The Great Gaga-Swift Debacle

I think it’s fair to say that music lovers can be divided into Team Gaga and Team Swift. Not that they’re in direct competition, but there’s a huge division between them. The difference can only be described in an art metaphor: Lady Gaga is the Andy Warhol of music. Taylor Swift is the Frida Kahlo of music.

Gaga is good idea, in theory. She’s unique. She’s artistic. She’s avant-garde. She’s like Andy Warhol’s soup cans. You look at them and say to yourself, “Interesting. That’s a new concept.” But you don’t cry over it. You don’t feel an ache in your heart. It doesn’t remind you of the guy you loved in high school who didn’t love you back.

 It doesn’t remind you of ANYTHING. You look at that silkscreen soup can for all of 30 seconds and then go looking for some BRUSHSTROKES. You want to see a painting that has evidence of human connection. You want to see that little signature in the corner. You want something (music or art or whatever) that means something. You don’t listen to Gaga songs going, “P…p…p…poker face” and know what the fuck she’s talking about. It’s not like, “Oh, I see you’re ‘bluffin’ with your muffin.’ I know how that feels. My muff bluffs all the time.”

Not that she’s terrible, I love me some Gaga, but she’s just kind of an empty shell. She’s fun. But she’s unreliable. I can’t go to her with serious problems. I can’t seek out her wisdom when my boyfriend dumps me, or I loose my job, or somebody dies. All she has to offer me is advice like, “I want your leather studded kiss in the sand” or “I’m just stunnin’ with my love glue-gunnin’” and that really doesn’t help me.

Taylor Swift, despite the cheesy princess-themed music videos, has great advice. She’s like Frida Kahlo. All the love and pain and tears go right into her art. Did your boyfriend dump you? That’s ok, just call him up and scream “I’ll be shining like fireworks over your sad empty town” into the phone. If you need a good cry over your lost childhood and innocence, or a lost parent, try listening to “Never Grow Up.” If you don’t cry, you officially don’t have a soul. Know any teenage girls who need to realize that high school is nothing but the blink of an eye? Taylor will remind them that “in your life you'll do things greater than dating the boy of the football team.” She’s awesome. She’s helpful. She’s dorky. And I appreciate the dorkiness. It’s honest. It’s a hell of a lot more honest than a Kermit the Frog dress. Taylor Swift might not be the cutting-edge of cool, but she’s got integrity, and I respect that more than an outfit made of bacon. People are too preoccupied with whatever they’re told to think is “cool.” Cool is boring. Cool is fake. Besides, did high school teach you nothing? “Cool” is just another word for “asshole.” 

I should know. I’m the coolest person alive.
  

Senoir Balthazar Pamplemousse!!!

I’ve been begging my boyfriend to let me buy a Pomeranian. They’re adorable.

Evidence:

They’re especially adorable when they get all mean and growly because it’s like, “Awwww! You just think you’re so big and scary but you have fluffy ‘tocks and tiny little paw pads!”

             Evidence:

His name will be Senoir Balthazar Pamplemousse. I plan on calling him Moo for short.

Monopoly is EVIL!!!!

Monopoly is Evil!

I HATE the board game Monopoly. I can’t understand why people enjoy playing this godforsaken game. It’s the epitome of everything I hate in life: money, greed, dishonesty, and especially basic math. Ew.

I’m one of those rare people who just generally dislikes games. I couldn’t care less about sports. There’s not a competitive bone in my body. Board games are repetitive and boring. Any kind of party game where I have to dance, be blindfolded, or spin around is simply not going to happen.

There are some exceptions to this rule. I fully embrace drinking games. I loooove trivia. I watch Jeopardy EVERY night. But that’s about it.

Games just seem like a waste of time. Why play a board game when you could, I dunno, have an authentic intellectual conversation?! As much as I love shouting “Sorry!” or “Jenga!” at the top of my lungs (I so totally DON’T), I would rather hear someone talk about their passions or their fears or what they ate for breakfast last Tuesday. Fuck “Family Game Night”! How about we have a “Family Actually has a Meaningful F-ing Conversation Night” instead?

End Rant.

But if you'd like to purchase said evil board game:

   

Ken Dolls...Pffffft!

           I like people who look like old houses. People with creaky floors, layers of paint, and weird 1970’s wallpaper; people with character. I’d gladly take Sarah Jessica Parker’s nose or Keith Richard’s wrinkles. I’d love nothing more than Frida’s unibrow or Anne Boleyn’s rumored sixth finger. Scars, tattoos, stretch marks, crooked noses, weird toenails… all so much more attractive than the media would have us think. I mean, if people actually thought the whole bulimic, orange-skinned, bleach blond look was attractive, the Barbie people would have made Tanorexic Ken by now. Have they? Nope. They did, however, make Beach Glam Ken and also some monstrosity called Hottie Ken.

           Thank-you toy gods. 

  

I have officially finished all 500 pages of the Hayden Herrera biography!!! It was an epic book. Her research was detailed and expansive. I’m pretty sure she interviewed anyone who ever smelled, tasted, heard, touched or saw Frida Kahlo. She even got her paws on personal photos and love letters.

Pretty much the second I put down Frida, I picked up the next book in my pile, Finding Frida Kahlo, which is about the very controversial stash of Frida belongings found a couple years ago. These newly discovered trunks and suitcases were full of personal documents, diaries, clothing, and art that appear to have belonged to Frida Kahlo. This has not been authenticated. Most people believe it’s a total fraud. I wanted to see for myself, being the amateur Frida scholar that I am, so I went through page after page of glossy photographs and descriptions of the items until I came to a conclusion:

They’re a complete and total fraud.

