after the wedding cake

January 27, 2011

A wedding signifies the beginning of a new life. Something very deserving of celebration. Very similar to the birth of a child–a day filled with excitement and expectation of the future life of this new human.

A wedding is a symbol and celebration of another new life—the coming together of two people to create one, united existence. The result can be beautiful. Or not so much.

But whichever result the union brings, one ingredient that has arguably zero say in the final outcome is the wedding day.

The wedding day is supposed to be a never-to-be-repeated, joyous day, but I repeat, the wedding does not a life make.

How many times I have heard a woman say that she just can’t wait for her wedding, or, even more so, for the moment when the doors open and everyone turns and gazes upon her beauty thanks to her breathtaking gown that caused her parents to take out a third mortgage on their home.

Possibly, for many women, this feels like the only day where all eyes will be on them. People will think only of her. And the wedding is all about the bride. Grooms can attest to that.

But, frankly, the only person to really and truly enforce this rule is the couple–and maybe just the bride, depending on the groom’s constitution.

I overheard a woman discussing a current reality show in which soon-to-be brides compete to win a dream wedding. Each episode has a challenge and a subsequent challenge winner who, as her prize, receives a cosmetic surgery of her choice so she can look just like Barbie on her wedding day. Did Heidi Montag design this perverted horror story masquerading as a light-hearted contest?

It sounds like the love child of Extreme Makeover and A Wedding Story with a sizeable implant from The Real Housewives of Orange County.

There are just no words.

Except for the comment from my chatty tablemate. She described this embarrassing and degrading parade as “neat.”

Sounds like a phrase from her era–something the Beave would say. But I don’t think Mrs. Cleaver would agree with Bridalplasty nor with the moral code of the a-moral execs who decided over strippers and beer to air this pathetic excuse for entertainment.


Major Television Vomit

September 14, 2010

I had another subject all lined up for my blog today, but, in tribute to the VMA aftermath, I will lay that subject aside for now, and focus on what’s on the minds of most young America tonight.

I never listen to the radio; I prefer to spend time with musicians with actual, ahem, talent –Elton John, Billy Joel, The Beach Boys, Michael Jackson, Aretha Franklin, The Rolling Stones, to name a few.

Of course, all good music has not been lost. There are many present bands who have not yet been conquered with million-dollar deals to exploit their sexuality and flaunt their drug excesses all in the name of music. They endeavor to follow in the gifted footsteps of artists of the past rather than rely on showy outfits and lasers to distract from their abismal melodies and horrific lyrical choices.

Now, you’re probably thinking, hold on a minute; all of these “talented musicians” exploited their sexuality and drug excesses. In fact, many lived very short lives because of it. And yes, you are right. However, I would argue that most of them did not become famous for these qualities. It was their musical talent that skyrocketed them first. Now, take a look at today, and compare.

These things said: it’s extremely obvious that I’m out of touch with mainstream pop of today. I know it, and I’m unspeakably grateful. But I didn’t realize just how much that was true . . . until the VMA’s, of course.

I only recognized about a third of the “artists”–if you can call them that.

I can safely assert that there was not one moment from the show that would persuade me to spend any of my time or money on any of them.

I ask, what did these people do to become famous?

Jersey Shore? Are you kidding me?

These kids are rich and adored thanks to their glorification of their white trashiness. They get drunk, fight, cuss, sleep around, don’t work, can’t string two intelligent sentences together, and look like they just walked out of a greasers gang from the ’60s. I mean, am I really seeing this?

Sigh. Yep.

And they’re not the only disgusting excuses for human beings. They may just be the most visible.

I’m not gonna touch Lady Gaga because words can’t even come close to what I feel for her. And besides that, her fans are almost as crazy as she is. I’m afraid one of them would knife me in the night.

I just have one word for her: blink. It’s okay. We all do it.

And Kesha? Her outfit was so laughable, I couldn’t look at her straight on. The garbage bag dress was really not that bad; it was more the hair and the feathers. I mean, just calm. it. down.

And of course, there’s more where that came from.

Did you catch and Nikki Minaj’s performance? I wonder how I can get her hair? So pink and spacelike. Reminded me of a jelly bean. That would have made a nice finale, have someone fly down and eat her hair, maybe even her whole head. Very Gaga-esque. I’m surprised MTV didn’t think of that. They were probably too busy trying to coerce Kanye and Taylor to duke it out in jello on stage.

For me, though, what made this night the most difficult to bear is what I noticed in the performers underneath the costumes. Nothing. Total emptiness. Blank expressions. No ability to speak their mind–only the mind of the collective public, who, after all, determine whether they succeed or fail.

They are solely concerned with what will be big tomorrow, where they rank, and how they can be more famous than the person next to them–and if that means showing their breasts and talking about their favorite sexual position, it’s all in a day’s work.

kill the writer

May 22, 2010

I’m trying to be more observant. Paying better attention to my surroundings and the people around me. Even to what I hear on tv. Once I started doing that, I vetoed every show I’ve ever watched.

First, I felt shock and abhorrence. Then, after those emotions came an action. Laughter. It’s no wonder we have so many programs mocking the embarrassment that is cable television. That’s the kind of laughter I’m talking about. Mocking disbelief laughter. The way someone might laugh at the ridiculous woman who honks at the old man in front of her, in a drive thru line, because he’s not putting his car into Drive fast enough–that pitying, I Can’t Believe This Is Happening Right Now, kind of laugh.

