I was really looking forward to a comeback because I loved Amy Winehouse. She was the only “blue-eyed soul” singer whose music I not only listened to, but respected… and that’s probably because she was a druggie and fucked up so many live performances; she was such a badass. And I wanted a comeback so bad so to prove that despite all of the emotional baggage she was so obviously and unsuccessfully coping with, she could still win that battle. i was convinced she had it in her because her music was so dope.
I read what all the other journalists of reputable magazines and newspapers wrote of her life and death, and I get upset. I get upset because there is definitely an undertone that condemns her personal lifestyle, the choice she made, which somehow invalidates her talent and her inevitable success… like she drank and smoked because she didn’t care about her music or her fans… like she didn’t want to do well. In reality, those pretentious fucking pricks don’t know why she chose to live how she did… they don’t know why, you don’t know why, I don’t know why; and to be so assuming shows an obvious disrespect for the dead.
I realize that I was headed in the same direction when I started writing this post. I was, and still am, a little upset that she’s dead because I am a selfish and inconsiderate person. I was going to criticize her fashion debut with Fred Perry [http://www.fredperry.com/women/amy-winehouse-landing/]as an imminent foreshadow for what was to come. I expected so much from Ms. Winehouse and that was unfair. So, I blame myself for what happened and can do nothing more than celebrate her life and her music. She was such a beautiful person and will forever be a music icon. Besides, she’s so much more real than say a Duffy or Joss Stone… and the only reason anyone likes Adele is because she’s fat… think about it.
In the slap-stick comedy Victor/Victoria, Julie Andrews unconvincingly plays the struggling singer Victoria Grant who—in an incident involving a cockroach, a shrunken jacket, a closet, an aging homosexual stage performer and his ex-lover—plans to make a career impersonating a female impersonator. And of course this story takes place in France… all the men in France are female impersonators. Ahahah… I kid. Julie Andrews makes this potentially controversial film wholesome and lighthearted… because I mean, she’s the lady from The Sound of Music… you don’t get much more wholesome than that. Although, the original German Viktor und Viktoria must have been brutal to watch. I bet Viktoria had a mustache… but not like as a special effect or costume or anything… I bet the real live actual actress had a for real hairy upper lip. The only thing that could have made this movie more interesting would be if the actor playing Victoria was a man, thus making it a move about a man playing a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman. I nominate Irish thespian Cillian Murphy who did an excellent job portraying a transsexual orphan searching for his mother in Breakfast on Pluto. Having run away from home, the ultra-effeminate Patrick (sometimes referred to as Patricia, most times referred to as “Kitten”) ventures on a search to find his mother; the Mitzy Gaynor look-a-like who was impregnated by the horny Father Liam. Kitten creates this sort of delusional and often comical fantasy land based on all of the fucked up shit that comes with being a wide-eyed transvestite from Ireland turning tricks in London during the 1970s. As with all movies of this sort, what Kitten is searching for is not her long-lost mummy, but herself and her place in the world; which was where it has always been… with the people who love her most. You can’t say the same thing about Chris Tucker in the sci-fi flick The Fifth Element… I don’t think anybody really loves him in that movie. Wait, that’s not completely true. The ladies actually really love the androgynous Ruby Rhod… on some like Michael Jackson, Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber screaming fan status. There must be something absolutely delectable about a svelte black man donning a sleek leopard print body suit with a kinky blonde cone sprouting from his head. Thank you Jean Paul Gaultier for once again permanently imprinting these disturbing images in my brain, and thank you Chris Tucker for helping them come to fruition. I love you both… unconditionally. Why are the outfits in every futuristic movie I have ever seen always so tight and spandx-y and the characters so androgynous? Hmmm… this is actually a future I can look forward to. I for one love the stewardesses’ slinky blue uniforms in the Fifth Element. I love Bruce Willis’s tight orange man-tank. And I love Mila Jovovich’s brightly colored dominatrix-inspired ensembles. Everything is so sexual it makes me giddy. If you got it, flaunt it, boy you know I want it… I know, those aren’t the lyrics to that Beyoncé song, but imagine if men were sexually objectified instead of women… that’s definitely how the song would go. Also, you’re going to have to just deal with my random access thought process. I have ADD apparently. Speaking of dancing queers, I LOVED Hank Azaria as the flamboyant Latin domestic in The Birdcage. Robin Williams and Nathan Lane are my favorite faux-gay couple ever! And Gene Hackman looks damn good in a platinum blonde wig. #imjustsayin
So far, only one person has left a comment on my blog (this is obviously outdated… thanks to the three other people who’ve commented since…), but in person and on facebook I’ve gotten plenty feedback; some good, some not so good. One person said “I sound like a white girl.” I don’t know what that means. I like to make fun of the way people “talk” when they write in “textese.” Yes, that is the actual term for the cultural phenomenon that is horrible grammar, awful spelling, and ridiculous acronyms. smh. Sometimes I’ll even say “lol” out loud… but never seriously. Most of what I write is written in a very sarcastic, but endearing tone because that is the sort of person I am.
