I live in Canada, where we show the United States how life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are actually done. (If you guys down south ever want a refresher, we have the latest version. You're welcome!)
Proud progressive polymath: Canadian writer, artist, photographer (really). I worship Beethoven, mourn Amy Winehouse, and wear a lot of slightly-tight, too youthful clothing in poorly-lit environments so you'll think I'm younger than 61; never forgetting that "GAP Relaxed Fit" is Death's French kiss!" (Mavis the Fashion Maven).
My websites comprise portfolio sites for my special brand of photography; and a showcase for my off-the-wall humorous writing. Take your pick. Either way, I'll discreetly hound you for money, our society's primary method of demonstrating 'success'. Roll On The bloody Floor Laughing!
I’ve set up a “donations” link at the top right of the page. If you’d like to offer a little support – whether financial or spreading the word – I’d be beyond grateful.
If you saw the page before, look again – I’ve completely changed the message and the meaning.
Or, to save your neck from all the pesky turning (I’ve got your neck… errr, back), you can just click here.
If you feel like rocking the appearance of cutting-edge while remaining blissfully unenlightened, you can shop my merch.
And if you want to make me cry, just be nice to me.
Quote of the day
“Would anyone care for a Fresca?”
Some of you may be surprised at seeing Mr Time and Space given as the originator of this memorable line.
The usual attribution has been, of course, Abraham Lincoln, during Act III of “My American Cousin”.
(Lincoln had a private box, and no other theater-goers were disturbed by this request, made to the “Cigars, cigarettes, popsicles, Godiva choco-cones or soft drinks?” concession girl who would come around at convenient lulls in the dialog.
(Or at least, he would have, had he actually said this. But any school kid could tell that this wasn’t Lincoln. Honestly. It’s common knowledge that Lincoln much preferred a nice root beer from A&W, along with an “Assassination Burger”: two large patties that fall out of the bun into a pool of ketchup.)
Abstract: Click the "LIKE" button. End of Abstract
I know this may be difficult for you to read, but
I have to do that shit-sandwich thing, you know, like when your boss, which is undeniably me at this moment, because you came here under my direction, so far so good —when your boss calls you into his glassed-in corner of your office and sits you down for a “talk”.
There is a hideous word, even more hideous than “shit–sandwich”, which makes explicit the “I work in an office/I live in the prison system” analogy, or maybe that’s really a metaphor, I get them mixed up.
You know, and can I just say, seriously. If you didn’t try to be so difficult and contrary all the time, we’d both be out in the climatically changed sunshine right now working on our melanoma and having Cosmo’s for breakfast. We wouldn’t have to be in my office, where I am seven-of-nine to your plain old borg, with you listening to my shit-sandwich.
So think about all the negative things in our lives that you are responsible for, is my first comment.
I know that in a “shit-sandwich” you’re supposed to give the nice white slice of bread and butter first, before you slather on the thick coating of shit, making sure to get right to the edges of the bread, right to the edges, and no skimping. So sue me, I’m doing this one Danish open-face style. On rye.
And NOT the rye with the little seeds, either. The seeds are gross and make me think I am eating bread infested with something like ants. Plus, the seeds get woodged in between my teeth, because I’m old and my teeth are finally arguing about the correct amount of allotted space, having spent their lifetime crowded together like Toronto commuters on the Queen streetcar.
Now that one or two have achieved their lifespan and, as it were, got off the streetcar outside the Drake Hotel or the detox centre or the Parkdale branch of the Public Library, the other commuter-teeth are elbowing each other and stretching their legs and going, “This is more like it! Hot damn!”, and little chinks have appeared in between them that allow bread seeds and raspberry seeds and bits of unmasticated peanut to infiltrate, like spies hiding in phone booths.
And they are the very Dickens to get out. The very Dickens!
Anyway. The word is “panopticon” and it was a way of arranging a prison so the head guard could see absolutely everyone and what everyone was doing at any given moment. “Pan” is like Greek for “all” and “opticon” means “seeing”.
That’s it. What was I saying? Oh, yeah.
