Godammit, I’m Mad!

Which subject do you find more appealing: Houlihan cargo pants by J Brand or the BP oil leak?

On the one hand, the cargo pants are flying off the shelves everywhere! Stores are having to re-order them to try to meet the ragign demand for them, at $230 a pair.

On the other hand, 37,424,000 gallons of oil has gushed into the Gulf of Mexico as opposed to the 21,000 gallons per day estimated by British Petroleum last week.  In fact, the daily rate is 1,050,000.

On the one hand, the Houlihan cargo pants have been seen on Jessica Alba, Hilary Duff, Ciara, Rihanna and Sea of Shoes, among other fashion victims leaders. They are the It-est It Item you will see this summer. You too can dress like all your idols if you have $230 and an internet connection!

On the other hand, we now know without a doubt that the US government is owned by Big Oil. The staggering lack of action or expertise at handling this environmental catastrophe is clear evidence of who’s running the show here. Obama, Bush, it doesn’t matter who the oil companies put in charge since they just do what their masters tell them to do.

And yet….the cargo pants. They are tangible. They are achievable. They don’t make you think of death and destruction and cancer and deceit and paranoia or greed.

They come in vintage navy, olive and taupe.

Why do we have to have people like Leonor Scherrer? The daughter of French designer Jean-Louis Scherrer, she is the ultimate spoiled, entitled ultra-hipster who favors a dykey Goth look and has started a company called Leonor Funeral Couture to provide “fashion for the bereaved.”

“Her line even comes complete with its own fragrance, Maximilia, named after Maximilian Kolbe, the Polish friar who took the place of a condemned man at Auschwitz.”

But wait! She’s also recording an album that includes a cover of Schubert’s “Death and The Maiden.”

Get it? She loves death! Death is so cool!

Riccardo Tisci adores her and so does Diane Pernet. In an interview with Diane, Leonor says, “I had no idea death was such a taboo.“  Maybe on her planet, they  have different taboos. How can one expect such a person to know what we proles are like?

But aside from her breathtaking level of pretentiousness, she also offers the discerning enthusiast the kind of self-aggrandizing clulessness that results in a confession like this one:

“I lost a close friend recently and the grieving process takes a long time. I think of him every time I see someone on the street looking like him. In fact, I’ve still got his number on my phone and haven’t been able to delete it yet.”

Her friend died recently but she hasn’t deleted his phone number yet?!? The woman is a fucking saint.

Actually, no. In fact, the first thing I thought upon reading about her was, Wow. What a fucking cunt™! Why doesn’t she have anything better to do than market an ironic appreciation of death?

All week, I’ve been reading the little tributes to Alexander McQueen. Some of them just feature a nice picture with either “R.I.P” or “There are no words.”

But there are words, and I’ve been waiting for them.

People who kill themselves take a lot of other people with them.

They aren’t “laughing in heaven with Isabella Blow”, they are just dead.

People who kill themselves are usually in great distress. They are not right in the head. If we take care to monitor our depressed friends and loved ones, we might be able to save them; but we might not.  Maybe we need to reach out more. Maybe we need to make depression easier to talk about. Antidepressants still carry a stigma even now. I can’t stand to hear people say “Oh, my doctor recommended medication but I’m not taking that route.” You never hear anyone with pneumonia making that statement.

Maybe Alexander McQueen was unhinged by grief over losing his mother. Now his dad has to deal with the loss of a son.

No one wants to talk about the brutality of suicide. The people left behind are victims as well. It’s an act of negation, a complete loss of hope, but it’s also a selfish act. I would even say ruthlessly selfish.

I’m not worried about whether poor Alexander McQueen is resting in peace, but I’m deeply sorry for his family. It will fuck them up forever.

Don’t kill yourself, you fuckers! We need you here. Things will get better. That is my message, so pass it on.

Morbid Anatomy is a blog about icky dead stuff.  Every time I go there, I feel slightly ashamed, as though I’ve just peered into Hollister Hovey’s curio cabinet. But the author is clearly passionate about her subject, and I have to respect her obsession. There are some images there that are truly nauseating, like the ones of syphilitic penises, but others (like the photo above) are often weirdly beautiful.

Obit is a website about death that has a modern sophisticated look about it, kind of like the Starbucks of death blogs. They even have an advice column “for the dying and those who care about them” by someone named Judy.  What they need is a Hit List™, so I guess I need to start one.  Sting will be in the top five, as will Bono.  Nominations, anyone?

Finally, sticking to my theme of All Things Icky, here is a photo from the online site of Oak NYC, a trendy clothing shop.

Looking at the boy’s tragic tattoos, I felt bad for his mother. Somewhere, a woman is heartbroken. And yet, I saw this photo again, on a fashion blog, where the comments ranged from “Rad” to “The clothes look cool and the models even cooler.”

For the last 24 hours, I have been acutely remorseful about watching Michael Jackson’s head on fire. I watched the video online, and now it’s being played on CNN, in an endless loop of mock horror and shock. Even Mark Geragos was disgusted, noting to Larry King that beheadings were available on video but weren’t appropriate for TV viewing.

It’s wrong to observe personal suffering in such a dispassionate context, and I feel debased by doing it. I’m so sorry! If only I could expunge it from the record of my sins.

Less sensationally, Dash Snow died this week, nearly a year after making me angry by his mere existence, and I’m sorry about that, too. I still think he was a pretentious, attention-seeking hipster, but I mourn his death all the same.

Dash Snow was 27, and probably knew it was the magic number for those who think “Live Fast, Die Young” is actually good advice.  His downtown hipster friends are shocked, even though he was a heroin addict. No Diprivan here, just the usual method of going out.

