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DYING. OF. EXCITEMENT.
(Source: potpsychology)
I went out for dinner with my family. Our party consisted of me, my parents, my sister and her boyfriend.
Halfway through dinner I decided that we weren’t focusing enough on me so I asked my mother : “How come I am such a spoiled brat and my sister isn’t at all ?”
I had come to this conclusion while watching episodes of Girls and realising that my behavior when around my family (and in general) had some strong similarities with the way Lena Dunham’s character Hannah handles herself in her natural habitat.
My mom told me in a brutally honest way that I was manipulative and got what I wanted by manipulating everyone around me, including my friends. I was shocked, appalled but mostly unsettled by this fair assessment.
Then my sister took it a bridge too far by claiming I had told her “in confidence” that I saw a lot of resemblances between me and Kevin from the Tilda Swinton - vehicle We Need To Talk About Kevin.
I told her she had the wrong movie in mind and I had truthfully spoken those words, but in relation to the movie J’ai Tué Ma Mère which proposes a whole other kind brat out of hell creature.
For the next 5 minutes we engaged in a Yes-No battle about me being Kevin. At the end of the evening we both left the dinner table annoyed.
Not only am I offended by the notion that I’m a sociopath/psychopath/whateverpath, I also don’t think it’s fair to expect me to go on a shooting rampage at some high school. I mean….I finished all levels of education (including university) without an incident of agression so I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be shooting up any high school kids anytime soon.
I also like to point out that I’m afraid of guns and have never ordered anything of the internet so the chances of me being a raging killer are close to none. (By the way, I’m also offended by the notion that I would hate Tilda Swinton.)
So don’t be alarmed when you run into my sister and she tells you “Bernard is such a Kevin.” for I can assure that I’m not.
I’m more of a Tilda Swinton anyway. Lonely, misunderstood and a victim of the world around me.
WHERE’S MY HAPPY ENDING ?! Only Tilda knows.
This is the best thing I’ve seen all week.
FYI. The whole Mandonna - joke from this week’s Happy Endings….
I sorta already did when I was 15.
PLAGIARISM Y’ALL.
It’s been almost 2 years since Christina Aguilera’s Bionic was released. Coincidentally, it’s also been almost 2 years since Christina Aguilera’s career and personal life took a turn for the worse. Luckily she bounced back quickly by getting her ass on The Voice as a judge. Still, Bionic is considered as a weak and bad part of her career that’s better left in the dark, never mentioned again. Now that she’s about to make her musical comeback and pretend Bionic never happened, I am here to salute Bionic before it becomes the obscure and forgotten part of her career.
Everybody probably knows the history of this album, and if you don’t, here’s a quick reminder. In 2005 Christina got married, had a baby and took an indefinite career break. Then, inspired by the miracle of birth and life she decided she needed to make a new record. An album she described as futuristic, forward, out there. Slowly but surely names of collaborators started to get dropped. Ladytron, Sia, M.I.A.,…Every name added to the roaster made me more and more excited for this record.
“HOLY COW!”, I said to myself. “This record will give her some actual artistic credibility. OH. MY. GOD.”
Then there was a long big silence. Rumors started to spread that the album was in trouble. While Christina was happy with the record, the label executives weren’t and had called up random hit producers to give her some songs to launch the album with. Months passed by and the release date of the record got pushed forward and forward. (“It’s not because the label hates my record. I’m doing a movie with Cher, y’all!”, Christina proclaimed enthusiastically.) Then all of a sudden the first single emerged and, to be honest, it was fucking dreadful.
Not Myself Tonight was a bland, dated and ridiculous mess, accompanied by the sleaziest music video known to mankind. (And I don’t mean that in a good way!) Immediately my hope and faith in the project dropped. Luckily, It surged again when the tracklist got released and I saw the names that got me excited in the first place. (M.I.A.! Ladytron! Peaches!) Of course they were all among the tracks by shitty hit producers, but at least there was SOME hope!
