Lady Gaga's "Alejandro"

Gaga's new video has been on the air for less than an hour and "LADY GAGA OFFENSIVE VIDEO" headlines are already flowing like the freshly spilt tears of Pope Benedict XVI.

When something is offensive it must provoke and upset not by default but by intent, so do not mistake Lady Gaga and Steven Klein as accidentally ruffling the alms-paid-for feathers of the Catholic church. In a perfect world, or just an educated world, the word "offensive" would never coincide with a comment about art. Art is supposed to be offensive and I dare anyone to name a piece of art, whether a play or a song or a sculpture made of discarded placenta, that gave a distinct emotional impression without provocation.

But controversy aside, the video is just okay. Which, in the context of the video's pop cultural importance, is a fairly brutal criticism. "Alejandro" is, after all, a much-anticipated collaboration between one of the most talented American photographers and the most exciting musician in the world as of 2010 and yet, there isn't much of a story or even anything remotely pleasurable to look at. What I saw was a dark, unsurprising collage of interesting (but ultimately--and this is the worst part--pointless) imagery that would be better suited for the centerfold of W or Arena and not reeled into a projector and placed onscreen.

There are a few amazing moments. Near the end of the video, with Gaga standing alone in what seems like the demure outfit your salsa instructor would wear at any small-town ballet studio, there are sparks of real inspiration. Marching and snapping her alabaster fingers, she is defiant and beautiful. The following dance sequence is another strong moment, and the story of the track itself--modern women, the struggle and judgement of society towards homosexual men, and the torturous relationships between these entities--becomes at least somewhat apparent. With her gay soldiers marching at her side, preparing for their incoming battle against the brilliant critiques of Bill O'Reilly and Glenn Beck, she transcends her human body as Lady Gaga and, in a move that is becoming increasingly easy for her, transforms into a kind of religious icon, an image of something otherworldly. The video ends with her being obsessively disrobed and tossed about, finally exposing her breasts to her acolytes. This is disturbing, but fame is disturbing, and when interpreted this way, the lyrics of "Alejandro" seem disturbing.

Hopefully her next effort, for "Monster" I presume, will be more original. Gaga's already worshiped, but pop-cultural holiness requires a few miracles now and then.

And, as a big fan of Steven Klein, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between the video and a past shoot of Klein's for French Vogue in 2009, picture below. Even the haircuts on the male dancers are identical. Copying your art for the Queen of Pop? Now that's "offensive."

Baptism/Cheerleaders

I haven't posted anything about music in months. Or, like, years.

But sometimes you have two diet cokes and five cups of coffee before noon and, all of a sudden, writing a few words on new music is more an obligation than a distraction.

On the whole, the pop music world is sort of at a standstill. The invention of Lady Gaga has placed a lot of new artists immediately on the shelf of Been There, Done That. The Gaga effect is so clear, songs like "OMG" by Usher are actually getting airplay. Actually hitting #1 on Billboard. Actually being illegally downloaded. Like tasting a filet mignon and being sentenced to Wendy's square meat patties for all of eternity, we as a pop audience have to dig a bit for anything even relatively tasty.

The food metaphors are a perfect lead-in to "Treats" by Sleigh Bells. Seriously, what the fuck is this? The duo--composed of some death metal musician and a girl group dropout--has created some exceptionally bizarre music. The album is aggressive, almost scary, with crunchy guitar sound effects and bass hits that sound more like boulders colliding in low gravity than an 808. I normally don't listen to "alternative"

(Sorry, a shudder just ripped through my body, sending me awkwardly to the floor of Thunderbird Coffee. Caffeine effect?)

As I was saying, Sleigh Bells is not my usual fare, but the songs are irresistible. My favorite track is "Riot Rhythm," probably because of the cheerleader chants. I just love cheerleaders. If Sleigh Bells had an owl on their album cover I probably wouldn't like them so much, but I continually picture the old McQueen ads and, as I grow deaf blasting "Tell 'Em" and yelling out my car window, I picture her doing cheers and flirtatiously (i.e. sluttily) dancing to the industrial sound of Treats.

The new Crystal Castles is pretty sick, too. "Baptism" is my favorite of the new tracks. I think this is a record that, if Lindsay Lohan had any foresight or taste or culture, would have been wise of her to collaborate on. "Baptism," and the album's lead single, "Empathy," are the kind of accessible underground that propelled Justice to international fame. (Or, at the very least, Youtube fame.) Ambitious, not so much--the album is standard CC fare--but it's enjoyable if you aren't in your room with the lights out.

May's seen more than a few killer singles. Kelis' "Flesh Tone" has already unloaded "Fourth of July," "Brave," and impossible-to-hate "Emancipate Yourself," Kelis' answer to Madonna's "Sorry." B.o.B. is boring as hell, but "Magic" (featuring the insanely sexy vocals of Rivers Cuomo, who is hot by rule of his moniker alone) is bouncy fun without any JoBros musical reference.

Xtina's "WooHoo" is one of those embarrassing tracks you can't imagine being approved ("you don't need a plate/just ya face/ahh") and Keane still sucks ass. No surprise there; being relegated to soft-rock radio play in Applebees is a sure sign you should never have a rapper featured on your album. Like, ever.

To conclude, I recommend that no one ever listens to "Freaky" by Koda Kumi. It is horrible and I somehow bought it on iTunes and have no recollection of the purchase. Don't suffer with me.

Miley Cyrus

I cannot help it. I love Miley Cyrus.

