Godammit, I’m Mad!

What a boring and lamentable gathering of untalented performers! Katy Perry‘s boobs were a magnificent distraction.

The show’s most exciting moments were the arguments between me and my husband over Taylor Swift. He continues to defend her, which is obviously maddening. I was so worried that she might win the award presented by Prince and thus get the chance to kiss Him that I shouted out the oath: “If Taylor Swift wins this, I will stab myself in the heart!” Every time I see her I think  ”STD.”

The bands ‘Fun‘ and ‘The Lumineers‘ were particularly egregious. Young people, what the hell is wrong with you?!? Thank god the Black Keys were recognized for their work after a million years. A cute little guy called Miguel was a great Soul singer whose dynamic performance was spoiled by a rapper whose name I forgot. Rap isn’t music. Take it away.

Frank Ocean glared when he didn’t win and went on to sing the worst song of the evening, something about Forrest Gump. Ellen Degeneris ogled Beyonce, while I ogled Rihanna, whose red lipstick was perfection. Chris Brown was her date, no doubt proud of himself for not slugging her.

Adele chewed gum throughout the show and looked like a massive floral couch. I wondered what she thought of Kelly Clarkson. Jack White easily outclassed the homeless-looking Johnny Depp in a resplendent Nudie’s suit. His set was a welcome blast of real Rock music.

Prince looked suitably mysterious and intimidating in a black hoodie and sunglasses, wisely refraining from participating in a gratingly awful version of The Weight. Prince is nobody’s fool.

In an evening of horrifying missteps, Elton John took the prize by giving a non sequitur shout-out to the Sandy Hook victims. What an imbecile. Mumford and Sons won a lot of awards and were less repugnant than Fun. Justin Timberlake’s comeback was an over-hyped bore but his seasoned charisma underscored how lacking it was in nearly every other ‘artist.’

There it is. Remember, I did this for you, just like Christ on the cross.

Gallery Girls is a great way to feel better abut yourself no matter how awful you are.

The latest reality ick-fest by Bravo TV, Gallery Girls follows the pointless lives of some tragically deluded young women seeking a place in the uppity world of New York art galleries. The word “art” is used very loosely here. One of the girls knows what “collage” means but that’s as far as their art knowledge goes.

The main thing is to hate the girls, and the main one to hate is Chantal. She is a truly horrible girl who needs to die ASAP. Presumably she has been told to play up her obnoxiousness but nothing could redeem her short of severing her vocal chords.

There seems to be a conflict between blonds and brunettes and lower Eastside versus upper Westside (or vice versa.) Since I don’t live in New York, I don’t know the significance of lower, upper, East or West. The blonds seem less pretentious, except for the one who always has to wear fur, even under a fur coat.

There’s an awful Asian girl who likes to pose nude and talk about her “pussy.” Her parents deserve our sympathy and a witness protection program.

The girls like to bitch about each other and they all talk like their mouths are full of marbles. Every statement is a question? Because that’s the kind of girls they are?

I went to the Bravo site to look for a picture and was directed to “like” the Gallery Girls on Facebook. The comments there are unanimously derisive, which makes me feel a glimmer of hope.

Let me put it this way: Gallery Girls comes close to giving red lipstick a bad name.  Please just take it away.

Does anyone remember when I was obsessed with leather shorts?

That was another me who is long gone. But check out Yoko Ono wearing leather shorts at the Canne Film Festival! What an early-adopter she was.

It’s a relief to stop caring about the latest trends. The more fashion-conscious one is, the more anxiety one must contend with, and that is what generates billions of dollars for the fashion industry. The anxiety can only be relieved by shopping, and even then it’s a momentary relief. Every fashion layout or editorial is a trigger, causing new anxiety.

I have no idea of the new trends! Is it wide trousers or narrow or bright colors or patterns or tailored or retro or ladylike or boho or menswear-influenced? Are we still wearing studs? Are shoes still more important than handbags? Do the blogger girls still go on about Celine?

I think that at a certain point, we all know what we like to wear. People who insist that they love to “experiment” with fashion are just excusing themselves for needing to shop. But that’s okay with me.

I’ve traded my fashion-driven anxiety for a more fundamental anxiety about my body.   It’s much cheaper.   And all the time I once spent looking at fashion is now squandered on tumblr, a paralyzing addiction that has turned me into a vegetable.   At least it doesn’t involve my credit card.

I think it’s safe to say that the fashion and beauty  industries  are based on insecurity. They must constantly appeal to and promote our  insecurity  in order to satisfy their shareholders.   But my depression has  suppressed  my insecurity.   I think this is a benefit.

I’m hoping that Michelle Bachman and Mrs. Palin will provide some joy for me in the coming months, joy that for the moment is mostly supplied by the Real Housewives and the Casey Anthony murder trial. It’s a perverse joy that springs from the sheer staggering awfulness of horrible people exhibiting their horribleness.

Max used to love watching Sean Hannity on Fox news, and it drove me nuts. Now I remember the happy smirk on his face and I understand: When the usual things in life fail to bring pleasure, the theater of human stupidity is a valuable diversion.