When the record FINALLY came out, it was hard to fall in love with it. Critics slammed it, the public didn’t buy it. Basically, no one was interested. I knew there was greatness though, I could hear the greatness, buried deep down, somewhere in the messy tracklist. So I did what every sensible music lover would do. I started puzzling and created my own tracklist, mostly made up out of tracks that were intended for the original vision of the project. After a lot of trials and tribulations I was able to create a perfect and AMAZING album. Here’s the rundown!
We start things off with the perfect stuttering title track (and statement) presenting what the album is all about. “I am the future, put it on you like a hurricane”, commands Christina’s low, almost unrecognizable voice. The message is clear : Are you ready for a ride through unknown galaxies, because we’re about to go on a journey!
Out of the stuttering depths of Bionic, Glam comes on. Guided by a low-key finger-snapping beat, Christina creates a modern take on Madonna’s Vogue. Some of the lines may sound clichéd (“Fashion is a lifestyle”) but the subdued production makes up for that. (Also the way she goes up and down with her voice without overdoing it. It’s a new Christina. A Christina I love.)
When Elastic Love starts, things get a little bit crazy. Borrowing the ‘I Don’t Care’ - pose from M.I.A. (who wrote the track) she sings over a stuttered (see, there’s a pattern!) beat in an arts-an-crafts take on confused young love. If at this point in the album you’re not convinced Christina is indeed delivering the electronic pop album from the future as she promised, you, my friend, need new ears.
Birds Of Prey first tones make it sound like the frantic production of Elastic Love has broken the speakers. Soon, the faux-static is mixed with Christina chanting away like she’s the call of prayer in some small village somewhere in the Middle East. There’s a danger to the track and although it never really explodes, the imminent sense of subdued fear is present.‘“They watch and they feed. They take what they need. They bite as you bleed. The birds of prey.”, she chants isolated on a lonely electronic beat.
From darkness into the light. (Remember that the original title of the album was Light & Dark ?!) Little Dreamer has Christina soaring through the sky, free as a bird, free from life and death. Is she singing a song to someone who died ? Or is she singing from the perspective when she’s death and her son is left alone ? Whatever the case may be, the classic Christina vocals lift up the light production to new heights. She soothes the listener with the words and you can tell that she really means them. I’m dreaming away! Thank you so much, Christina.
Keeping the light vibe going, Monday Morning laments Christina’s trouble with a disgruntled neighbor when she just wants to party on, even when it’s already morning. Some may cross this song out as a She-Wolf wannabe, but fact is that she sounds believable in this chilled out jam. Besides, complaining neighbors can be SO annoying, right!?
From the chilled-out part we segue into the high-energy feminist section with My Girls, a feminist anthem kicking things off. It may be one of the lesser tracks on the album but it’s cheered up by Peaches who starts rapping about how she likes her gurllzzz. Work it Peaches!
Woohoo is one of the “more commercial” tracks the label asked for but it has an infectious beat that even makes me, a gay dude, sing along about eating the cake of some lady.
Things are rounded out by Bobblehead, which is one of those irritating but good songs. Coincidentally, it’s also a song about annoying dumb girls. I must say that Christina is really good at impersonating one, unless she just is one of course. But since she made a brilliant album (but fucked up the tracklist) I am going to assume she has lots of braincells. Work them, X-Tina!
Linda Perry’s classic ballad Lift Me Up opens the slower section. It may be done before but Christina’s belts make this song into the creature that it is. (And her belts usually have the opposite effect, so a congratulations is in place.)
Then we end up with the ballads Sia contributed to the album. Stronger Than Ever, a slower and updated take on Fighter has Christina singing about a past relationship where she was (sorta) emotionally abused. “You punish me for trying to be all that you wanted, what more can I do ?!”, she asks the listener, with a desperation-filled voice.
The beautiful and subtle I Am closes the album. Christina lists the things she is. (Which includes naked, a lioness and oversensitive.) And so ends the record on the note of sole a violin or cello, WHATEVER.