I haven't listened to any of her music, aside from "Party In The USA," and I've never seen any of her movies nor her television show. The only Miley I know is a Hollywood brat who speaks with what sounds like a half-eaten Quizno's in her mouth and walks like she's way hotter than she is. (And who wouldn't with the guys she gets? Justin Gaston? He may be annoying and vapid but look at his...er, cheekbones!)

Last summer, a time of post-Paris depression and heartache, had one bright moment, and that was The Kid's Choice Awards. Miley Cyrus pole-danced to what would soon become one of my favorite songs of 2009, and it moved me. She made me wish I was straight just so I could lust after her properly. Miley isn't Hannah Montana. She is a young, virginal temptress and I will lap up any drops of pop culture she drools onto the public consciousness.

Since TKCA, she's gotten a tattoo as a seventeen year old, dirty danced (well) on a 44 year old man in front of her family, and literally cannot be seen without her hotpants and Fry's. The "Party In The USA" vid should have been evidence enough that she was taking the non-Hillary Duff route to long-lasting fame, and even if I'm the only fan left, I will be there when she takes her Lindsay Lohan tumble into cactus.

Here's to you, Miley. Hopefully I can dirty dance with you sometime. Perhaps to "Can't Be Tamed."

xoxo

Summer LITERALLY starts NOW

I love everything about this.

http://www.katyperry.com/

Mister Donut

A preview of my Mister Donut brand revamp. All creative materials are mine but still in progress. (Mister Donut himself is hot, too--tattoos and everything.)

Slippery

Lately, my feelings have been extremely slippery.

In short bursts I feel clarity, but it's of the happy variety, the easy variety. Clarity is easy to come by when life seems perfect (and life only seems perfect when, by the function of an intensely pleasurable moment, you forget the peripheral imperfections). In no time at all, I resume my neutral state, sometimes slipping into "deep" thought, which is another way of saying "no thoughts, just an all-consuming emotional weight."

That guy did end up calling me back yesterday and we enjoyed a semi-wonderful brunch this afternoon. What does that say about the profound sadness I felt yesterday, and will most likely feel again once my ego-bucket has emptied?

(Do not mock the ego-bucket. We all have one, and they empty easily, like the cones at water parks that overflow and tip on willing passerby. The tipping is hardly noticeable, but once the buckets are drained of their life-giving nectar we are left with skinless emotions, like a peeled tomato after blanching. Everything is tender and sensitive to prodding.)

Whoa, too many similes.

If I like this guy, than I should want him. If I am going to spend a day moping, at least let it inspire me. If I'm going to feel joy, it should last more than an hour. So, essentially, I am done with the slippery. I need concrete from now on.

A Sad Day

LORDY. I swear I'm not as sad as this blog impresses you--but why write when you're happy? I don't even need a blog when I'm happy. Happy times are for reading, not writing.

I have learned that true sadness is only felt after a seemingly unjust tug-of-war with love. The guessing games, the fleeting attractions, the steps taken to either prevent seeming overeager or ensure your interest is properly interpreted. I am in a tug-of-war, and losing. Or perhaps I've lost.

It's not a game shared with anyone else, even lovers, but one you play only with yourself--God knows what the other person is feeling. It really doesn't matter. Even if he is head over heels and you occupy his every free thought you'd never know, and it isn't important to know. How you react to your suspicions of his feelings tells you the most about how the game will end. Are you anxious? Are you aloof?

If you're aloof, well, lucky you. I envy aloof. Even in relationships where I couldn't give a rat's ass about the other person I cannot manage aloof. I equate aloof with guilt. In fact, I attribute guilt to any emotion other than affection or respect. As in, I feel shitty when I'm not totally fair with the other person.

Flashback: The week before spring break, I end a thing with a guy I had been dating for about two months. Because I never allowed the thing to become more than a thing, I didn't have to drop a whole breakup bomb on him. I just left a trail of sulphur and let the burn reach him slowly. Not cruel, but possibly heartwrenching (I mean, I'm kind of a catch, you know, with my emotional stability and all) and definitely dishonest. Just left him one day on his porch without a kiss and never spoke again.

Flashforward: Meet the most amazing person. Flirt for a week, go on a date that redefined Good Dates, flirt for another week, and here I am writing. On a Friday night. I'll let you guess the intervening details.

Perfect guy, and I blew it by doing nothing. Fickle. So I pulled too hard on this tug-of-war and fell straight on my back. I'm not sure if I'm in the mud yet, but for now, Fitzgerald is my only numbing agent and, much to my dismay, Amory Blaine is having his heart broken, too.

There isn't lesson from this, and that may be the worst part. Perhaps I am just reeling from the effects of karma--getting what I deserve for leaving someone without giving them confirmation of my departure and, therefore, never freeing them to live their lives without expectation of a sudden return. (Again, I doubt the situation is this dramatic, but God am I sad right now.)

Conclusions have always been the weakest component of my writing, but I'm going to try with this one: After getting off the phone with my mom, ranting all about this boy and lapping up any consolation she had to give, I saw a cloud in what has literally been a cloudless sky. It was so beautiful I stood up out of my reading and wine-induced stupor to look at it. (I've posted it below in what appears to be the highest quality my Mac can afford) The cloud, I hope, is a metaphor. This moment in my life is so sad, in so many different ways aside from missing out on Mr. Perfect, but it is beautiful. And like a cloud, this time of deep introspection and growth will pass, and life will be a spotless blue. So I should appreciate them now, before they dissipate.