Godammit, I’m Mad!

Th other day, my nephew R was visiting and I asked him if he’d seen or heard about Beyonce’s wacky Met Gala dress. Since R is one of the most culturally literate people I’ve ever met, it was a reasonable question.

His response was to shake his head in dismay and express contempt for the idea that anyone gave a shit about Beyonce’s dress. Why should anyone care about this, he exclaimed.

I considered his question and asked, Why should anyone care about anything?

This is the type of conversation I live for. And R is always up for it.

I asked him if anyone should care about the recent auction of “The Scream,” which set a world record by selling for $119.9 million. He said, Yes, because it reflects the state of the current art market and blah blah blah.

Why is “The Scream” more important to know about than Beyonce’s dress? This is a real question. I think that everything we “care” about is just a distraction from the horror of existence. Any time you find yourself in a life or death situation, you realize the fatuousness of all your preoccupations, of everything going on around you. Your choice of car, your shoes, your blue-ray TV, your favorite band, it’s all a distraction.

Moving away from existentialism, I wonder why The Scream is worth $119.9 million. It’s obviously one of the few paintings that is instantly recognizable by any imbecile. The Scream, the Mona Lisa, and Sunflowers are probably the big three, in terms of iconic paintings, right? And I love The Scream, but only because I know it’s an expression of unversal anguish. If it was called “The Toothache”, would it still be worth all that money?

We like The Scream because our taste is a consequence of our social class. Beyonce’s dress probably strikes my nephew as too crass and lowbrow to merit his interest. He may not know that you can take a course in Beyonce Studies at Rutgers.

I am comfortable with the idea that it’s all bullshit, but it’s my nature to wonder about human behavior, even my own. As I continue to waste my time with Tumblr, I’ve been wondering how I make the distinction between real art and kitsch. I tend to disdain the latter, but I wonder if Kitsch is in the eye of the beholder. I also wonder when I’ll be able to stop distracting myself with Tumblr and TV and start experiencing my actual self again.

Meanwhile, where do you stand on Beyonce’s dress, The Scream, and whether you should give a shit? Thoughts, arguments, insults?

Does everyone know about “Fifty Shades of Grey?” It’s a wildly popular new novel that women are reading discreetly and openly, according to their relative shame or bravado about enjoying middlebrow porn.

I had no idea what the story was about but now I know there’s a sadomasochist relationship at its center. Big deal. Haven’t these women read The Story of O or Justine? The problem for me is that it’s being called “Mommy Porn,” which is condescending, like Mom Jeans.

The other problem is the bad writing. It kills me that people will pay money for bad writing. Not just bad, but hilariously bad. Here are some quotes I found:

“Trepidation lances through me.”

“‘So I brought you here,” he said phlegmatically.

Hahahahahahaha! And yet some awful woman is making a fortune because she guessed that there was a huge audience for a dopey, safely perky adventure in bondage and discipline.  I’m mad I didn’t think of it.

Now that the book is a certified phenomenon, one will be called upon to take a position. If you condemn it, you’ll be scolded for being a prude or an elitist. If you read it and enjoy it, you’ll be dismissed as a sex-starved Mommy or a moron. Or wait, maybe you’ll be congratulated for being modern and having a strong libido!

I don’t mind the idea of dominance and submission in sex. I’m all for it. But why does it have to involve a billionaire with “unruly hair” and a heroine who says stuff like: “I revel in his possession, his lust slaking mine.”

No no no no, you fucking idiot! “Slake” means to lesson the force of, to assuage. You mean the opposite!

Can anyone give us a firsthand report on this book? Thoughts or arguments?

I can’t tell you how many times I have seen this picture and thought, “Who the fuck is this guy and why is he everywhere?” I have just now inadvertently discovered his identity: Francois Verkerk, a model.

I was pretty sure that he was a vintage guy but now I know he’s contemporary, I don’t know what to think. I think I hate him. What an ass.

On the other hand…. I do like a dandy when he has the goods to pull it off. But no, no. I want to kill him.

What’s your take?

If you don’t love the Band, you’re not a lover of music. Whatever genres you prefer, there is simply no denying the gorgeous soulful freewheeling and majestic sound of the Band, from Big Pink and the Basement tapes onward. Listening to the Band’s second album was a form of time travel, taking you to the civil war and creating an aching nostalgia for a time you never knew.

I loved all their voices. When we lost Richard Manuel to suicide, it was a terrible shock. When Rick Danko died, I knew it was the real end of the band. I once tried to say hi to him in a small club, but a security guy pushed me out of the way. Rick looked a little nuts that night, and sang alone next to a boombox playing the Band’s music. But his voice was as plaintive as ever. It was an honor to see him.

Back in the day, I saw the Band perform at the Royal Albert Hall. They had just started playing when my sister was seized with violent stomach cramps and I had to go with her to the ladies room. I could hear the band singing while she tried to throw up. It was taking forever and I didn’t want to miss “Unfaithful Servant.”

I had to take charge. “Okay”, I said to her.” Think about raw eggs. Think about dead birds on toast.” She threw up and we ran back to our seats. The show was fantastic.

