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Sarah Brightman after:

The only thing even slightly similar is that this is a chick who gets in front of the camera and always plays to her best side.

Photographer: Can we get a full-on shot of your face, Ms. Brightman?

Sarah: No! No you may not! It’s a two-quarter turn to the right or it’s nothing! Now get to clicking!

You know, it could just be that all this was documented diligently in the media, with as much furor as the incredible shrinking Star Jones story was a few years ago. Could be. I doubt it … but still, it’s a possibility. But I wouldn’t know because I pretty much can’t stand Sarah Brightman and wouldn’t particularly gravitate toward any article written about her, scandalous or otherwise. I mean … we’ve got a Britney Pandemic going on … those oops-I-did-it-again antics of hers don’t leave room in the shallow part of my brain for much else.

Sarah Brightman can’t take all the credit for why I don’t like her. It didn’t start with her. It started with her warty little hobgoblin of a (now ex-) husband, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. I am not an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan. That’s not to say Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat doesn’t have it’s moments … and my Evita obsession roiled large, but that was a Madonna thing. I like to think that I like some of his music despite Andrew Lloyd Webber, not because of him.

A number of years ago I found out that Music of the Night was actually written as a stand alone piece and dropped into Phantom later — written by Webber expressly for Brightman on the night they met. Imagining trollish little Andy cooing this pleading melody to Sarah as he tried to entice her into his lonely little midget bed left me feeling disgusting and rather voyeuristic. No matter who’s crooning the lyrics, all I can envision is that creepy scene playing out in my head …Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight – the darkness of the music of the night . . . this odd little man with his odd little euphemism for sex. Floating, falling, sweet intoxication! Touch me, trust me savor each sensation! This kind of stuff is the exact OPPOSITE of an erotic siren song. And still, it must have done the trick cuz the broad not only touched him, trusted him, and savored each sensation … she married him. With a shovel in her hand in place of a bouquet, the quicker to start the gold diggin’ with.

So anyway, all this made it very hard for me to like Sarah Brightman, or to even care enough to follow her career. The next time I even noticed her was when she was inappropriately pawing her way through Time to Say Goodbye.

Yes, I get it. Andrea Bocelli is blind. He can’t see you staring at him adoringly. So you’ve gotta drape your damn self across him like a drunken hooker. You know darn well that Andrea’s thinking the whole time of extending the title to “Time to Say Goodbye, So Get Off of My Stage and Don’t Call Me Because I’ve Changed My Phone Number. And You Can Just Forget About Coming With Me to Zurich on the 31st”.

Oh, and just a little critical advice, if I may? If you’re gonna sing a song in Italian, please get a dialect coach so I don’t have to hear a romance language butchered by your stilted British affectation.

Any whoo, just wondering where Sarah Brightman’s gone, and who’s taken over her Kathy Griffin-esque celebrity status. So, if anyone’s got any dirt on Ms. Brightman vis-à-vis plastic surgery, abduction, or a soul sold to the Devil, please let me know. It’s been a slow-ish Britney week …