Pretty potent, huh? I've watched it like five times now and, I swear, the swirlier patterns on my bathroom wallpaper are fighting with each other. But that's not important right now. What IS important is that the snarkeratti that now makes up most of humanity is piling on the 80's matinee idol for his mildly hallucinogenic performance. Is it dated, deluded and self indulgent? Indubitably. The by-product of celebrity enabling and nefarious booking agents? Youbetcha. The direct effect of having more money than sense. Chiggity-check.
But whatever you credit or blame for the fact that Corey Feldman is back in the national consciousness, I for one have to give him his propers. After all, his combination of half-baked Michael Jackson moves and dead-eyed Fembots has peppered my Facebook feed with something other than Trump, Hillary and/or impossibly adorable puppy montages. That alone earns him the right to sign that 8 episode reality show deal some Hollywood hack is no doubt thrusting in front of him at this very moment. What's more, his ear-grating vocals are totally devoid of
And for that, he deserves our scorn?
I don't think so. And while I'm as mystified as you as to just how he landed the gig, you have to respect him for believing in his vision enough to drag a handful of off-duty waitresses and a cast-off Trent Reznor track to the set of America's most vapid morning show. What, you wanted another dissection of Ryan Lochte's latest dim-witted debauchery? Not only has this hapless has-been regained what passes for relevancy in our click-bait society, he's done so with a song and dance number so deplorable I twisted my ankle trying to replicate it in my rec room. (I'm kidding: I don't have a rec room.) So before you cast judgment on a 45 year old man channeling the id of a deceased King of Pop, let me ask you, "What did YOU accomplish last week?"
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go stare at my wallpaper.