Speaking of bad grammar, I asked a close friend to proof-read my blog for typos and what not. Her response after reading my first few posts, “I really like your blog. There are a few mistakes, nothing major.” Nothing major??!! No, not at all… just that I spelled the title of the blog completely wrong. FYI, “asterisk” is NOT spelled “asterick.” Thanks for telling me…
Other responses have been along the lines of “keep writing…” “It’s very informative…” etc, etc, etc. I’m just wondering why nobody has commented on the art that I so painstakingly created using the effin Microsoft Paint program. No, I didn’t steal those images from someone else online. No, I don’t know how to use Photoshop or InDesign or any other program well enough to make my work look anything less than amateur. And no, I don’t have one of the drawing pads you attach to your computer that writes like an inkless pen… I use the mouse. That means a lot of mistakes and a lot of editing and a lot of hours starring at the computer; which also means terrible migraines all day long. And not one person cares to comment… wait, no, that’s not completely true. A facebook friend “liked” my Jim Morrison picture. Thanks Cheyenne. I hope I spelled your name correctly, I know how creative black people can get with words and names and shit.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t just want congratulatory feedback. That’s boring. While I appreciate the support, I adore constructive criticism. And don’t be vague, really explain what you love or absolutely hate about my blog. That way I can make it better … or just say “fuck your life” and move on. Truthfully, any kind of feedback is highly appreciated. I’m just saying, if you have any sort of sentiment about what I write, please leave a comment. #thatisall
disclaimer: this post is literally what I was thinking while in the shower… I thought it… and then I wrote it down. I occasionally write down my thoughts in attempt to find the original thought; the catalyst that causes the domino effect of thoughts that follow. I was basically trying to prove that I don’t have ADD… or maybe that I do. It’s an experimental piece, and will probably be the first and last of its kind.
I don’t remember which thought lead to me thinking about how much of a critic I am; about how there is nothing I don’t have an opinion about. Which lead to me self-editing my thoughts on behalf of my conscience, which serves as the conscience of public opinion, which lead me to paranoidly (I know, that’s not a word) self-edit my thoughts with lead me to think of my criticism as being above reproach and as being neither positive or negative; or rather both positive and negative… not negative, but constructive… or rather reflexive; something I can’t help but to do. Which lead me think of how all journalists or critics are just inactive thinkers; they [we] don’t do anything but comment on what other people do; which lead me to think that I actually do a lot, however unwillingly. I am not completely untalented and inactive. Or rather, maybe, I’ve [somehow] successfully tricked others into believing that I am not lazy. If I had my choice, I’d rather be by myself, alone, in a secluded location making art. And somewhere in all of this my thoughts drifted to John Travolta and Nicholas Cage… blog post coming soon; think Conair and Face/Off.