Godammit, I’m Mad!

I know, you all love Madonna. You love her dance hits, you admire her for ‘reinventing’ herself, maybe even for being a survivor in the fickle world of pop music. And you think she looks GREAT for 50!

God, I hate Madonna. Just like my tattoo says, ma haine dure. I saw a video clip from her recent show and wow, she was a sight to behold. She looked to me like a grandma doing calisthenics. She seemed a little winded as she lip synced into the mic, but who wouldn’t, from all that exercise!

To be fair, I should commend Madonna for being a fit granny, because many grannies just let themselves go. But I see her turning into Mae West right before my eyes, and no one seems to want to mention this.

Here’s an offer: I will put on a track suit and jump around while lip syncing the song of your choice, for only $19.99. If you call now, I will throw in some weight-lifting tips, too. I guarantee that I’ll look younger than Madge, if not quite as muscular. I’ll even put on a fake English accent!

But not at my house! I woke up to a wonderful gift from my Webmaster…a 2-CD recording of Prince’s performance at Coachella last week. Not only a high quality recording but a track list and everything.

You know how fussy Prince is about copyright infringement, and I don’t blame him, as long as I can still get what I want. I have loved the Little Prince since the first time I heard “Dirty Mind,” many light-years ago. Once, a Prince video from that era was playing on my sister’s TV, and her teenage son ran from the room, shrieking “That’s gay, that’s gay!” His terror only confirmed the rebellious, uninhibited brilliance that is Prince.

Prince, don’t be mad! Remember how we paid a thousand bucks to see you in Vegas? And you didn’t come over to sit in my lap? Now we’re even!

Anyway, I’m listening to the concert as I write this. His version of “Creep” is beyond amazing. Try to get your own Webmaster to burn you a copy.

Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about the baby with two faces. I’ve been sick in bed. I know it’s my duty to call attention to Horrible Stuff, so here are two things to think about.

The baby was born in India and is being worshiped as a goddess. Both faces are operative and work independently.

Here in the US, Pamela Anderson is said to have danced naked for Hugh Hefner on his 82nd birthday. Sleazy hotel owner George Maloof says “He [Hef] had the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.”

Which of these two stories makes you feel more despondent?

In the Los Angeles Times this week, I read that Danielle Steele spends four to five million dollars a year on shoes for herself and her daughters. This was revealed by a longtime shoe salesman at Barneys.

Fuck! This puts a lot of things in perspective. It makes me feel better about wasting my money on shoes, and it makes me feel terrible as well. Danielle Steele is obviously a billionaire, but how can one justify this expense? It seems pretty inexcusable, but so is spending $500 for shoes when so much of the world is starving. The whole shoe thing is out of control. The LA Times tried to lay the blame on Christian Louboutin, who says it’s not his fault. The shoes pictured above sell for $1,400 at Barneys, but he’s not putting a gun to anyone’s head. Maybe they should raise the price to $20,000, since the women who keep this brand in business will still pay up.

I once had to read a book by Danielle Steele, back when I read screenplays and manuscripts for a living. I was appalled at how awful her writing was, even though I expected it to be pretty bad. I remember one line I quoted to my friends, that was something like “Peter gave his customary smirk, but then he always did.” I couldn’t get over it. She must be so important that she doesn’t need an editor! She has sold 550 million books, and yet she can’t actually write!

But now that I’ve learned more about her, I’m beginning to see why she needs all those shoes. She’s been married five times, once to a rapist and once to a heroin addict. She’s had all sorts of huge melodramatic problems to overcome, including the death of a troubled son. She’s involved in several worthy charities, and she’s said to be ’shy.’  She certainly knows the meaning of hard work.

I would like to ask Danielle Steele if those shoes make her happy. Mine don’t make me happy, except of course for the Vivienne Westwood boots I can’t walk in. I think I’m a better writer than Danielle Steele, but I could never finish a whole novel, even a crappy one. I’d like to think that some day, we’ll all realize how meaningless our shoes are. But I know it’s a long way off.

Doesn’t Dame Vivienne Westwood look fantastic here at age 65?  I didn’t know that she accepted another honour at Buckingham Palace without “wearing knickers!”

You can see a short interview with her here. It’s fun to hear her call people cunts, a term I use several times each day. If only I could walk in high heels. Maybe my new penis necklace will empower me somehow.

What a wonderful woman and role model!

Wednesday night was the first day of my new life as a follower of televangelist Melissa Scott, and once you’ve seen her, I’m sure you’ll agree that you simply can’t get enough of her.

Pastor Melissa Scott is the third and final wife of the loony Rev. Gene Scott, who had once hired her as a hot young babe to sit in the front row of his TV audience. Anyway, he’s dead and Melissa took over his, ahem, ministry.

