Lady Gaga (What Else Is There to Say?)

Since upon seeing this Lady Gaga photo I've had the following conversation, in one form or another, with myself.

LASSIN SAYNE: Wuzzah? I don't even know what to say. She looks insane. (Heh, I guess the world is in working order.)

LASSIN SAYNE'S BRAIN: PANCAKE HAIR.

LS: Not sure I want to go with the obvious "E.T. phone home" joke here . . .

LSB: Pancake. Hair.

LS: Lady Gaga joins the Justice League, incapacitating enemies with the blinding combination of her hair and outfits . . . nah, that's kinda tragically hacky . . .

LSB: PANCAKE HAIR PANCAKE HAIR.

LS: Hottest new skein-o-yarn hair accessory in case a frantic knitting tournament erupts in the middle of her interview?

LSB: PAAAAANCAKE HAIR.

LS: Her hair stylist was viciously craving a jelly donut?

LSB: PANCAKE HAAAAAIR.

LS: Gah, it's hypnotic in its monstrosity; I can't think of what to say. Sometimes there just aren't words.

LSB: I CAN THINK OF TWO WORDS THAT WOULD FIT QUITE NICELY.



P.S. I actually had this post done yesterday, but the only computer I had access to wouldn't let me operate Blogger. Sorry about that.

Let's Face It, Bella Swan: You're Gonna Get Stuck With Eric

I find it tremendously funny how our culture has entered into a mindset for romance. It used to be that two characters who fell in love stood in similar lights in the eyes of society. I've come to realize, however, that this paradigm has shifted: We now create stories in which a mildly pretty, mature, sweet but sarcastic, intelligent girl -- who, though liked well enough by the majority, is no less considered strange -- lands the hero whom all the females desire.

Now, in principle, I don't have a huge problem with this. A writer myself, I understand that sometimes you need to appeal to the strongest base of readers (i.e. insecure teeny-boppers with hopelessly romantic spirits), but it's gotten to the point where I have to wonder: Are you even writing this for an audience anymore? While it's true that fiction (be it in a movie, book, or otherwise) is escapism, and therefore must, by and large, offer appealing scenarios, I think we've come to the point where we've not only surpassed "too much of a good thing," but dragged it into an alley kicking and screaming and brutally beat it to death with a two-by-four just to steal its lunch money.

NO! DOES NOT COMPUTE!

It seems to me that no self-respecting artist would continue to play on such a vaguely grating cliche unless they themselves have a personal investment in the story.

There's a fine line between unrealistic and fantasy escapism. One thing I've come to realize in my years of reading and writing is that authors are supposed to appeal to emotions, not (necessarily) situations. Simply put, you want the characters to act like real people even if they aren't in the same positions as them. (Your heroine is a rock star-by-day, vampire-by-night, polyglot psychoanalyst studying for her Master's at Cambridge? Fine, but does she eat a bowl of ice cream and cry over 10 Things I Hate About You when her boyfriend dumps her? Lovely, moving on.)

Let's be frank(er) for a moment: There is no way, in this world or the next, that a passably attractive, kind, academically-minded girl with an affinity for Native American tribal masks is going to wind up dating the quarterback, so let's stop pretending. There's sympathetic and there's insulting, and continuously shoving this plot down our throats consistently falls into the latter.

What I've come to believe is that, as very clearly illustrated in books such as Twilight, the writer places him- or herself into the story as the protagonist, and we're pulled through all the experiences and fantasies that could never be lived out in the real world. If this is the case: Come on people, this is pathetic. We're supposed to keep insecure delusions locked up with the princess owns form our fifth birthday.

Yes, yes -- Edward only ignored Bella because he was badly in love with her. Heheh, that's right -- right. The football captain just loved Stepheni e -- he was madly, possessively, dangerously in love with her! That's why he always glared at her in biology . . . *le sob*

How it would really go:

DaBo says: Don't believe the lies. Hot people date hot people, ugly people date ugly people, and never the twain shall meet.

Mariah stared at him through the hazy glow of the setting sun. Everything seemed perfect, somehow, despite what she had been feeling earlier. The fluid pull of his muscles as he ran, the hard look of content concentration on his face . . . she hardly knew him, and yet, she felt like everything important had already been revealed to her. AP History with Anthony had shown Mariah that jocks could have brains. She was m omentarily distracted as he ran a hand through his glistening raven hair. It was unfair, she mused, that someone should be blessed with such a heady meld of body and mind such as he.

Tentatively, Mariah stood from her spot on the bleachers and walked toward the parking lot, careful to be quiet. She wasn't sure she could live down having Anthony catch her watching him.

"Hey, wait up!"

Mariah froze, her breath leaving her in a whoosh of trepidation and excitement. That voice -- his voice. She turned slowly, heart skipping a beat as she locked eyes with him -- brown on green. His full lips pulled apart to reveal a beautifully lopsided smile.

"Aren't you in history with me?"

