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The thing is, I am totally guilty of rolling my eyes and/or gagging whenever “Pokerface” comes on anywhere, ever, and even though “Paparazzi” is a huge hit that sends all the gay men flocking to the dance floor to vogue when it’s played at the club (if by club you mean the tiny, slightly seedy only-gay-bar-in-town – 3 dolla drinks, holla! – that is, sadly enough, really the only night spot worth going to, and I do), I just haven’t been feeling Our Lady of Weird. I mean, girl deserves props for her totally out-to-lunch schtick and formidably wacky dress sense – I wouldn’t go quite so far as to call her original, and her chumminess with Perez Hilton is sort of worrying, but she is definitely a breath of fresh air in the pop scene. Fresh, bedazzled, muppet-wearing, probably vaguely latex and cigarette scented air.
But no more. She had me at the killer sparkly McQueens (yes, I’m a closet fashion geek, deal with it), which, if I owned them, would certainly be strutted in the grocery store, because those long shiny aisles are the closest thing to runways we have in this charming backwater, and also I completely fancy the idea of stomping about, a foot taller than I actually am, and terrifying small children in the produce section. Actually, I secretly believe all crazy couture should be purchased and worn to the supermarket – c’est surrealistically appropriate, n’est pas? If I had the bucks to own anything couture I would dress in nothing but, because you only live once, right? Actually, I just wish I had the bucks to own this, which I deeply desire, or bucks at all, really. But I digress, as per usual. I read one review of this video in which the reviewer professed to being reduced to the spouting of nouns – as in “The big sunglasses! The ugly cat! The sex trafficking! The fire! The hair! The fire-boobie contraption’s comeback!” – and I can’t disagree. This shit has to be seen to be believed, because I posess no adequate verbiage to describe its phenomenally strange and fabulous excellence. Go hither, young padawans.
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