No More Dramas (Addendum)

Yesterday's come-down was inevitable, but brief. In fact, I've found that there's a quite easy answer to the problem of "what to do at 24 in order to be a happy grown-up"--look good. As warm and wholesome and earthy as the Zizney Reunion (see below) was, we are left with an overwhelming urge to simplify, to focus on the surfaces of things, people (us), our bodies. Drinking more water (and less booze), sleeping proper amounts, eating vitamins, brushing our hair, working out, applying masques and eye serums and sunscreen, wearing lipstick and (gasp) heels and perfume. These are the keys to our future happiness. The rest (work and school and SUCCESS) will follow suit. I'm sure of it. Yup.

So it's only fitting that I'm ready to deal with Lady GaGa, who I've been holding at arms length for months now. Pillow nodded to The Fame last year. And, though she always leads me to the finest pops (Hello Blackout!), I couldn't get into GaGa. She put me in mind of all of the bottle-serviced douchebags I used to know. And then I saw her in interviews. Such an idiot, putting on a weak, Anglo-y accent and spouting stuff about Bohemianism and New York and the Scene and drugs and garrets in not-so-proper or clever English.

I've recently become enamored of a few of the tracks. They sound quite good. They stick. But ain't she a mess? The record is all pure, unadulterated vapidity (except for the dead-on "Like It Rough"). If she was winkingly posing as the gnarliest coked-out party girl in NYC, binging in the face of the Recession and the "Death of Downtown," then she would be a total genius. Instead, she's putting on this pseudo-intellectual show (like any defensive, self-conscious loser from Sacred Heart would) and saying she's from the future? What? Lady GaGa's pitch is like one of those poster-boards scrawled with confused, tinny adjectives that gay fay-shun show producers place backstage to motivate the models, to instruct them in the seasonal inspiration/angle they're meant to describe by, you know, walking.

So, I'll take the songs, exactly the soundtrack I need for my new drive toward brainlessness and sheen, and ignore the hype. I've embedded a non-music video YouTube of "Paparazzi" that S-P-E-L-L-S out the silliness and incoherence of her lyrics and one of "Like It Rough," my fave. Enjoi. And take care of yourself.