The signatures are all wrong. Every item in this stash is signed “F.K.” or “Frida K.” and I mean EVERYTHING, even recipes and doodles. It doesn’t make sense that she would have signed things like a list of ingredients for stew or random doodles of monkeys. Plus, Real Frida (as she shall henceforth be known) signed her name differently depending on whom she was writing to, and it was usually a nickname or even just lip prints. Why then, would she sign every letter and piece of artwork “F.K.”??? In addition to this Real Frida meticulously dated all of her letters, not only the year but the month and the day as well. She was very organized. Conveniently, none of the letters or documents are dated.

What’s really interesting though is a bunch of sexual drawings and descriptions of her sexual affairs with women. These are totally faked. Real Frida loved sex, but she NEVER spoke of her own sex life. In addition her bisexuality was never an issue. Diego preferred her to have affairs with women. Her affairs with other men made him furious.

Even more annoying are the hundreds of letters and diary entries calling Diego names and depicting him as a pretty ruthless monster. This is also completely false. Real Frida loved Diego. One of the most compelling things about their relationship is that they were both deeply flawed people who loved each other not in spite of, but because of those flaws. Frida knew that she always came second to his art and that she usually came second to his womanizing. She also knew that her love for him transcended the pain he caused her.

Clearly, whoever forged all these documents wanted to stir up the Real Frida mythology. They wanted to shock the public. They wanted to create a new person, one that was angry and hopeless and pathetic. These are things that could never describe Real Frida. She was sexual, vibrant, funny, graceful, and a belligerent drug addict in her last days.

I did some research online to find out what other people were saying about this new discovery. This article appeared in the NY Times and it pretty much validates my opinion:

 http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/29/arts/design/29frida.html?_r=1&ref=frida_kahlo

What's the Opposite of Bieber Fever?

Dear Justin Bieber,

Lately, you may have noticed that your body is going through some changes. There is hair where there was no hair before. Your voice is finally sounding like that of a man instead of a dying baby dolphin on helium. Congratulations. You have entered puberty. I’m here to help you. I’ll give you the answers that Rex, your roadie and ex-Hell’s Angel, just can’t provide. I’ll tell you the truth, unlike your agent, who’s really just a whoremonger of “cool.” He can’t pretend to care as well as I can.

Firstly, you’re not cool. Don’t take it personally. Nobody going through puberty is cool. It’s impossible. I say, embrace the awkwardness. Learn to love your gangly limbs and cracking voice. Let your freak flag fly. Do what other boys going through puberty do: get braces, embark on a futile quest to grow a mustache, pop some zits. You have my permission.

It must be exhausting to be cool all the time. Why don’t you take a day off and, I don’t know, try to touch a girl’s nipple or something. What about Selena Gomez? She has a cherubic face and a charming personality. I’m sure her nipples are lovely.

CUTEITARIANISM!!!!!!

I was a vegetarian for a little over a year. My reasons for going veggie were numerous, but mostly it was because I have a great deal of love and empathy for animals. I was already avoiding products made by companies who used animal testing. I was well educated in the ways of PETA, with their lists of charities, companies, products, and foods that are cruelty-free. So, I embarked on a year of meatless eating. It went well, but I have to admit, I missed meat.

 I also grew up down the road from the middle of nowhere.  I lived out in the country, surrounded by farms. I had many friends whose parents made a living raising and butchering animals. I’m not like those big-city hipsters who have never been to an actual farm. I know where the little wrapped packages of supermarket meat come from. I’m also not an idealist. I generally hope for the best and plan for the worst. I figure idealism is for sheltered hippy-snobs who have never experienced the real world. You know, the world that isn’t financed by daddy’s credit cards. Plus, I didn’t want to be that pretentious asshole constantly saying “I don’t eat meat” and insisting on a vegetarian option at a steakhouse or a greasy spoon or my friend’s mom’s house.

My point is that, realistically, cows aren’t native to Canada. Chickens can’t be returned to the wild. What purpose do these animals have other than being eaten? I’m definitely against unnecessary cruelty. Chickens should roam free in fields bespeckled with wildflowers. Seriously. They should. Cows should wander the countryside, chewing their cud in peace and mooing with contentment. Seriously. But they wouldn’t survive in the wild. So, unfortunately, the only thing to do is eat them.

Thus my dilemma: I love animals. I feel guilty when I devour their poor little carcasses but I refuse to be a vegetarian. My solution to this problem is this:

I only eat ugly animals.

I stay away from adorable cows. Rabbit is obviously out of the question. I was born in the Year of the Hare and bun-bun feet are quite possibly the cutest things on earth. I’ll eat some pig on occasion but only rarely. Pigs are not only cute, but they’re smarter than dogs.

I will eat chicken. I think they should live a happy life but they kinda freak me out. They’re sorta creepy with their pointy little beaks. Shrimp, lobster, crab and scallops are totally edible. Off with the head of anything that walks sideways while blowing bubbles! Take that e e cummings!

I suggest that cuteitarians unite! Eating ugly animals will make you feel less guilty about the fate of our feathered friends. You’ll be able to gaze into the eyes of your loving cat without feeling the need to yell, “I’m sorry Elvis! I ate your cousin! Ok, so that chicken was a distant cousin, but still!” and then having a panic attack.