from cigarette breath. Because he sings the kind of music his mother, also a singer, loved while he was growing up–soul music, which defines the rhythms of his white body. Because there is nothing more erotic than a man or a woman who looks one way and performs another way. Because when he puts his hand on his hip in this clip it is so attractive because it’s a gesture that means many things to me–mothers waiting on street corners for their kids to get home from school; a mother standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot; a girls showing the world who she is, defiantly–and yet it’s a man, thus triggering what I find deeply appealing: one body doing a variety of things and not being defined as one thing. Because he is not performing white soul but a humane version of the white pimp–he who understands you and wants you to save your money and go to college after you do your thing. Because his teeth are supposed to be “perfect,” but they make me laugh at the memory of Dean Martin, who never interested me. Because he has so much charm he can spread it around and make Jimmy Fallon seem charming–or at least not annoying. Because “Blurred Lines,” is such a great song and it’s silly to compare it to anything else. Because, even though I don’t like Pharrell and his Tupperware face and rhymes, Robin makes me forget him. Because he didn’t blink an eye when Chelsea Handler asked if he was “acting black” on her show, and then she went on to say some other stupid shit and he still didn’t blink an eye–behind his shades–and in short order Robin offered to whip it out as a way of shutting her up, or confirming certain suspicions. Because he can play the spoons. Because I love it when says, in “Blurred Lines”: “You the hottest bitch in this place,” and I imagine he’s talking about me and I don’t even find the epithet offensive because he doesn’t mean it to be–in Robin’s lexicon it’s a party word and it’s a party song, which you can hear when he laughs a little bit during “What rhymes with hug me?” Because when he was putting the moves on his wife, Paula Patton, he asked her to dance and she said to herself, You’re a white boy, you can’t dance, and then she danced with him anyway and he surprised her with his rhythms, his body. Because even though I don’t find anything remotely interesting about Paula Patton I’ll let her live because she’s the first Mrs.Thicke. Because “Blurred Lines,” is such a valuable contribution to joy.