We were popping edamame at the usual sushi joint when he broke the news.

"I heard this song today," he smirked. The kind of smirk he tried to make go away, but couldn't. The news was just that good.

"It's a girl singing," he continued, head dipped now, voice lowered slightly. "About kissing another girl."

No!

"Have you heard this song?"

I stared at him for a minute, blinking. He was serious, too.

Because even though Katy Perry's I Kissed A Girl had been played over and over and over again, making me want to scream and throw things like radios, and even though this evening was more than a few weeks back, I was still kind of shocked he'd only heard it for the first time that day.

A song you didn't think was all that terrific the first time you heard it, or even the second time. By the third time around, it's kind of grown on you, you actually like it the fourth time and are completely over it by the fifth listen. But by then, you're at the grocery store or wherever you were headed in the first place and you're just happy to be getting a break from it for at least half an hour.

He tilted his head back slightly, drummed thick fingers on the tabletop.

"I kissed a girl," he hummed, grin plastered firmly across his face. "And I liked it!" punctuating that last bit, eyes lit up as if suddenly, all his porn fantasies had just been confirmed by Katy Perry.

As if there were some light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Maybe, possibly, deep down, every woman he's ever known had just been waiting for this top 10 hit to come along to reassure us that it's OK to release our inner lesbian (provided it's in the presence of and not at the exclusion of our male dates). And for us to run around sucking the cherry ChapStick off each other's faces or anywhere else we might be inclined to put cherry ChapStick.

Soon, every woman in every bar all over the world will be making out right there in front of him, eventually removing frilly articles of clothing, then turning to him, motioning for him to join them.

"So have you heard it?"

Eyes rolling up to the ceiling now. "Yes, I've heard it," I sighed. "It's the No. 1 song on iTunes." (It was at the time.)

And then, because I don't know when to stop, I continued on a rant about how sucky and overplayed the song is, that it's only popular because she's some hot 20-year-old, singing about making out with her hot 20-year-old friend. And every pervo out there is downloading it because guys are idiots who think and hope and pray that if they play the song often enough, the women in their lives will become inspired to experiment a la Katy.

I lost him at the mention of hot 20-year-old on hot 20-year-old. Across the table, he was now staring away at nothing, eyes glazed over, grinning even wider. Why don't I learn? Ever?

I was reminded of this Sunday night as I tuned into the MTV Video Music Awards. I was kind of curious to see if my Britney would redeem herself from last year's fiasco.

And incidentally, she became My Britney sometime since then, sometime since The Fiasco. Because if you haven't heard her latest, Blackout is kick ass. Seriously.

Anyway, aside from showing up with the worst hair ever, Britney did nothing remarkable. Which, all things considered, is fairly remarkable in itself, I suppose.

And then there was Katy Perry.

Decked out in a pink, retro, pinup girl outfit, singing her signature song with all the enthusiasm of a person who's heard it for the fifth time that half-hour.

As well, she unforgivably mangled a version of Madonna's Like A Virgin, which, incidentally, became a hit the same year Perry was born. I'm guessing she was asked to perform the song because of the perv factor, without any thought to vocal range or style or the fact that it appeared she had never heard or seen the song performed before.

It was, for me, this year's Fiasco.

So now I'm going to have to tune in next year to see if Perry redeems herself. Or if anyone even remembers her name.

And incidentally, for my pervy friends out there, Britney's got a song on Blackout called Get Naked. Maybe next year she'll be well enough to perform onstage again.

snadler@thespec.com