I watched the VMA’s last night. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the red wine I was sipping. Maybe it was because I was feeling old and out of touch and found solace in the notion of watching a video music awards show sponsored by a channel that no longer actually shows videos; I mean, there’s some resonance there with my life, right? I’m still deluding myself that I am somehow relevant to and have a place in modern culture, and use this blog to comment on the zeitgeist. Yes, I’m not so different from MTV and this, my blog, is my daily VMA thingy.
So, the VMA’s deigned to exalt Gaga into the opening spot, from which holy perch she appeared, looking strangely Little Edie-esque (I kid you not) her face protruding from what is commonly called – in public restrooms and certain sub-cultures familiar with Little Edie and Stephen Sondheim(not just his musical theatre oeuvre – but his rumored proclivity for the seamier side as well) - a glory hole (definition: click here), which she blessedly shed in order to up-tempo herself into an overly-choreographed, costume and wig changing spectacale; her usual exhibitionist extravaganza of flash and phantasm, fondling the audience into an appreciative orgasm.
I came too. But I’d had a lot of wine by then (I know – it was only 9pm – but …) and it wasn’t even the morning after when I started feeling cheap and used; it was, in fact, but a few minutes later, and I was a melancholy damn mess – thinking GaGa little but a bus and truck troupe-type imitation of Bette Midler – who used to really know how to do this sort of thing. No one has any real emotional heft anymore; no one has anything of depth to say; and there I was, red-wine soaked, all alone again, sadly without the cellphone digits of the fellow who’d felt me up in the sauna earlier in the day (read about it here), my mood deteriorating into MacBeth territory: All that sound and fury, signifying … what? Oh, right: NOTHING.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5
But, I didn’t really understand NOTHING until I had “watched” the rest of the show – and finished that bottle of wine. I don’t know. I guess I am irrelevant. I guess I am old. Lord knows I’m older than James Van Der Beek and Bobby Cannavale – both of whom Tweeted through the show (along with me) and said they felt old.
Eh. Meh. So there it is. Almost. I was unmoved for the most part. I mean, sure, I’d do any of ONE DIRECTION – they are the newest flavor of twink-delight for teen girls and aging gay men (two sub-categories which are frequently the canaries in the pop-cultural coal mine – Perez HIlton agrees with me – click here for PICS!) and the whole Justin Timberlake thing was vaguely interesting, in particular, the broner thrown by Jimmy Fallon while introducing him. But my only real moment of being nonplussed – as in baffled, dismayed, dumbfounded and actually ga-ga-ed – was when Miley Cyrus
performed – well – uhm – trotted her sorry, drugged up ass across the stage and twerked Robin Thicke and SOMEHOW seemed to have lost muscle control of her tongue.
What the actual fuck was that? And does it just horrify you wondering just where has that tongue been? And of all the things MTV might have chosen to bleep, they chose to bleep Miley’s lyric about MOLLY (click here if you don’t know what MOLLY is)? That girl has clearly had one too many sleepovers at Lindsay Lohan’s. Holy shit.
By the time Miley was done, I already felt dirty – like I had watched someone who’d been destroyed by an abusive childhood behaving in a self-destructive manner, spiraling toward certain disaster – in short, like me dating someone. And – just as in those instances – I am helpless to stop it. Just as I was helpless to stop myself from thinking the HIGHLIGHT of the show was the appearance of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s clearly amazing penis. Well, it didn’t actually APPEAR – but it was CLEARLY outlined in that silky, shiny suit he wore. JGL is my new imaginary boyfriend – (well, not exactly new – I’ve had a thing for him since MYSTERIOUS SKIN and since I heard about his rumored audition/masturbation/porn – CLICK HERE – tape for SHORTBUS – ooh – and too, I loved him EVEN MORE when I heard that he and Michael Pitt – who I worship – had had a thing and he broke it off and crazy-Pitt went PSYCHO-STALKER (click for details) – ahhhh, GOSSIP!) – and now that my age has been miraculously re-calibrated, he is only ten years younger than I am – which – if Robin Thicke can buttfuck Miley Cyrus on the VMA’s – then I can certainly – BUT I DIGRESS – and too, Neil Patrick Harris – who is – NOW – only two years younger than me – also has a hot crush on JGL and his rumored to be huge penis – so, I have joined yet another club.
SO, I had another glass of wine. And watched until the end when Katy Perry performed – for some reason on which I am still not clear – in a boxing ring set up in view of the Brooklyn Bridge from which – by that point – one too many glasses of red wine and not nearly enough Molly in – I wished I could jump.