She nodded wordlessly, the ability to speak running off with her racing heart. He stepped closer now, and she could smell the earth and sweat on him, mixing seamlessly with his innate masculinity.

Her back was against the wall now, his face mere inches from hers. She clutched her books tightly to her chest, lips parted and eyes heavy as her breath came in rapid spurts.

"Mariah, right, I knew I knew you! We're doing that assignment together, yeah?"

Her eyes flew open, blinking rapidly as she tried to process why his lips hadn't connected with hers yet.

"Right, right. Hey, look, I promised my girlfriend that I'd take her out tonight, but I can't if I have to do that paper thing, so I was wondering if maybe you could do my part for me, yeah? I don't wanna make my angel mad." He flashed another diamond-dusted grin.

"Guh-I-ummmm . . ."

"Sweet! Thank you so much!"

"Buh . . . wah -- no?" She tried to form a coherent sentence as her eyes assessed his retreating form.

"Catch ya later, bookworm!"

"Wait! No, I can't do that! I have piano --" Her exclamations were cut short as the passing cheerleading squad knocked her down, kicking her into the wall in their oblivious excitement and haste.

The darkness closed in as shouts of "Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?!" drew tears from her eyes.

Eyemakeup Makes Me Squee

I love eye makeup. I mean truly, deeply, worryingly ADORE it. The amount of time I spend on my own (though I never have as much fun with it as I'd like) is quite embarrassing. Pencils, liners, creams, shadows, liquids, gels . . . if it can accentuate the eye (with minimal long-term damage) I will wear it. I've told you all this to give you some background, because obviously, one so deeply entrenched in an orb-improving affair such as I would know a thing or two about the "do"s and "don't"s of eye makeup.

So trust me -- implicitly -- when I tell you:

Guyliner makes for uber-sexy squee time.

Some of you may say, "No, you're positively delusional. Guyliner is only for gender-confused, lithe pretty-boys with no dignity to speak of and too much time on their hands." To that I say, let me provide you examples of guyliner in action, so that I may beautifully and concretely change your mind forevermore. (Note: as always, when men are applying makeup to wear in public they must either be, a) famous, b) subtle, or c) emo [with the clothes to match] so please -- for the love of all that is holy -- do NOT try to imitate the mall emo band eye makeup to impress that chick in your sociology class. It will not work. It will make you look like a douche.)

. . . . .

Actually, you caught me. I thought I liked it, and then I did research and decided that no, not all guys should wear eyeliner. Sorry, Gregory, I just pulled a female switch-a-roo on you.

But there are men that look good in it! Just not most of the male population. However, I will, indeed, provide you will pretty examples. You've just wasted about two minutes of your life reading my confuzzled ranting. You're welcome.

circa 1978

BOWIEBOWIEBOWIEBOWIEBOWIEOMGILOOOOOOOVEYOU!!!!!! Marry me! Leave your wife! I'll raise your little girl! I'll give you another son! We're meant to be together! We have such beautiful features to mix! PLEASE! I ADORE YOU!

Um . . . heheh, just kidding. Right. Ahem. Moving on.



Gerard Way, you were my schoolgirl crush for a long time running. (You know why.) I had -- and have, if I'm being completely honest -- a huge thing for your makeup, stage and casual. However, I've decided you're just a bit too much of a high-talker for me. You know what I mean? You know what I mean. You're absolutely adorable, though, and I wish you and wifey all the best with the pregnancy thing. You''l make a great baby-daddy. No, really. You have to believe me. Of course I'm not mad -- we were never meant to be.



Okay, I'll be quite honest with you, Pete Wentz. I don't get all the fuss made over you. You're cute in that "short, guyliner-sporting rock star" kind of way, but certainly not as drool-worthy as the mags make you out to be. However, you do manage to pull of the heavy eyeliner, which is no small feat, so you get props for that. Besides, I like Fall Out Boy. (Ooh, and btw -- tough break with tying the knot with Ashlee Simpson, man. I'd say I understand your pain, but frankly I've never been drunk enough to do something like that. You're in my prayers.)



You -- I don't know who you are, actually, but you're rockin' the eye makeup like a sailboat in a storm and you're hot so you're here, (even if you do have almost unforgivably effeminate brows).

circa 1975

Oh, Freddie Mercury, if only you weren't gay and dead. You know I love you, even with your strangely endearing buck teeth and that inexcusable Village People mustache you grew in the 80s. My love for you in the 70s in abounding, though, with your black nails, heavy makeup, and leather pants. I'm sorry we lost you to the other side before we lost you forever, darling.

So, we have several lessons for today: 1) don't trust me about guyliner -- it's obviously a bad choice if you don't have the fame to back up the audacity and femininity of it (I mean, don't trust my previous opinion, trust this one . . . don't wear guyliner); 2) not all men who wear makeup swing to the rainbow end of the Kinsey scale; 3) if you're David Bowie, walk around shirtless more often for our enjoyment.