There you have it, the perfect commercial but left-field record she should have released. If Bionic has taught us anything in life, it’s to never stop believing in your original vision for someone else and don’t let the resistance get you down. In this case, her not putting up a fight with the label clearly backfired and resulted into a career-crash. Now that’s she’s recovered and will probably go the safe commercial route to reinstate her music career to what it was, it’s time for us to bid adieu to Bionic.
You were the record, I thought no female pop star would ever release. You were Christina’s Ray Of Light. You were an inspiration for other artists. (MDNA says hello!) So Farewell, my little dreamer, Farewell. You’ll be missed.
I was 15 and had just come out. While my (girl)friends all reacted quite well, the rest of the people in school didn’t. To make things worse I didn’t know any gay people. Sure, I had a lesbian aunt. But what I really needed were young gay men to learn how to navigate myself in the gay realm I had thrown myself into. Loneliness and isolation ate away at me, so I did what every sensible person would do. I turned to the internet.
This period was also situated around the time the Lord of The Rings - mania took place, so naturally my attention turned to that whole territory, more specifically to the actors themselves. And there it was, the one rumor that made me feel less lonely. Elijah Wood and Dominic Monaghan were supposedly dating. This total fabrication brought on by a few blind items written by Ted Casablanca, and early incarnation of Perez Hilton who (still) runs an online gossip column for E! Online, soon caught my attention.
And thus I went on a journey, an unhealthy obsession, with a pairing that made me feel less lonely. I started collecting pictures of their visible chemistry I found online and saved them to a folder I aptly called ElijahDom.
There was this picture :
There was this picture :
And of course there was also this picture :
Which according to the gossipy people on the internet (mostly centered on the datalounge.com message boards) proved that they were actually hooking up. Look, they came out of a party holding hands! They are DEFINITELY fucking! This picture was also accompanied by an eyewitness account that recalled how Elijah freaked out and tried to snatch away the camera from the photographer once he found out his secret relationship had been captured on film.
I lived for these stories, I kept them alive in my head. For one year of my life, they were all I thought about all day long. They were the only gay role models I could trust. A shining example of two cute people hooking up. They were my future, they were my all. Of course I had to believe in them.
In class I would daydream, hoping they would suddenly show up to take me away. This daydream would usually follow the story that they had found out about my love for their coupling, which prompted them to surprise me and take me with them to L.A. where we would hang out and party and although they would try to hide their love from me, I would be able to see it. I would be able to feel it. In my desperation I even send Oprah a letter, requesting her to make my wildest dream come true. (It was the Wildest Dreams - season. I was young and under the impression I made a shot against all the poor and underprivileged families Oprah gave homes too.)
As my desperation stretched further I started to divide my folder with pictures into other separate folders. There was a folder with all the videos of their public interviews or guest stints on shows like SNL. There were separate folders for Elijah and Dom. A folder for them together. A folder with pictures of them with other cast members. I was obsessed.
When I came home from another day of loneliness and isolation in school, I would immediately turn on the computer and start watching pictures and videos of them together. Even if my day had been super shitty, they’d never failed to cheer me up. When going to bed I would open the special XXX - folder where I had collected an array of sexy fan fiction describing Elijah and Dom getting down and dirty. Every night, I would print out a few of them and take them with me to bed. Reading them usually let to masturbating and to falling asleep afterwards, dreaming of what could be.
In school I tried to convince the few friends I had that they were a real actual couple, as if it was a validation of my own homosexuality. If THEY were gay and living a gay romance, it would be OK for me too, right ?! Of course my friends would laugh at me and skeptically shake their heads. Every bit of resistance they showed to my belief of their romance, felt like a piece of resistance and non-acceptance towards my own homosexuality.
I reached the final stages of my obsession when I went to the hairdresser with a picture of Dominic asking the hairdresser to cut my hair the exact same way. I wanted to be him. I wanted to live out a happy gay romance. I didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. But I couldn’t. (Which was one of the downsides of growing up in a small town. And not only that, I was also way too insecure to actually pursue anyone real at that time.)
