This Week in LaLa Land: ‘Stranger Things’ Warps, Beck Charms, the Tao of Winona + Taylor

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Today,  I want to dunk myself in silliness, then scrub off the Weinstein sewage of  sexual harassment stories from my enlarged pores. Let’s get back to the insipid stuff for a second, okay? Don’t worry, we can quickly return to wondering if civilized civilization is deader than Kevin Spacey’s career. But don’t worry about too much because we’ve always got our moral compass, Courtney Love, to lead us.

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Beck approves my Taylor fascination.

Taylor Swift’s “The old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now” is the new “It’s Britney, bitch.” It’s the battle cry for all the T. Swizzle lovers out there that just can’t take the critiques anymore. After going back and forth about the uncoolness of my affection for Tay and wondering if my make-believe friend Beck would unfriend me because of my Taylor obsession, I’m okay with it and in my mind, Beck loves Taylor, too.

I’ll eventually forgive Taylor for neglecting to invite me to her Rhode Island “Reputation” listening party. Perhaps she watched me prowl her property donning my homemade “Will Sell My Soul for Taylor” shirt or maybe she knows about my college side job of stalking.

Whatever the reason—I was clearly not on this list.  But really, it’s Taylor’s loss. She and I would have had such a girly time, I can see it now: I would’ve asked her if John Mayer is a true Lothario or a needy mother’s boy with abandonment issues, I’d then segue into a discussion over how her brother Austin feels to be so overshadowed by his big sister, then end with a probing question asking if she actually likes Lena Duhman. You know, small talk!

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Oh, Jim Hopper.

“Stranger Things” just might be the best thing that has happened to me since Johnny Depp celebrated his love for Winona Ryder in permanent ink with his soon-to-be Wino Forever tattoo. The show makes my heart skip a beat like the good old days of Mulder and Scully ridding the world of aliens with the help of sunflower seeds and religion.

 

What is it that I love about “Stranger Things?”

Let’s start with the revival of Winona Ryder’s career, one crazy eye at a time. I never did understand where Winona went. Big deal, she got a little pilled out and stole a few frocks from Saks. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? She also dated every influential 90s alternative rocker, befriended and became enemies with everyone’s favorite mean rich girl, Gwyneth Paltrow. She even dated Matt freaking Damon. The woman is the “It Girl” for strange girls and I never understood why her career fizzled after the shoplifting fiasco.

Either way, Wino’s back forever!

My fondness for “Stranger Things” does not end with Winona Ryder. I’m also in love with Chief Hopper, the gaggle of cool and geeky kids and the new feisty redhead, Max. And, may I ignite the Sean Astin  “Best Actor” Actor Emmy campaign right now?

Back to the Beck thing. If you still purchase music and are into Beck, I highly recommend that you check out “Colors”. The album is whip smart and gleeful. It just might make you dance and smile. Don’t worry, there’s still a healthy dose of Beck being Beck with his perfect combination of weirdness, poetry and his strong grasp on the current world vibe, but more than anything, it’s a crowd-pleasing rainbow of an album.

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Cheers to Twitter employee that suspended Trump’s account!

While I am handing out nominations, can someone also get the Nobel Peace Prize committee on the phone and help me nominate the Twitter employee that suspended Donald Trump’s Twitter account for 11 minutes? That person just saved the world for 660 seconds.

Till next time.

2017 VMAs: I missed Jon Snow’s bum for this?

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Katy Perry’s downward spiral into irrelevance continues.

I actually missed the season finale of Game of Thrones to watch Katy Perry play host at the 2017 VMAs  while further embarrassing herself in what has already been a pretty humiliating year for this past-her-prime star. But, hey, I’ve got priorities and Taylor Swift, Kendrick Lamar + Lorde are high up on that slim list, well above cleaning my car, properly shaving my legs or applying to graduate school.

I want to get to the good parts, like how alive Kendrick Lamar feels, that man is spitting fire + talent like Daenerys’ dragons breathe fury.  But, you know that’s not what I really care about because T. Swizzle is back with a pouting vengeance and I’m too pudgy and suburban momesque to really get the coolness of Kendrick Lamar. I want to, I really do, but I’m just not young enough to be worthy of it all.

 

And good ol’ MTV understands people like me because the channel wasted no time in getting to the “real” performance of the evening: a premiere of T. Swizzle’s ridiculously-catchy, good-girl-gone-bad tool of reinvention: “Look What You Made Me Do.”

 

Oh, Taytay, look what you just made me do: fall in love you all over again.

Who cares that I might miss Jon Snow and dragon lady get familial on GOT? In this candy cane of cinematic perfection, Taylor goes dead like a White Walker while metaphorically digging her own grave, only to later throw all the Hollywood trash into it.  This stuff, I get.

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This ring could be yours for $60 (+shipping + handling)

See, I want to be one of those people, the people that are too smart for Taylor’s obvious marketing ploys and scheming plans to devour the world without gaining a pound. I want to be horrified by her schilling $60 snake rings on her website, but really, I want to buy that damned ring and wear it without irony. I want that ring to go with my sarcasm and smirk, just like I bet it matches Taylor’s cynicism and exhaustion with her good girl image.