Now, moving forward, I need you to be, and don’t vomit when you hear this word, but I need you to be pro-active. That means I need you to think of all the things I’m too lazy to think of myself, that’s like the “pro” part; and then I need you to DO THEM, not just think about them, that’s right, that’s the “active”. And as boss, that’s one of the things I am perfectly entitled to ask you, OK? Suck it up.
And then I’ll say, “What, you expect thanks for DOING YOUR JOB?” Ha! Caught you off-guard, didn’t I, and that’s why they pay me the big bucks, Virginia. Big bucks.
I need you to click my LIKE BUTTONS. You don’t have to friggin’ like it, jeezus, are you retarded? I just need you to publicize me. For free.
Let’s take a step back and make sure we’re all on the same page. Or sandwich. So, I have to tell you that although you’ve ingested some of the shit-sandwich, I actually have no other slice of seedless rye bread, seeing as it’s a Danish open-face style and all.
Sorry, my bad! You were right to do what you’re supposed to do, and the fact that I’m not fulfilling my part of the bargain is just unfortunately one of those things that happens. You know?
So here’s the pickle on top, which is the good bit, whether or not you actually like pickles.
Are you getting the connections here? Good. That’s what’s good about what you do, also that you’re actually reading this far (= this is a dill pickle, by the way).
OK, so summing up:
Like or Don’t Like; followed by, “LIKE”.
Now get back to work.
That ’70’s Post! -or- I wanted my life to be like a work of art. But it’s turned out more like an abandoned macramé project.
Pizza-face Perv Boy
I saw this guy and instantly dubbed him “Macramé Pizza Face Perv Boy”. Do you get that too? I’m not sure what the actual macramé is supposed to be. I DO know that at some point Cher will wear this to the Met Gala.
In case you’ve been beside yourself with frustration due to having no method of holding your 60-lb speakers suspended beside your hot tub.
Well, kick me hard in my seventh chakra – it’s macramé to the rescue!
There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay
men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store. (“Shop till you pop?”)
Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.
Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.
This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”
Hey, Big Spender! Who’s a naughty 2017?
Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?
Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.
We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.
Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :
Which may give “take her for a spin” a “hole” new meaning.
Geddit!? “Hole”?!!!?? L M Friggin’ A O!
(Secondary bonus: Martha Stewart reports that your F-Machine Gigolo makes short work of the twenty-six egg whites you’ve been saving for meringue in a Tupperware container in the fridge, just the ticket for those “Floating Islands” you’ll never in a million years do anything but aspire to. TIP: Remember to Wet Wipe first! Yowza!)
You know, and can I just say, seriously. I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—! Whaddaya know! Eureka!
I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:
Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)
Take America. Please. Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down. Prepare to die, America! You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!
Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.
Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency. The first being, you know. His Presidency.
Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas? Something along these lines?
“Hey Mel. Mel?”
“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”
“How much did I spend on that.”
“You like, baby?”
“They’re fucking awesome.”
“This I am also thinking.”
Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water: “This is big water! The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mar–a-Lago! This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water!WOW!”
Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.
As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.
Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford?
But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions. How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!
I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.
“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up. I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.
The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.
There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own. Score: Dave, 1.
Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!
Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!
Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.
Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.
Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom). I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.
I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.
Things just might be looking up.
Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?
Even better: My online store is now at shop.slowpainful.com. That’s right. I configured a sub-domain. The tits are off the bull!
Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page. Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise. Kind of thing?
And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1. Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3. Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse. I could really use the support right now.
The KarlMarx-Jones with their “defective” baby prior to its return.
Socialist Canadian couple traveling in U.S. hit with $1,000,000 bill for hospital birth.
Bob-Vladimir and Amber-Anastasia KarlMarx-Jones, a Canadian couple who were traveling in the U.S. when Ms KarlMarx-Jones gave birth one month prematurely, describe themselves as “in shock” after receiving a one million dollar hospital bill for the delivery of their son.
At home in their dreary, sparsely furnished subsidized cement block housing complex in downtown Toronto, the cohabiting comrades recollected how impressed they had initially been by the U.S. services available.
“Look, there was a Matisse poster behind the Obs-Gyn Registration Desk!” marveled Mr KarlMarx-Jones, who was already halfway through a 26-er of cheap local vodka. “And really thick shag carpet. And no sooner did our Amber-Anastasia here get those feet up in the stirrups, but it was coffee, tea or champagne, sir and even a choice of Anne Murray or Celine Dion on the speakers to make us feel at home! It was better than our actual vacation!