A year after I came out, as I started to settle in my own skin and accept myself for who I was, my obsession with the Dom & Elijah romance started to fade away into the background. I started to search for young gay men. Men I could actually hang out with. Men who I could actually fall in love with and start a relationship with. When I finally got my first kiss with a boy at the age of 17, their fauxmance was permanently deleted out of my life.
I had grown up. I didn’t need a fictional romance to accept myself anymore. I was able to take me for who I was without their help. In that kiss I had found validation that I’d find love one day. An amazing all-consuming and overwhelmingly romantic love. I would be okay. Still, I hoped and prayed my first great love would be as amazing as I had pictured theirs to be.
It’s been six years, I’m still waiting.
As I sat alone in his room, surrounded by silence, I stared out the big window, towards the Manhattan skyline. It was over. I had gotten what I came for and now I was here, in some stranger’s Williamsburg apartment, not wanting to leave. I tried getting up but the skyline kept me glued to my seat, immobilized.
I had come to New York for a month, to run away. This was the first step of the fantasy. When you’ve just graduated and are living through unemployment hell, there aren’t many things to do. My life as it was felt stale. I needed change, undiscovered territory. So I packed my bags and left my little Belgian hometown, hoping to find what I was looking for, not being sure what that exactly was.
After two days of wandering around the city alone, I met up with someone I only knew through Facebook. (Which was part of the no-nonsense-always-say-yes-jump-in-the-pool-mentality I had forced upon myself.) Daniel had joined us. He was in his mid-twenties, handsome and smart. He also laughed every time I made a stupid joke, which made me feel special. As the night progressed, he started to reach out. Softly putting his hand on my leg, my arm, my back. I ignored it.
We left for a Halloween party somewhere in Williamsburg. (He was dressed as a zombie, I didn’t have a costume.) Once there, he started to pursue me even more. He grabbed me from behind and held me close to his body. He was coming on strong and I was drunk, not being able to resist. We started to make out.
This didn’t stop him from flirting with other guys though. As I saw him laughing at other people’s stupid jokes, I felt a melange of jealousy and pride. He might have been flirting with them but I was the chosen one he would take home.
Then he got sick. We ended up in the lobby of a random apartment building where he puked his guts out. This was not how I had envisaged the night would end. After a whole ordeal, that involved me trying to find out where we were and trying to revive him from his comatose state, I managed to get us to our mutual Facebook friend’s place where we crashed on an inflatable bed in the living room. His face sweaty, his zombie make-up smudged, he tried having sex with me several times. I turned him down. All I could see before me was the lobby of that building, filled with vomit. Eventually he passed out again. My New York fantasy prematurely aborted.
A week later, at a house party in Williamsburg, I saw him again. In the days that preceded our new encounter my neurotic over-analytic brain had decided that Daniel was the worst person ever in New York. He probably slept around all over town and I had been stupid enough to let myself get played by him. I had no spine. At the party, he came on strong once again. I was annoyed, scared I’d be stupid enough to give in, so I gave him the cold shoulder, ignored him. This made me feel safe. I successfully ended the night without giving in to his advances.
The day after, sans alcohol-filter to blur my vision, guilt started to trickle itself into my brain. I had acted like such a dramatic jerk. Did I really have to act like this to feel safe from a boy who just had a silly crush on me ?! And wasn’t I supposed to say yes to everything while in New York ?! When Daniel texted me late that afternoon asking me if I wanted to join him and his friends that night in the East Village, I didn’t hesitate long. His friends, they would be the perfect scale to judge his character. Of course they turned out to be lovely and amazing people. As the night went on and I fell more in love with his friends, I fell more in love with him too.
“You’re coming home with me.”, he whispered in my ear as he drunkenly pulled me close.
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
I woke up the next day in his bed.