Why do people have to become drug addicts and create such misery for their loved ones and such devastation for those they leave behind? Why can’t anyone save them? Why do people enable them? Why do they want to escape their lives when it’s the only one they’ve got? Why stick that first needle in your arm, you motherfuckers?

It’s a terrible mystery to me but I still want everyone who knows a drug addict to do whatever they can to lead them to safety. Rat out your friends and co-workers and children and spouses and sisters and brothers.  They’ll be mad, but that’s okay. Make them mad.

A real artist and a fake artist, both dead now, dead as a doornail, no matter how the news media recycle their stories. I wish they’d let me rest in peace.

Day six and we’re all still feeding on Michael Jackson. The more we feast, the hungrier we get. I don’t know how much more I can take. But I don’t know how I’ll handle the end of it, if an end is possible.

Have we been here before? What a sense of déjà vu! Even so, this is different because it’s bigger. It’s so big, it’s exploding everything else in its path. Iran, who gives a shit. Health care, just shut up, we need to hear more about Michael Jackson!

Now that he’s dead, he’s more alive than ever. He’s a symbol of everything terrible and tragic. Child abuse, self loathing, exploitation, loneliness, greed, the cult of celebrity, voyeurism, what am I leaving out? The more he’s dead, the more we need to pick at his carcass. There is no stadium large enough to contain all the pathology his death has triggered.

I remember being angry during his trial for child molestation. I was angry at Micheal Jackson, his legal team, the boy who accused him and the boy’s family. That’s all water under the bridge now. Now that he’s dead, who can blame him for anything? He died for our sins. His father beat him into a superstar, and super-stardom turned him into a reverse-Pinocchio whose nose grew shorter until it was gone.

Michael Jackson thrilled us alright. We are more thrilled than he could possibly have imagined. Custody, money, drugs, conspiracies, and the marketing of the marketing. The craziness and the craziness behind the craziness.

I’m sorry, Michael! I don’t want to grow up, either. I wish I could turn away from the spectacle but I need it too much, evidently.

So many lives are hanging by a thread because of shoes. I came upon yet another blogger who nearly died of a broken heart when she couldn’t get the ACNE shoes she wanted. Thank god she found another pair of shoes, by Minimarket, which then nearly killed her before it all worked out.

I see a real need for consolation cards, especially now “in this economy.” How much would you give to never hear the words “in this economy” again? Anyway, I am too stupid to grasp photoshop so this card is the best I could do. I would also like to see a sympathy card for the loved ones of someone whose shoe anguish drove them to suicide.

You know, “Sorry for Your Loss, May She Find Those Shoes in Heaven,” that sort of thing.

Now that I’m not supposed to shop, I finally carried out my dream of painting some shoes silver. It worked pretty well, although not as well as I expected. I feel good about it. I’m not a DIY person, so it’s an achievement. I do like to spray-paint shit. Just ask Queen Marie.

These shoes were formerly black and around 15 years old. Now they are new, voila!

You just have to ask, What the hell is wrong with these guys?

Both Michael Hutchence and David Carradine would have no trouble getting laid. Or even, getting laid in some unconventional way. So why risk death just to get off?

Apparently, this is a largely male endeavor. But don’t anyone pipe up that the reason for that is the more persistent male sex drive. Women have Needs, too. But women don’t seem to need the specter of death to add that Certain Something to sex.

Woman aren’t as likely to enjoy playing Russian Roulette, either. What is it about men that craves a brush with death? I assume it gives a rush of adrenaline, like when you nearly get hit by a car. But why do they require this boost to the experience of orgasm?

A gay friend explained that it’s all down hill for men after 16. Their sensations are duller with time, he insisted. Bummer, if that’s true! Is it, though?

I asked my husband. I wondered if the auto-erotic asphyxiation appeal was like eating blowfish. If it’s cooked the right way, it’s delicious; if not, it’s poisonous and you’re dead. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have no interest whatsoever in trying blow-fish.

The husband explained that he has always been touched by how the appetite for sex is so universal – no matter who you are, or how old, you’ll walk over burning coal to get some.

But I still wanted an answer. He thought it was pretty normal for some people to keep trying to improve their experience. Like some people are happy with a scoop of their favorite ice cream, but others think, This might be nicer with something added.

I asked him, But what if when you come, it’s already 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. Why would you be worried about trying for 11? In fact, I noted, speaking for myself, if it were any more intense, I’d pass out.

“Exactly!” he replied, happy to have effectively conveyed the point of auto-erotic asphyxiation.

I just stupidly clicked on an ad that asked “Why so angry?” and ended up here. UGH, now I’m even angrier! Fuck you, happier.com! If I wanted a bowl of flowers, I’d go get one.

That’s the anger part.
~

Death has been a topic of debate, in the news and over here, regarding the right of parents to withhold medical treatment from their children. Jump in, if you have strong feelings about this.

Also, I am finally getting some feedback on something I wrote about euthanasia nearly three years ago. How come now? I don’t get it! But I’m still interested in it, and in hearing other opinions.

I admire Lars Von Trier more for his pranks than his artistry, although I thought Dogville was pretty brilliant.  Breaking the Waves, Dancing in the Dark, nope, not for me. Too much angst, too little catharsis.

Now, his new film Antichrist has riled up viewers at Cannes, and has divided critics into two camps (roughly, “What a genius!” and “What repulsive trash!”)

Here’s the storyline: A married couple goes into the woods to help the wife recover from the death of their child. Things get out of hand, ending in shocking violence and sexual mutilation.

How much would you pay to not have to see this movie? I don’t have much in my bank account but I’d be willing to empty it, if that’s what it took.  Lars, I love you, don’t ever change, just don’t come near me with anything sharp.

Here’s the trailer if you’re up to it.