She has a waist-length mane of hair that she likes to flip over her shoulder, and her heavy make-up says actress/stripper, in contrast to her bizarre black frock-coat and heavy men’s shoes. She paces back and forth in front of a white board scribbled with weird foreign words. Her hand motions suggest a background in mime or hula dancing. It’s hard to take your eyes off the hands, but given the rest of her, one manages the task.

Pastor Melissa’s accent is hard to pin down and her diction is particularly odd. Her attitude runs the gamut from mildly annoyed to manic and wrathful.

I fucking love her. I remarked to my husband about midway through her show, “I’d like to know what this woman was in her former life.” That’s when he googled her and learned that she was once a porn star and enterpreneur.

My hope is to one day attend her Sunday service in downtown Los Angeles. I want to ask her about those shoes, which look like they might be my size, a full and lovely 10 narrow.

Kate Hudson has pulled off a brilliant publicity stunt by pretending to be pregnant and then unveiling her body in a skimpy thong-style bikini. Her pristine white butt has appeared on every celebrity gossip site, photographed from every possible angle.

After weeks of parading around in big baggy dresses, she made sure that her butt would receive all the attention of an urgent breaking news story.

I will admit that her butt is beyond compare, except to the butt of a ten year old albino gymnast. Good for you, Kate! Now, if only your butt could act, you’d be making the big bucks like Reese Witherspoon!

I’m feeling a little guilty for being so negative and angry all the time, even though that is my calling, so let’s just relax and enjoy the timeless beauty of Joe Dallesandro. I once had a photo of him on my closet door.

Joe Dallesandro is mentioned by name in “Take a Walk on the Wild Side,” and he can be worshipped in several films by Andy Warhol and Paul Morrissey.

You can never, never have too much Joe Dallesandro in your life.

Why did god make Feist?  I know why he made Lindsay Lohan (so we can make fun of her) and Renee Zellweger (so we can all scream “eeoow!” when we see her making that face) and that guy in Maroon 5 (so we can go “Ugh, what a douche!”) and Mike Huckabee (so we can say, “Wow, loony tunes”) and Ann Coulter (so we can feel united by a common enemy). I even know why god made Hillary Swank (so we can think “She still looks like a man!”)

But Feist, what the hell? I think she might represent everything I hate about post-hip hipsterism, but I’m not even sure of that.  If I close my eyes, maybe she’ll go away.

The Grammy Awards show was all about Amy Winehouse, but here’s what else happened.

Frank Sinatra, who won’t stay dead, talked about the awards and then joined Alicia Keyes in a duet. Alicia looked gorgeous, even though her hairdo was crazy. That Rihanna girl pranced around with Morris Day and his band, who were probably too old for anyone to remember them except for their buddy Prince. Prince looked fabulous in a fitted red suit and dark sunglasses with diamante accents.

Some idiot introduced Tina Turner as the Queen of Soul. Girl! Everyone knows that’s Aretha’s title. Anyway, Tina looked a little scary in a silver lame jumpsuit but she still knew how to move. Beyonce joined her,  wearing a silver mini that highlighted her enormous legs. Her shorter blonde hair and new face were not enough to erase the My Pretty Pony effect.

I think John Mayer came out and accompanied someone on guitar, although I may be thinking of the David Letterman show. All you can think about when John Mayer appears is “Eeoow!” anyway.

Kanye sang his big hit and I know I wasn’t alone in thinking, what about your Mama? Sure enough, he had the word MAMA carved into his hair. I asked my teenager if he would do the same for me, were I to die before he accepted his Grammy award. He argued over some technicalities but I believe we have a deal.

Tom Hanks gave some award to the Beatles. Paul couldn’t be there, because he can’t just give Heather the money and call it a day. The always excruciating Cirque du Soleil performed a creepy routine to Day in the Life. If only that girl had fallen off the rope! Heather could have helped out with a new leg.

Aretha sang, accompanied by a gospel choir, a mountainous vision in a sea green dress. Be as fat as you want, Aretha, you are the Queen.

Two guys sang an aria or something, and the Foo Fighters had lank, greasy hair. Finally, the live by satellite performance by Amy Winehouse, in London. Amy looked gorgeous but very nervous. She rushed through two songs, screwing up a few times and wiggling her hips in obvious terror. Her desperation to prove herself was touching, just like her shock at winning the award. She sent out her thanks to “My Blake, incarcerated” and hugged her tiny haggard Mum.

Then the Album of the Year was mistakenly given to Herbie Hancock, who played the race card as he accepted the honor that rightly belonged to My Amy, not in rehab.