Long after the sun had set, we finally got up and went out for breakfast. He turned out to have a lot to say. He had personality, dreams and goals, he was perfect. My distrust began to fade. By the time it was late afternoon we were cuddled up together on the High Line, coffee by our side. I hadn’t felt a connection like this in quite some time. Two years to be exact. New York was doing things to me. It was making me believe in the good of people again, the good of boys specifically. For the first time in my young gay life I even felt comfortable with PDA. I couldn’t help and wouldn’t stop myself. This was a romance like I never had envisaged for myself and I was going to let myself drown in it. Even if I still couldn’t trust him, I would trust the fantasy that I was living. I would trust in New York.
A few days later, I went to his place where his roommate was throwing a pizza party. While enjoying the conversation with his friends, he would stand behind me, putting his arms around me. Sometimes he would lean in and give me a kiss. We were that overly affectionate couple I’d love to hate. It felt great. The night ended with the two of us driving around the Meat Packing District in the back of a cab. Stoned and drunk, making out, grinding up on each other. This was the ultimate New York fantasy. All those stories from the movies had been true all along. New York was the place where you could still believe in the fantasy of romance and I had become a full-time believer. That night I slept over at his place, his arms around me, I felt safe.
There was only one thing bothering me : I was supposed to leave on thursday and I wasn’t ready to let my New York fantasy go. I tried pleading with the travel agency in Belgium, asking them if I could change my flight. I couldn’t. I tried pleading with my parents to see if I could use their credit card to book a new flight. I couldn’t. My anxiety started to build. Daniel was having his birthday party right after I was supposed to leave. Alcohol, drugs… It would be a trash-filled party. A party like I’ve never experienced before but only had seen in shows or movies like Skins or Project X. I COULDN’T miss that. I WOULDN’T miss that.
I called Daniel and explained him my need to stay. He didn’t get it. He thought I was too attached to him. I wanted to explain I didn’t have any attachment to him as a person, but to what we had : the New York fantasy. It was too late. He accepted my explanation but seemed weary. I felt like an asshole for ruining things. He assured me that everything was fine and that I shouldn’t worry. I didn’t really believe him, scared he lost believe in our New York fantasy forever.
The next evening we were going to meet up. Since I didn’t want the anxiety that filled my body to take over, I took some Xanax. At the bar I was joined by his friends, he was running late, I started drinking whisky. Later, outside the bar, I smoked some pot. Finally, he arrived. I hugged him, told him I was sorry once more. I felt like hugging a brick wall. He said everything was fine but things had definitely changed. Reality had reared its ugly head and had eaten away at the fantasy.
The night progressed, we did coke in a dirty bathroom. I was in a haze now. Self-destruction was the path we were on. There was nothing glamorous about this fantasy anymore. I tried reaching out, kiss him, make things right again. He pushed me away.
“Why are you so PDA all the time ?!”
“Sorry. I thought that was us, not just me. Did someone complain ?”
He nodded.
“Your friends after the pizza party ?”
He nodded again.
It seemed that not only my reality had eaten away at the fantasy. Insecurity had also found its way into the mix and I had become the scapegoat he could blame his romantic behavior on.
Still, I went home with him. Passed out in his bed, alone, while he slept on the couch. In the morning he came into the room. We had sex. It felt meaningless, empty. Our New York fantasy had self-destructed itself into oblivion.
Afterwards we went into the kitchen. His roommate was already up. I felt resentment towards her, for making him not wanting to hold hands with me, for making him not wanting to make out with me in public, for making him come back to reality. She offered me some pot. I inhaled too much and felt wobbly. I shouldn’t have done that, I shouldn’t have drank so much last night, I shouldn’t have done coke, I shouldn’t have gone home with him, I shouldn’t have met up with him, I shouldn’t have freaked out on him, I shouldn’t have trusted him, I shouldn’t have.
“I think I’m going to go…unless you need some help…”
He was going to paint the living room.
“No. Thank you. It’s fine.”
His answer was quick, forceful, uninviting. I had already overstayed my welcome.
