Godammit, I’m Mad!

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.