So, first, thanks to everyone. I didn’t reply to any comments personally, mainly because I would have sounded like a flight attendant (“Thank you…thanks…thank you…how kind of you, thanks…”)
I am feeling much better now. Back to my old bitchy little self, thanks in large part to you guys, in part to a good laugh on EE yesterday, in part to having one of the Smart Bitches laugh at one of my dumb jokes, and in part to a particularly irritating hour or so spent with one of, in my opinion, the world’s worst magazines…
It isn’t just the criminally biased opinion pieces masquerading as journalism, or the complete and utter lack of imagination in its coverage. Although all of those things bother me. (Hey, Rolling Stone–I read your magazine on occasion in the 80’s. Don’t try to pretend to me you guys were all into Minor Threat and Bad Brains. I know you weren’t.) Now they’ll act like punk was all their idea, but at the time they were doing cover stories on Glass Tiger. (I’m not knocking Glass Tiger–does anyone but me and maybe one or two of my Canadian friends still remember them? But they weren’t exactly on the cutting edge. Which is fine. Nothing is wrong with being a catchy, enjoyable pop band.)
No, what bother me the most about Rolling Stone is how fucking juvenile it is. What a little boy’s club of thirteen-year-olds the staff writers are.
Take, for example, one of the most pointless and stupid things I have ever seen anyone speculate about: the meaning of the euphemism “London Bridge” in some song by that woman from the Black-Eyed Peas (who, sorry, don’t get them at all.) I’ve never heard the song, but I know the line: How come every time you come around/My London, London Bridge wanna go down.
Why, it’s as mysterious and fascinating as The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam! What could she mean? Does she mean something–giggle, snicker–dirty? Like sex? Tee-hee! When she says it, I feel like I do when Mrs. Science Teacher says “ovaries”!
I am not joking here. I have now read two consecutive issues of Rolling Stone where speculation on the meaning of a somewhat clever piece of doggerel is given as much weight and page space as stories on…well, okay. Stories on other useless wastes of time and energy. It’s Rolling Stone, after all, not US News and World Report. But even then! Even then, the obsession with the meaning of this stupid lyric–which, even if most of us can’t look at the line, get an idea of what it means, and move on with our lives, is fairly unimportant. (Gee, what did Duran Duran mean by “night is a wire”? But, what does it meeean, man?)
Last month (my husband, for some reason, buys this last bastion of shit monthly), not only did they also wonder just how dirty the lyric actually is, and giggle about it with the same enthusiasm with which Regency fops would snicker about seeing a girl’s ankles, but they wrote a review of some movie directed by the guy who directed Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Which was not really a bad film, but the underlying premise was so stupid it ruined it for me. (Nutshell-Hedwig is a transsexual–he was forced to be to escape East Germany. Anyway, Hedwig has always wanted to be a rock star. In the film, she is chasing after this guy who now is a rock star, who stole her songs to get to the top. Okay…but as the movie unfolds, we see that lots and lots of people knew she wrote the songs, and saw her perform them with this guy. So why on earth has she not been able to mount a successful lawsuit, with that many witnesses? Come on!)
So the movie is a sex movie. Literally. Apparently it’s a large, filmed orgy. Rolling Stone says it’s an amazing film, because it lets us see what sex really is, how it encompasses the human experience, and so teaches us something about ourselves. I’ve noticed this sort of thing a lot lately, with people doing extremely graphic films and claiming it’s because they have something profound to say about sex. Like there’s something profound to be said about sex that any grown-up doesn;t already know.
Okay, dude? If you need a movie to show you how sex can show us as we truly are, or how we can run a gamut of emotions before, during, and after it…you haven’t really been having good sex, have you?
Or you’re simply an emotionally stunted third-grader. So, yeah, a Rolling Stone writer.
(Yes, I write very graphic stuff. But you know what? I’m not pretending it’s supposed to show you anything about yourself. It’s supposed to turn you on. It’s supposed to give you a good reading experience, by letting you get two know two people who fall in love and have adventures, and it’s supposed to turn you on while doing so! Point blank. The day I start talking about sex as the “universal human experience” as though I’ve come up with some profound new idea, shoot me.)
Okay, I’ve ranted enough now. But I’m happy.