Another reason I like Lady Gaga. The girl has layers (sites Rilke as her fav philosopher)… and she’s crazy smart and cognizant about her role in the music business (scrub to 5:15 mark). She just may be our next pop icon.
Before They Were Lady Gaga of the Day: Footage of some nobody named Stephanie Germanotta performing a medley of songs at a 2005 NYU talent showcase surfaced recently on the Internet.
Let me be the first to say, this lady sure can sing. I really hope she makes it.
I’m watching an infomercial right now (not this clip from HSN) about an Amish-made electric space heater called the Heat Surge. From what I can tell, the Heat Surge is a faux fireplace that you can put in any room. And the wooden mantle part is handmade by Amish people. There are Amish people in the ad. They make a big deal about the Amish people. But don’t Amish people shun electricity? This is a fucking space heater. I’m fairly certain this is a SPACE HEATER THAT LOOKS LIKE A FIREPLACE.
Not only is this the TACKIEST thing I can imagine purchasing, it’s also a shameless con. By using it “you save big money on your heating bills.” Because it’s AN ELECTRIC SPACE HEATER AND DOESN’T REQUIRE GAS. I can’t believe this fucking thing is real! With an Amish custom-built mantle? What are these Amish doing appearing on TV? I thought they didn’t even do that, let alone talk about “a quality product for America.” A guy also said the Heat Surge is built better than his house. …..?
Who are these sell-out Amish? Are these actors playing Amish people?
The spokeswoman just said “entire Amish communities are struggling to keep up with the demand.” Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Move over Slap Chop. Here comes Heat Surge. And the end of the world. The world is dead.
This is not a love poem. That would be a euphemism. This is a poem about a girl who threw herself into the river without being able to see the other shore just because she loved the way the water felt against her skin (which was pressing, which was
moving forward and forward like fire along a trail of gasoline.) Or this is a poem about a deer who accidentally became attached to a lion. And sometimes she daydreams about the jungle. Are there any jungle deer? she wonders, as she strokes the lion’s paw and tells him stories
to make his lion’s heart slow down. Or. This is a poem about a man who only wanted, all his life, nothing more than a mountain home. A rustic one, full of maple syrup and old books and a stove that lights if you yell at it right. And the woman waiting in the bathtub
with a candle. And the dog who likes to be wrestled. And in the end of the poem the man is there, the smell of pancakes in his nose and winter humming outside in the trees.
And the man can’t bear it.
That terrifying realization: what he has is finally what he wants, and that’s the motherfucker of it all.
You have the mountain home. You have the impossible sunrise. The only thing left is to put your guard down and rise up coolly, like the moon itself—
You can turn as old as you want to but I’ll still be the one by the shore with my hand outstretched.
