Okay, remember how I posted a while back that I'm in love with a dead man? Well right now, the dead man's only competition is a very, very gay man.
Here's the deal: I loves me some Rufus Wainwright. As long as he's singing or posing for photos, I'm cool. I really don't need to hear him speak or even read interviews with him (because then the fantasy becomes waaaaaaaaaaaay too hard to maintain). I just need to hear his sweet, amazing honey voice dripping into my ears through my iPod earbuds, and all is good.
I am a good singer. Hell, I'll even admit that I'm a very good singer--I have good pitch and tonality and a natural ease with harmony. But attempting to sing along with Rufus is a painfully humbling experience. Not only is his voice amazing, his phrasing is so unique that it's impossible to imitate. His music certainly isn't for everyone. But it totally works for me.
And did I mention that he's totally dreamy to look at? Cuz he is.
Man, I need to get laid...