“It sure made a change from waiting for yer OHIP in those damp, concrete-block corridors for three days with your drug-addicted comrades and a bunch of comfort girls, ankle deep in brackish water and nothing to eat except stale saltines and a few sips of Campbell’s tomato soup! They’ve even got sheets on the beds, eh!”
But the hapless couple soon found that their luxurious private health care surroundings came with a price tag to match. Their sense of outrage was further compounded on discovering that their baby was “defective”.
“The little bugger doesn’t even do anything!” Ms KarlMarx-Jones said. “He just lies around on his collectively-woven blanket, kicking and screaming and blowing saliva bubbles! You’d think for a million bucks he’d at least hum “The Maple Leaf Forever” or pee in your face!”
Sipping tea made from a couple of old reused bags, Amber-Anastasia admitted that the amount of the bill sounded “astronomical”, adding, “How much is that in, like, rubles? You know, in case Loblawsky has an egg this week. I better start lining up right away – Bob-Vladimir starts hittin’ the vodka real bad if I try to make blinis without eggs!”
“Da!” Bob-Vladimir piped in as he knocked back another shot, then slumped back in his chair. “Vodka good!”
How did the KarlMarx-Jones’s plan to handle this extraordinary expense? Did they have relatives? Could they do a consumer proposal? Had they spoken to their bank?
“In fact, we been talking to that American hospital just to figure out how to monetize the little shit!” said Amber-Anastasia. I mean, here in the People’s Republic, every comrade’s gotta contribute, or —” She made a little slashing gesture across her throat —”You get my drift?
“So we had a session of self-criticism and what with him being defective and all, we’ve decided we’re gonna mark him up 20% and sell him back to that U.S. hospital for stem cell harvesting!”
“Oh, dear” she continued, “I’ve forgotten my manners! Here, comrade—Would you like the honorary final lick of frosting from the foil tray that held the President’s Choice strudel?”
But it was time to wrap up and I politely declined. As she saw me to the door, Amber-Anastasia added, “Just one question. What’s a bank?”
“Da!” Bob-Vladimir piped in once again as he knocked back yet another shot, then slumped back even further in his chair. “Vodka good!”
Air Canada still refusing to cave to union demands after wing touching incident; strikebreakers to perform essential tasks, vows spokesperson.
A week after an Air Canada jet’s wing grazed the wing of a Polish Airlines aircraft on the tarmac, causing extensive damage and cancelled flights, the airline’s execs are still refusing to consider union demands for higher wages and better job security.
Air Canada’s Tango gives a love-tap to LOT.
“We are determined not to be blackmailed by skilled workers playing the safety card!” said Air Canada spokesperson Lloyd Spackle as I joined him after yet another round of stalled negotiations.
“Instead, we’re killing two birds with one stone.
“Let me rephrase that.
“We’re increasing efficiencies by, for example, hiring workfare participants to pull the aircraft up to take-off speed, and fly the bugger, too.”
He continued, “If the ancient Egyptians can haul giant boulders up to the tops of the pyramids using nothing but a bunch of slaves, we can surely get aircraft up to aerodynamic speeds using our much more motivated, free workers of the 21st century!”
I followed Spackle for a whirlwind tour, managing to sneak in a quick exchange with one of the “aircraft pullers”. He was doing his warm-ups before he and his fellow strikebreakers attempted lift-off of a Tango budget flight to Kapuskasing.
“I reckon there’s about ten, twelve thousand of us here,” he said, chugging on a Timmies triple-triple and scarfing down a maple-glazed. “It’s about teamwork and fortitude, the great Canadian values! All we gotta remember is, let go once that sucker’s airborne!”
Next, a visit to the cockpit, where Spackle and I interrupted a young lady puffing on a glass pipe and talking on her cell.
“I’m Tiffany, are you the dude who’s been following me? Like, have you been taking pictures of me with my webcam? Like, what the fuck! Never mind, can you tell me what any of these dohickeys is for? I bet these things just fly themselves! Hey, wanna “shotgun?”