We all know the shows. They’re similar to people. Vapid and self-obsessed; repeating the same problems week after week. Never knowing when to change or just to stop talking about it. Case in point, The Hills, Desperate Housewives, Private Practice, Two and a Half Men, and all talk shows, where hosts try to keep audiences interested week after week, whether it’s with the aid of a dog in a tutu or a prank call to the hospital. Hilarious! Or, of course, the talk shows that try to hit us right in the gut by interviewing real-life people, “just like me.” Because I know that all I want in my day is more stories about the hardships of life. I especially enjoy Dr. Phil who spouts off every proverb ever found in a fortune cookie but in nice hickish drawl so no one will notice.

Just as a recent example, I’ll quote The Hills. Need I say more?

-I just want her to be happy.
-Screw that. I don’t want her to be happy. I, like, want her to be normal again.

(Yes, your idea of normalcy is totally on point.)

-I’ve never had to deal with people losing their minds when it’s not due to some kind of substance.

(Well that’s a relief. You sound like you know some really great people.)

sex kitten at 17

May 16, 2010

I don’t know what else there is to say about pop culture and its love of 12 year olds and obsession with manipulating them into sex-crazed 16 year olds with heroin addictions and STDs and then subsequent pleasure in cackling over their utter destruction: multiple rehab stints, abuses, addictions, divorces, sex tapes, money scandals, all the while aging 20 years before our eyes. (Have you seen Lindsey Lohan lately?)

My tirade comes on the heels of the recent Miley Cyrus happenings.

What would entertainment news do without her? Giving lap dances to a gay man, gyrating with her female dancers, pole dancing for her audiences. Parents of Hannah Montana fans must be so happy that their children have such a stand-up role model.

And all of this success at only 17. I see so many exciting things in her future. Sex tape at 18, alcohol addiction at 19, rehab at 20, abuse allegations at 22, drug addiction at 23, total meltdown at 24, rehab at 25.

Has Britney been secretly tutoring her? Or has she found a way to actually transfer her life into Miley’s body? Because Miley’s not just taking tips from Britney’s steller example; she’s a carbon copy. Only about four years ahead of her. I mean, at 17, Brit was still singing about sunny meadows and flowers. Miley, on the other hand, skipped right to post-virginal Britney.

Well, at least she’s being honest. No lies about chastity. Just pure, raw sexuality for this teenage puppet.

And I can tell you one thing, Billy Ray couldn’t be prouder. His buttons were surely bursting when she slid down that pole just a few feet from him and her mama. And he no doubt approved of the video of her lap dance for Mr. Shankman and saw to its distribution all over the Internet. After all, according to him, all 17-year-old girls enjoy a little stripper pole, or lap dance, once in a while.

Needless to say, if you’re a 17-year-old girl and you’re not engaging in these activities, you better get on the bandwagon. Because with a name like Billy Ray and a daughter like Miley, how could he be wrong–or a completely inept parental figure at that?

Just remember his hit song and mullet from 20 years back. That should reinstate his respect.

Singing can cause injury

December 24, 2009

Famous people have it rough.

Constant criticism of every fashion choice, every bad decision, every failure. No private life. Slave to the changing winds of popular opinion, carrying them here and there.

The minute they take one wrong step, the whole world turns to watch.

And yet, no one shows them much sympathy.

In a court of law, if individuals of influence and prominence sue based on privacy infringement, most often, they lose. Why? Because when they signed up for the fame gig, they agreed to the terms. Which includes signing away their privacy.

Famous people may deal with a substantial amount of unfairness being rich and privileged, but they get a lot of sweet deals too.

So for that, I am not ashamed to jump on the bashing bandwagon:

Most of these people have egos.

Celebrities don’t get where they are without at least a slight overly-modest belief in their greatness.

And once fame hits, the growing cannot be contained. No human ego can withstand the excessive amount of petting, complimenting and showering of awards without growing to the extraordinary size that most singers specifically, such as Celine Dion and Mariah Carey, find themselves.

These individuals surround themselves with adoration.

They spend every moment with assistants, stylists and publicists whose sole job is to keep them happy. The last thing they want to do is tell their client that their performance was less than blow-your-mind fantastic. That their hands need to stay glued to the microphone instead of flailing in the air a little more often. That every time they contort their face during a high note, they look as if their lunch is returning at a highly inopportune time.

Fact: some singers are not performers.

Some are successful live. Some make a good effort. Others cause their viewers pain.

It’s not that they can’t sing; it’s that when I watch them sing, I feel impelled to shut my eyes. Quickly.

I saw Carrie Underwood perform on Ellen today.

I had to change the channel.

I can understand moving like that in order to distract from her singing, but she’s a good singer. No twitching arms and disturbing facial expressions necessary.

Beyonce was on Oprah a while back.

How any self-respecting woman can get on stage and shake like that and still smile into the camera is beyond me.

Tyra’s always telling her proteges to model in a mirror; learn how to hold their head; find what expressions and angles look best with their facial features.

Tyra’s crazy–sure–but she knows her stuff. Carrie and her fellow gargoyles would do well to take note.