To Mariah Carey, with hate


Dear Mrs. Nick Cannon (or Mimi or Imperfect Angel or whatever moniker you’re going by now),
Upon Wednesday’s news that you’ve pushed your new album’s release date to Sept. 29 from Sept. 15, I thought I’d announce some news of my own: I can’t take it anymore. Don’t release the album. At all. Please.

I know what you’re thinking: How could someone write a letter to me, Mariah Carey, simply to trumpet developments in her personal life? My apologies, Almighty Diva, but desperate times call for self-centeredness, and no one knows that better than you. See, after you, um, well, lost your mind for a few minutes in 2001, you returned with a Mariah-centric worldview and reclaimed your throne as Queen Highnote of the Pop Kingdom.

But Sane Mariah never really returned to her fans. Instead, those of us original “lambs” (as you so sweetly call your die-hards) are left with our Emotions CDs while you prance around with Jack McBrayer singing (or should I say “lip-synching”) about how “if there’s a camera up in here then it’s gon’ leave with me when I do.” You’ve fallen so far from lyrical highpoints such as “I’ve always longed for undividedness and sought stability.”

So I’m calling for an intervention, Mimi. You support the president, right? Well, this is the age of Obamacare and my BFF Sarah “Bible Spice” Palin told me health-care reform means death panels. And your career is contestant No. 1.

But here’s a little more about me, in honor of you. I’m not just a casual listener. I spent eighth grade falling asleep to Daydream and Music Box. I can sing every song on Butterfly, including all your vocal gymnastics (though given my two-octave vocal range, the vocal gymnastics à la Meryn aren’t that impressive). In third-grade keyboarding class, while my friends wrote stories about unicorns and superheroes, I wrote an unauthorized Mariah Carey biography, complete with details stolen from your MTV “Rockumentary.”

But Mariah, you’ve changed. Your breasts have gotten bigger, your waistline has fluctuated, and you hang out with rappers now. The “Honey” remix with Mase, the Lox, and Diddy (known then as Puff Daddy) was hot, Jay-Z’s rhymes turned “Heartbreaker” into a hit, and ODB (may he RIP) made the “Fantasy” remix a fan favorite. But now you pal around with Fatman Scoop and T-Pain. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

I was patient during your droning recovery, also known as Charmbracelet. I skipped a day of school and waited in line at the Mall of America for you to sign my copy of that God-awful album. I even got excited for the singles on The Emancipation of Mimi, though most of the tracks were forgettable.

But E=MC2 was the breaking point. It remains the only original album in your catalogue that I don’t own. Sorry, I don’t like Ciara, so why would I pay money to hear my favorite diva imitate her?

And now comes the impending arrival of your latest atrocity, Memoirs of an Imperfect Angel. What is that, a Jackie Collins novel? If “Obsessed,” the Eminem-baiting technical non-single is any indication of the album’s remaining content, I won’t be snagging this disc either. In abstaining, I’m letting go of one of my first icons.

You once sang to me that “if you should return to me, we truly were meant to be.” So, Mariah, spread your wings and fly.

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