All seemed under control, yet there was something that disturbed me. Turning to Spackle, I asked if he felt that Air Canada was jeopardizing passenger safety at all—even just a little bit.
“Ridiculous! he said. “Strikebreakers or skilled employees, it’s all the same! We just charge our customers three times the airfare anyone else does. It’s our outrageous pricing that makes you all think we’re safer than the other guys!”
He continued, “Fact is, the odd crash investigation followed by a bunch of funerals is cheap compared to keeping up some goddamned safety standards no one will ever appreciate! Anyway, what’s a union worker gonna do with more money? Eight-balls of “hard”, cheap native hookers and crappy furniture from Leon’s, am I right?”
Suddenly a thousand cigarette lighters illuminated either side of the runway.
Air Canada had survived the odds to fly again! The stars were out over Pearson International and, beside the tarmac, a couple of seagulls were eyeing the jet engines with crazed expressions.
Justin Trudeau shocks Canadians with praise for “ruthless dictator and enemy of the U.S.”
White House officials decline to comment.
Canadians were shocked today on learning that Prime Minister Justin Trudeau had publicly praised U.S. President and seriously imploding autocrat Donald Trump, calling him “an OK person to have a beer with if there’s absolutely no one else who’s got the day off and the use of a private jet”.
Clearly reliving his father’s infamous “just watch me” moment, Trudeau recklessly added that Trump “…plays a decent round of golf for an overweight, flabby guy with emotional problems”, and all but gave his humiliated supporters a defiant middle finger by stating, “The Trump International ‘Stay the Weekend, Get Monday Free’ Special with the continental breakfast is not totally the worst deal, but frankly, I’d just as soon stay at the ‘Y’.”
Pressed further by reporters at his daily briefing to comment about Trump’s disastrous first term in office, evidenced by his botched health care plans, his tacit support of white supremacy and his taking the world to the brink of nuclear war with North Korea, Trudeau replied,
“Well, nobody’s perfect, eh? It’s true we don’t see eye to eye on some things. Well, OK, on anything, really. But I feel kinda sorry for the dude, he needs a male role model and I guess he’s hoping for some — well, gorgeousness by association. Can you blame him?”
Deftly changing the subject, he pulled up his right trouser leg and added, “Hey, guys, get a load of these new socks! Pink with orange polka-dots, is that, like, so totally gay or what?”
After numerous attempts, we finally reached Trump on his private line and managed to get his own unique insights into the burgeoning, yet strangely one-sided, bromance.
“Justin Trudeau? I love Justin!” he screamed. “LOVE the guy! He’s the MAN! He’s doing a TREMENDOUS job at — Canadian stuff! Maple syrup, communism! Whatever!
“And that wife of his, what’s her name! Sophie? Gregory? His wife’s called Gregory? Typical! Anyway, who cares! She’s got a pair of, take it from me, intercontinental ballistic missiles, hoo boy! Real or fake, they’ll get ya to Guam and back no problem!!”
In related news today, reports from our European bureau confirm that French President Emmanuel Macron’s wife, Brigitte, is “still looking great for a broad her age.”
Sigh. I wish that the following did not make me out to be a judgmental “fat-shamer”. There is no one, you must understand, no one who understands better than me, who was born gayer than Liberace’s goose and became the unwitting inventor at age five of male camel-toe, what it feels like to be shunned by normal members of society—the Everypersons who awaken each morning, pull on the baggy-assed catsuit of mediocrity and slink through their days, unnoticed and unreviled.
But, true to the schizoid nature of our time that enforces great overbearing hugs of total inclusiveness yet awards all the gold medals to the sociopathic narcissists, I have to be honest. And, let’s face it, like all caution-to-the-winds honesty, this is all about me, capisce?
In case that went over your head: My need to be honest trumps any tiresome inhibitions I might have about sparing anyone’s feelings.
Phew! It was great to get that off my chest and thanks for listening, you’ve been AWEsommmmme!
So, getting back on track with my needs, I really need Dexter Mayfield (above) to be a little less celebratory. Nothing too demanding. Maybe, say, two points less on a scale of ten—assuming his runway-model coach has managed to hoist him up to nine—with one on the scale being “I left a perfectly comfortable womb for this?” and ten being “I am the backyard where happiness awaited!”.
