And Then They Came For Britney

This blog has declined to take a side in the Taylor Swift vs. Katy Perry feud. We weren’t ready to face the world’s ugliness, head-on. As punishment for our negligence, we’ve paid an unimaginable price.

Katy Perry is on the cover of Elle‘s March issue. Elle is apparently interviewing and featuring all kinds of people these days. When asked about the being a pop “star”, Katy Perry replied:

“It is a hundred times harder a dream than the dream that I dreamt when I was nine…You think you signed up for one thing, but you automatically sign up for a hundred others. And that is why you see people shaving their fucking heads.”

Katy, I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your job be harder than you imagined it would be when you were nine. I’m sure that’s awful and you have my sympathies. But Katy, you don’t need to worry about why people shave their fucking heads. I understand fame. I’ve performed in three professional melodramas in a small gambling town in Colorado. I’ve had my chicken fingers bought for me in a casino, unsolicited. But you don’t hear me telling Elle “that is why you see people marrying David fucking Gest.” Because you see, Katy, people like us can’t understand the motivations of superstars.

No one but the greats can understand why some things happen.

This was bigger than you or I could comprehend.

People  who shave their fucking heads were the most memorable part of a Superbowl performance that also included Aerosmith and N’Sync at a time when people still wanted to have sex with all the members of both bands*. People who shave their fucking heads danced their goddamn faces off and were more compelling than a million silver tiger/lion puppet things**. People who shave their fucking heads are known as the “Princess of Pop” not the “Gallagher of Pop.”

Learn from his subtlety.

Learn from his subtlety.

Because, for real Katy, you and Taylor Swift can fight through songs and Twitter and left shark attacks all day long. Go nuts. Have John Mayer throw shade and complain about how you’ve been cast as the mean girl while lesser DJs fight your battles for you. But leave Britney Spears out of it. She is a national goddamn treasure and we’ll be listening to “Hit Me Baby, One More Time” long after people can’t remember that “Firework” and “White Horse” existed. Hell, we’ll be listening to “Mmmm Papi” that long. Don’t worry about why people shave their heads. That’s never going to be your concern.

Britney Superbowl



**Seriously great to see the War Horse people working though.

Life is Disappointing, No?

Goddammit you guys. Everything is the worst. Picture it: A nice girl lives in Brooklyn off the G train. The G train goes out of commission for the entire month of August. This girl has to take three trains to work. She has to be patient with extra wait times and crowded trains and getting up early and getting home late. It’s fine, she tells herself. Come September, all will be resolved. The girl takes the G through its full route on September 2nd to find MTA workers handing out fliers promising the girl that the G train was new and improved, never to return to its previous inefficiency.

"The G Train is Back". Hah.

“The G is Back”. Hah.

Trouble is, the girl is me. And me waited for the fucking G train for 25 minutes this morning. No explanations, no excuses. The conductor just kept yelling at us to stand clear of the closing doors. Some of us were clear, sir. Some of us were clear.

But, unlike the G train, there were several opportunities to quickly jump on disappointment today. Guys, Nev from MTV’s Catfish is a piece of shit. Who could have imagined that someone who makes a living following the emotionally delicate journeys of people who are willingly fooled on the Internet would turn out to be a total craphole? Who could have foreseen that someone on reality TV wasn’t as genuine as he appeared. Nev, second cutest host in a set of two, posted a hilarious and/or poignant photo of himself in an “abuse free” elevator onto the Twitter today. Fun fact about Nev, he punched a girl in the face in college. At Sarah Lawrence University. She was trying to get him to stop taking photos of her kissing her partner. Fuuuucckkkkk. Next thing you’ll tell me Roger Goodell had plenty of opportunities to see that video.

But all of this is just disappointment Funfetti on a disappointment cupcake. Guys, Taylor Swift is fighting with Katy Perry. And Taylor promised us it wasn’t even about a guy! And I, sucker for the ages, believed her. I figured they had professional beef, which I totally understand. There was this bitch at my old restaurant who never mise en place-d properly and I would have loved the opportunity to shade her in Rolling Stone. Women fighting over business in the media is the next step in kicking through the glass ceiling, right? Nope, wrong.

Tense cheekbones of rage.

Tense cheekbones of rage.

Not only are Taylor Swift and Katy Perry* fighting over a guy, they are fighting over human wet sneeze, John Mayer. Of all the men in all the corners unnecessarily playing guitar in the world, they are fighting over John “David Duke dick” Mayer. Taylor, it wasn’t supposed to be about a guy, and it’s about the guy.

G train, Nev, Katy and Taylor most of all, I can’t with you, so I’ll hand the mic to Tyra:

*My mom mentioned Katy Perry three times this weekend. This cannot be a coincidence.

“One of the Boys” is a Song that Katy Perry Sings and the Name of One of Her Albums

You guys, you can calm down now. Katy Perry is officially on the record as “not a feminist.” I know you were afraid she would announce that she was one and then she would be hideously ugly forever. If someone tells me he or she is a feminist, I instantly distance myself from them, fearful of being hit on or recruited to grow my leg hair out for the eventual mandatory feminist leg hair harvesting for the sisterly braiding of a noose to strangle the patriarchy. Thank the good Lord himself that a woman who shoots whipped cream out of her nipples and sings about “Daisy Dukes [on the bottom] bikinis on top!”* is not a feminist. That would literally crush my soul.Instead I'll do a panda dance

Alarmingly, she does believe in “the strength of women”, which, to the ignorant ear sounds a lot like feminism. “The strength of women” almost sounds like something that feminism would be based on, along with basic feminist tenets of equal opportunities for men and women, equal pay for equal work, a woman’s having autonomy over her own biological choices, supporting other women, and standing up for your principles. “The strength of women” rings suspiciously close to the grotesque feminist idea that women have the wherewithal to choose whether to be homemakers or work outside the home, whether they want to have children or remain independent, whether they can get divorced, whether they are allowed to have sex before marriage.Excellent

I’m being unfair to Katy Perry. Her desire to distance herself from the pervasive, man-hating, PCU** vision of feminism that continues to plague women’s rights is totally understandable. Feminism by reputation is the boogey-man that claims your womanhood and castrates every man around you. Feminism in practice is the name for the feeling of annoyance when some random dude on the street tells you to “Smile, beautiful” and the reason your boss can’t grab your ass when he asks you to get that report on his desk before five. Feminism lets us go to college and vote and enjoy sex just as much as our male counterparts. Feminism is wearing pants. It’s not about being better than men or hating men. It’s about being judged as an individual, regardless of gender.

How lucky that someone fought so she could do this....

How lucky that someone fought so she could do this….

So Katy Perry is not a feminist. Neither is Taylor Swift. (I know, right? Pick your jaw up off the ground.) That’s ok. They are allowed to choose that, because women can be anything they want to be. Which is the basic principle of feminism.

*Now I will have California Girls, which is dangerously catchy, in my head all afternoon.

**PCU is a movie made when John Favreau was thin and Jeremy Piven had his own hair. George Clinton is in it. It’s from 1994. It comes on Comedy Central when you least expect it.