I’m allowed to sleep with Michael Franti. This is a fact. You see, he’s currently holding fast to the #1 position of my Celebrity Boyfriend List, which means I have a “free pass” from my marital bonds to make Michael Franti forget any other woman ever existed before me...if the opportunity should, ahem, arise.
Music is a shockingly personal taste, so perhaps you don’t like his music, a mix of pop, reggae, rap, jazz, funk, folk and smokin' yumminess. (Eclectic, right?) But you can’t deny the man is a solid 6’6” of dreadlocked, tattooed, peace, love and hotness. Plus, he walks the walk as a peace activist whose medium is his music. Oh, and did I mention that at the Michael Franti and Spearhead show we went to a few weeks ago, I spent five heavenly seconds holding his big, calloused hand in the air and dancing in the sunshine of his love? Maybe it was a very bright spotlight, but to me it was the sunshine of his love.
Back in the naked-bulb glare of real life, Michael Franti can only provide the soundtrack to my daily tasks. Not exactly a give and take relationship. Until one day - not long after I posted online the photos and videos of the show and gushed about my moment in the love light - I received a Facebook Friend request from…wait for it…one Michael Franti.
Ok, no, not THE Michael Franti, but certainly a dear friend with a funny streak who had set up a fake FB account just for my pleasure. I laughed and laughed too, but no way was I going to accept his friend request and fall into that gullible trap. However I could not resist sending my faux-Franti a message.
I assume you found the card I slipped into the front pocket of your jeans at the show, and that is how you got my name. We had a connection, didn't we? I could tell by the way you clutched my petite hand in your meaty paw that you felt it too.
Since you're on my Celebrity Boyfriend list, I am allowed to sleep with you. I'm not sure, however, if I'm allowed to Friend you. I'll have to get back to you on that.
A week later I received a reply. Please let us take one moment so you can bask in the vicarious pleasure I took when opening my computer to the notice: “Michael Franti sent you a message.” Me? Little ol’ me? Couldn’t be. An excerpt:
Thank you for the meaty paw comment. As an environmentalist, I of course wish I had paws. As a vegan, I of course wish my hands were made of sweet potatoes. So, you have intrigued me and made me self-conscious at the same time. Was that your intent? Because now every time one of my meaty paws lifts a bite of food to my mouth, I feel a tinge of betrayal.
|The profile photo my|
Who is it??? Is that what you’re wondering? Which friend has gone out of his or her way to research enough Franti factoids to keep me giggling through the day? And, even more importantly, what kind of warped mind thinks up finger yams?
I’ll tell you who: I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. Years ago, I would have been like a bloodhound, mercilessly tracking down my prey to dig up the truth. Could it be that I have matured somewhat? Yeah, whatever. Maybe. Maybe not. The other day I posted on Facebook about my pride in writing a poem that rhymed “peace pagoda” with “Abe Vigoda.” Would a mature person allow just a teeny, tiny piece of her mind for just the splitiest split second to believe that the real Michael Franti replied, “Pamela, my dear, you have done it again!”?
Yeah, I’m thinking not so much.