I wish he could, without denying himself a bite from the juicy apple of self-love, have at least a small portion of the dry, unsweetened oatmeal of clear-eyed honesty.
I don’t want Dexter to hate himself; no, never would I want that for a fellow human. “Hate” barely makes it into my vocabulary. I just don’t want to receive a suffocating, wobbling faceful of his self-esteem.
I would like, as it were, to throw the gigantic, bouncy beach ball of his pride back at him, where it can bobble lightly in the Atlantic Ocean of his cognitive dissonance.
I don’t want to be misunderstood here. Make no mistake, I love Dexter. I want him to know he’s a wonderful guy, deserving of every right, freedom and show of dignity we can muster.
I just want him to realize that, though we agree he’s wonderful, he could just as easily be wonderful at home, in Queens, with the drapes pulled, wearing a caftan, power-watching the deluxe boxed set of “Six Feet Under“.
This is, after all, the golden age of TV, and I do wonder, if only in passing, if people like Lionel Trilling or Mary Renault, or even William Blake or Emily Dickinson, would ever have contemplated putting “golden age” and “TV” together, in the same sentence, assuming that BBC America was even around then.
But I digress.
You know, and can I just say, seriously. There are times when I hate being a nasty, disagreeable old prick. I know that’s counter-intuitive. But those times do occur; then, as my day progresses, it may come about that I say something really mean to someone—let’s say, for the sake of argument, a young girl with pigtails and freckles who’s confined to a wheelchair, and I say the really mean thing to her—I don’t know why I do, maybe she cut ahead in line, or she’s taking way too long to reach the packet of organic couscous on the top shelf.
It’s just an example, OK?
She’s taking SO long, and even glaring at her and rolling my eyes and sighing dramatically doesn’t seem to speed her up, like, can she not take a hint? And so I say that something to her that’s really mean, and she bursts into tears.
That’s when it clicks, and I think, FUCK YEAH!This is what I was BORN to do!!
And with my self-esteem all plumped up again, like a prune thrown into a barrel of Curvoisier, I just let it all go.
Man, that feels good! Let it all go, like a Victorian matron peeling off her whalebone corset, and just walk. No goddamn Anne of Green Gables in a wheelchair, struggling to reach a sad little couscous package on the top shelf, is gonna bring ME down!
Go on, hash-tag me #NastyDisagreeableOldPrickPRIDE, let the Twitter wars begin! I dare ya!
Then, there’s Madonna.
(Quick question: Did you KNOW it was Madonna, even without her head? You did, didn’t you? Go on, admit it!)
I love Madge almost as much as I love Dexter Mayfield. As far as you can measure these things, Madonna is right up there, though still slightly behind the Dexter position, if you looked closely.
And I know, as only one shy person can know a fellow shy person, that being ignored hurts. So I can totally understand why Madonna would need some attention today. Totally.
I mean, it’s the Metropolitan Opera Gala, the room is filled with peeps who are not you, there’s, let’s say, Michelle Obama looking regal, and maybe Dame Helen Mirren, Great Britain’s classiest, most Shakespeare-laden MILF wearing something clingy and cut on the bias, and it just friggin’ calls for a little girl-illa warfare in the name of attention grabbing and owning that focus like that focus is your bitch.
Madonna says, “If you have a problem with the way I dress it is simply a reflection of your prejudice.”
Well. I wouldn’t say problem, really. I mean, my recoiling with my hands over my eyes is not the result of a problem, per se. It’s not a reflection of my prejudice, either; though it might be a reflection of a little bit of good taste that managed to sneak in, through the cracks.
Maybe, one day, when I get that deal with HarperCollins, I, too, will hijack the Met Gala to my own ends.
I will top up the bottomless well of my ego and celebrate the self-esteem-y wonderfulness of me in leather harness, jockstrap and gladiator boots; I will slap black electrical tape over my nipples, hang chains from my scrotum and draw the fickle, fluttery moths of public attention to the crackling flames of my lasciviousness.
It will be everything you’ve always wanted in a political statement.