How can someone that didn’t even show up to the prom end up being the queen?

Well, that’s Taylor, baby. Love it or hate it.

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This is when my heart shattered.

Ugh, and while we are hating, I hate myself for admitting that Lorde was the train wreck that you just couldn’t watch, not for one second longer than was absolutely necessary. As grueling as it is to stomach some of GOT’s torture scenes, this was worse.

Lorde’s performance pained me more than Jared Leto’s continued denial of his own hotness. I want to believe that Lorde had the flu and couldn’t sing, but she should be on the phone firing her manager quicker than Katy Perry, and that is pretty freaking quickly.

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Jared Leto just killed Jordan Catalano

Oh Jared Leto, how could you do this to me? You were my Jordan Catalano, man. I am as confused over Jared’s constant need to desecrate his God-given beauty as I am by the fact that 30 Seconds to Mars is still making music! C’mon, MTV, was every member of Fall Out Boy, Blink 182 and Good Charlotte too busy to play?

 

 

 

 

Crashing the Party of the Year: Taylor Swift’s 4th of July Shindig

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I just crashed the party of the year, and it almost felt better than Taylor Swift’s arse looks.

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From left: Abigail Anderson (childhood friend), unknown taut backside, Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss, unknown, Swift’s photographer, Taylor Swift on Tom Hiddleston’s shoulder.

I’m as schooled in the art of celebrity stalking as I am with partying. Just ask every single one of my ex boyfriends: I am a psycho stalker.  And, what better opportunity do I have to shine than T. Swizzle’s legendary Rhode Island Fourth of July extravaganza? Mix lil’ Rhody with a dose of celebrity culture and add on some of that stalker stuff and I am happier than Tom Hiddleston’s agent!

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Taylor’s bikini reads “America,” but her passion is straight-up British.

I sacrificed my health for this stalker mission. I mean, have you seen me? I’m paler than Tom Hiddleston’s British inner thigh. I planted myself, my husband and children on a beach for eight hours to possibly spy Taylor Swift. I should have drunk a bottle of SPF 120 to make it through the day.

Just when I thought this skin damage was for naught, out descended the squad. Yes, Taylor Swift and her bevy of beautiful people opened the gates of her $17 million Watch Hill mansion and swam in the Atlantic Ocean right next to me and my chafed thighs. Their appearance was accomplished in a dizzying whirl of speed and exhilaration;  out they ran, in sync with their shared loveliness, tautness and fondness for Solo cups. (Stars, they really are JUST like us!)

The sexual spark between Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston was hotter than Gigi Hadid’s Prada shades. Soon after Taylor and Tom splashed into the water, she hopped onto his back with a mischievous look of love. They looked perfect together and I’m not even going to question why Tom Hiddleston wore a shirt into the water, let’s peg that to British modesty.

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Tay Tay leads Karlie Kloss and Blake Lively up to heaven.

And it was over as quickly as Taylor’s love for what’s-his-name, Calvin Harris. After a few photos, giggles and shared hugs, the squad ascended up the stairs and into the heaven that must be Taylor’s life. I saw Blake Lively’s burgeoning belly and Ruby Rose’s many tattoos.  Taylor’s brother Austin and I shared a glance and I wondered what his future holds, will being lost in Taylor’s shadow wreak havoc on this handsome man, or will he find his own fame? Austin, may I suggest that you marry Selena Gomez? Somebody has to get her away from any kind of microphone.

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Taylor Swift’s brother Austin. The picture is grainy, but the abs are amazing. Believe me.

As the crowd dissipated, I saw Selena. She didn’t participate in the oceanic frolic but she did watch from afar. She stood at the top of the stairs, holding a large hat, while looking pensive.  I could sense her Bieber love-sickness from below. Poor Selena, don’t pout, there’s always Austin Swift.

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Taylor, that’s my son, Holden.

Back at the ocean, we revelers were left with the type of feeling you get after paying for Taylor Swift tickets, “did that really just happen, did I really just do that?” Well, it did and I have the TMZ photo to prove it. In the madness of the moment, I almost forgot that I actually had children at the beach, but voila, here is evidence. That little boy staring straight ahead, the only person within a mile nonplussed by the hysteria is Holden, my son.

Stalk on, baby.

T. Swizzle struts her ego, Loudon Wainwright tickles the soul, Jason Isbell rocks my world. Can I sleep now?

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The rock-n-roll segment of my summer started with a safe blow to my insomnia-plagued head. In seven days, I saw Loudon Wainwright III,  Jason Isbell and Taylor Swift play in three different New England cities. I also checked out the Judd Apatow/Amy Schumer hub of hilarity “Trainwreck”. All were entertaining, but a certain pop princess was a bit of a letdown.

Keep to the singing, T. Swizzle.

Keep to the singing, T. Swizzle. (Photo by Evan Agostini/Invision/AP)

Taylor Swift Doesn’t Break a Sweat

It pains me to report, and I know that 59,998 of my fellow Gillette Stadium Swifties would disagree, but I give Taylor’s mediocre performance a rating of blasé. Girlfriend has the gift for gab, but doesn’t have anything substantial to say. Her pandering psychobabble of positivity and fan-loving was an insult to the audience’s intelligence and to her fan base’s age. For every seven-year-old sipping a Sprite, there was another 22-year-old sucking down a $14 margarita. Taylor, if you looked less at your mammoth-sized reflection in the jumbotron and more of your audience, you would notice. Your bangs are banging, get on with the show.