The next time I saw the Band, they were playing with Dylan at the Forum in Los Angeles. I went with my former husband. As we took our seats, a guy next to me graciously offered me a joint. Soon, I was on another planet, ecstatic throughout the entire concert. Walking to the car, I remember floating slightly above the ground.

The Band has always been there for me. Their music will endure but saying goodbye to Levon Helm is really rough. He was a man who just wanted to play music and tried his best not to give in to cancer.

“Whispering Pines” is one of my favorite Band songs, a bittersweet mournful ballad that pierces your heart with its beautiful soaring harmonies. There is longing but also a sense of acceptance. I hope Levon has reached the other side and he’s saving a place for me.

I was thrilled to receive this email today, and considered it a lucky omen of some kind to be called “Lard-Desha.” Isn’t it wonderful? I’m hoping it’s not some derivation of “Lard Ass,” which would confirm my worst fears about my body.

Just today, I tried on some jeans and asked my friend if it gave me a flattering butt. I also grilled the sales assistant on Levis’ new coded jeans. “Slight curve” means a boyish shape, while “Supreme curve” means enormous hips. I think they should make an even “curvier” model and call it Lard-Desha.

What image does Lard-Desha evoke for you? A belly-dancer? A check-out girl at Target wearing huge name-plate earrings? Or this:

Maybe one day Kardashian will become a descriptive word like “gargantuan.”  Or perhaps Kim would like to change her name to Lard-Desha!

Too bad, Kim. Lard-Desha is taken now and I’m not giving it up.

On a campaign stop in Pittsburgh, Mitt Romney sat down at a picnic table with some locals who offered him a plate of cookies. His reaction was to ridicule the cookies, observing prissily that they looked like they came from a 7-11 store.

Can’t this cunt act normal for one goddamned minute?!?

Eat the cookies,  motherfucker!

More video and analysis here.

I didn’t need Pantone to tell me their choice for Color of the Year. There has been nothing but orange around for months. You can call it Tangerine Tango or whatever you want, but it’s still orange and we don’t need so much of it.

Try looking for a red t-shirt, for example. A few weeks ago, I went to every store in a big mall, trying to find one. All the sales people led me to something orange, explaining that this was “the new color.”  Each time, I insisted on red, declaring in a bossy voice that “Red is a neutral.” I vowed to boycott orange, although I nearly caved to an overpriced t-shirt by James Perse that was a deep orange I will call “persimmon.”

I also looked at some jeans called “lipstick” even though they were orange.  Today, my husband took me to a huge Nordstrom which stimulates my endorphins no matter how depressed I am. We recently saw Jermaine Jackson there in the cosmetics department, clearly high on his own endorphins.

Everything was orange! It was an assault. It’s like a military take-over by orange. Even the nice sales assistant, Amanda, agreed that there was an orange “domination” underway.  I tried on some dark blue jeans but to my horror they were not skinny jeans but “skinny legging jeans.” It’s a slippery slope to “jeggings,” I believe.

Here is a dress I bought last year, thinking it was “coral” when in fact it is a salmon pink (and not this hot pink in real life.) As you can see, I am right on trend with lace. You could even say that I started the trend, all by myself. I am thankful that it isn’t actually coral, which is a shade of orange, just like mango, paprika, papaya, or god forbid, Tangerine Tango.

I’m thinking of getting a version of this tattoo, just because it makes me smile. I can’t think of anything else to do with myself.

I am almost a vegetable. I stay up all night doing nothing. When I wake up, I do some more nothing. At 3 a.m. I like to watch a TV show called “Morning Joe,” where a loud Republican guy and a nice blonde woman sip coffee and bicker about politics. At this point, I think of them as friends.

I’m reading a book called “Seven Choices: Taking the Steps to a New Life After Losing Someone You love.” I don’t like any of the choices. I’m nearly at the end, at the part where you commit to being a new person with a future you care about.

Easter was difficult. I used to love making baskets for my boys. Max believed in the Easter Bunny for an unusually long time. This year, I  forced everyone to listen to my story about driving Max somewhere with his friends, who were impressed with his new Mötley Crüe  record.  One of them asked where he got it, and he answered: “The Easter Bunny.” No one challenged this. It was such a funny and sweet moment.

When I don’t write, it’s because I can’t stand to think or feel. I can still waste time at Tumblr though. Have a look, if you like. And get back to me about the tattoo.

In his quest to annoy every living being, James Franco is set to portray Robert Mapplethorpe in an upcoming movie project.

He will also play Hugh Hefner and the Wizard of Oz in two movies currently in post-production. But you can’t fully appreciate his work until you’ve see him play Allen Ginsberg in “Howl.” Hearing him intone Ginsberg’s poetry in his thin nasal voice, you can almost detect the rustling sound of the poet spinning in his grave.

I hope to see James Franco play Hitler, Mao Zedong, Golda Meir, Emily Dickingson, Napoleon, Isadora Duncan, Jack Kerouac, Miles Davis, Florence Nightingale, Salvador Dali, Maya Angelou,  Albert Einstein, and of course, The Holy Trinity.

I can even see him playing Patti Smith opposite his Robert Mapplethorpe!

Who would you like to see James Franco take on next?