Tom Jones, baby. He reaches my emotional core, leans on the frame of its door, and goes, "What's new pussycat?" And, like, I just DIE! Then I make him take me to JC Penny, and he buys me anything I want. On the way there--in a limo, of course--he'll sing his heart out. Sometimes, though, while he's singing, I'll be smiling and tapping my foot to the groovy beat, but inside I'm thinking, "Slow down. Damn, you'll get a hernia..."