This is pop?

This is pop?

Swift sounded great, her voice improves with each album, but I was bored. In between songs and to assist with her many costume changes (wow, another really short pair of shorts and a sparkly top!), the crowd was subjected to a running loop of Taylor’s squad talking about….Taylor! Lena Dunham thinks that Taylor is such an asset to NYC, Victoria’s Secret models’ Kloss and Aldridge find the paparazzi so invasive, and they all concur…Taylor just adores cats. Gosh, give me Madonna feigning oral sex on a back-up dancer any day.

Art is supposed to move you, to make you think of something other than T. Swizzle’s prettiness and forced approachability. Could America’s national treasure actually be dull?

Loudon Wainwright & Jason Isbell Give Me Faith in Humanity

Familial love. How may redheads does it take to kidnap Loudon Wainwright III?

Familial love. How may redheads does it take to kidnap Loudon Wainwright III?

Loudon Wainwright III and Jason Isbell moved me; each made me ponder lost love, death and lust. At the Courthouse Center for the Arts, Loudon played a delightful set of classics and a new funny ode to the thought that as bad as life can be, it can always be worse, “It’s Not Gaza.” My brother, sister and I stormed Loudo’s back stage room to get another photo to add to our treasure trove. While there, Loudon summarized our existence with these choice words, “these Morrisons are real Loudheads.” Hell, we’ve been called worse.

I have nothing but love for Jason Isbell.

I have nothing but love for Jason Isbell.

Jason Isbell’s latest album “Something More Than Free” is currently the No. 1 country, rock and folk album. This former Drive By Trucker is the real deal. I missed his Newport Folk Festival performance because I was busy checking my watch at the T.Swizzle show, but check out NPR’s broadcast. His voice is lushly gritty and his tales of new-found sobriety, a failed marriage and a fresh love are gorgeous. He played for well over 2 1/2 hours at the New Haven’s College Street Music Hall. It was sonic bliss.

Cinematic gold.

Cinematic gold.

Almost as much as I love good music, I adore a girl behaving badly. Amy Schumer does just that in Trainwreck”. She unabashedly boozes, smokes, sleeps around and is turned off by commitment, children, sports and affection. She untimately finds her way, but her journey is terrific. Her love interest, played by Bill Hader, is an accurate portrayal of a geeky doctor looking for love and acceptance with a girl like Amy. A girl that I’d love to know.

Deep thoughts on the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show: Rock Stars Marry Angels, Hozier is Having an Identity Crisis

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What is a week without an awards show? I forced myself to sit through the recent VS Fashion Show and concert. No, not for the fashion, I’m more of a full-support, serious-looking kind of bra wearer, but I digress.

Kings of Leon were awesome a few albums ago. In their band infancy, I really bought their toxicity, appreciated their familial hotness and was impressed with their public displays of debauchery and public drunkenness. But their schtick got stale, they made that pop ballad and didn’t get any better. Did Caleb Followill’s marriage to VS Angel Lilly Albridge contribute to his cleaner image?

Caleb, before he married an angel.

Caleb, before he married an angel.

Lilly, his rock band is not cool anymore. You can do better. May I introduce you to Hozier?

Caleb, post-Angel matrimony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adam Levine is also married to a VS Angel and was, not surprisingly, previously engaged to a different VS Angel. This freakishly handsome man-child from a privileged Hollywood background will never go away, he is here to stay. Yes, his music is ordinary and mediocre, but who cares? He’s got charisma oozing from his well moisturized pores.

What will fade first? His tattoos or their love?

What will fade first? His tattoos or their love?

Right before I nodded off, I was thanked for my hard work with a doozie of delight: Ariana Grande almost got knocked on her noggin by one of those huge Angel wings.

Ariana Grande's constant ponytail permanently disfigured her face.

Ariana Grande’s constant ponytail permanently disfigured her face.

Oh, Hozier, what were you doing there? Sometimes, it’s just not your venue and you’ve got to pass on exposure for artistic integrity. Watching this earnest Irish folk singer singing about God in front of lingerie-clad models was not even ironic in a cool way, it was just awkward. Even worse, his suit was awful and in need of a tailor. Hozier, please do not make me regret praising you and begging others to listen to your excellent CD.

Hozier, call a stylist; this cannot happen at the Grammy's.

Hozier, call a stylist;
this cannot happen at the Grammy’s.

Taylor Swift was amazing. I refuse to be negative about Taylor Swift because she has a home in Rhode Island and I have got serious geographical pride. And, Ed Sheeran is a redhead and I do not criticize redheads, I only adore them. I suffer from a little known disorder termed “Ginger Hysteria”. This condition forces me to think people have red hair when they, in fact, do not have a strand of red hair. I am being medicated for this condition.

Ed Sheeran is alright with me.

Ed Sheeran is alright with me.