I went into his room and stared at the Manhattan skyline. I had started to see the flaws. How every night we had shared had been a drunken one. How he never stopped flirting with everyone around him. How I had started to throw myself in a self-destructive spiral featuring drugs and alcohol. I didn’t like him anymore, I didn’t like me anymore, but still I couldn’t leave. Not ready to abandon the fantasy and go back to my romantic cynicism. I looked over at an empty bag of coke on his dresser. Who was I kidding ?! There was nothing left here to believe in.
I got up and walked out of his room, into the kitchen. I said goodbye to his roommate, gave him a hug, a quick kiss. I could feel he didn’t mean it anymore.
“We’ll talk later.”
I smiled and nodded, knowing I’d never see him again. Slow steps to the door, walking out and closing the door on my New York fantasy.
Listening to music on the plane home, Alanis Morissette’s Thank U came on. She wrote it right after a month-long trip to India where she found her ground again. I couldn’t help but relate. This trip had been my India. I had come to New York looking for answers and I had gotten them. I now realized I had a tendency to hang on to insecure people. I now realized how deep my insecurities ran myself. I understood how easy I could loose myself in the fantasy of someone else’s world, up until the point I didn’t even know myself anymore.
I felt grateful. The real work on myself would have to be done at home, Belgium. I was certain I would return though, as the person who I wanted to be. As the person I could be. As the person who was ready to take on New York and all of its temptations. I softly whispered along to the song.
“Thank u fantasy. Thank u clarity. Thank u New York…”
The first time I met Camille I was at a stranger’s apartment somewhere in the East Village. It was a cold November evening. I had come to New York, on the run from my life in Belgium, and I had ended up in the living room of a stranger I met online. He had invited me to come and watch an episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills with two of his friends. I knew the show, from little blurbs here and there on various blogs, but I’d never actually seen it. Disinterested, by what seemed to be a boring and predictable franchise. Regardless, I was happy to take the plunge and discover what this show was all about.
There she was. Her beauty rendered me speechless. I can still remember those fierce eyes, burning with fire, as she confronted Taylor Armstrong about the abuse-claims she had made about her own husband, Russell Armstrong. As Camille stood up to leave, she grabbed her bag and stuck out her finger in Taylor’s face.
“YOU (!) need to be honest ‘cuz that’s not cool!”
And with one swift turn, elegant like the dancer she is, she turned around and stormed out of Lisa Vanderbilt’s tea party.
After that, I knew I had to start watching this show, if only for the flawless reality creature that was Camille. Back home, in Belgium, I immediately immersed myself into the show. I’ll admit, watching Camille fight her way through season one wasn’t always easy. She started out, not as the warm glamazon I had seen in New York, but as a cold ice queen trying to stay alive in the social circle Bravo (and Kelsey Grammer) had forced upon her. She was the girl you love to hate. The one who likes to make self-righteous catty remarks or steal your husband when they think you’re not looking. She was more villain, than Goddess.
I can vividly recall the way she attacked Kyle, riled on by two-faced professional liar Taylor Armstrong.
“You said : Why would anyone be interested in you without Kelsey there?!”, she shouted over the dinner table as the other ladies looked on with annoyed looks on their faces.
And with that line began the unraveling of our ice queen. Her insecurities all balled up in one sentence, repeated over the course of several episodes. Then, in front of the cameras her marriage started to fall apart. The very few occasions we saw her interact with Kelsey, who was in New York doing a rendition of Le Cage Aux Folles, seemed strained, troubled. When we got to the end of the season her unraveling was complete. As she escorted Kelsey to the Tony’s, all smiles, she (and as did we we) knew the truth. Kelsey had filed for divorce. Her marriage was over. Our queen, our ice cold queen reduced to a sad puddle of water. And just as a full-on breakdown was near, the cameras cut away and the season was over. (Just as these reality shows tend to do.)
After finishing season one I wasn’t so sure about my love for Camille anymore. Did that fierce glamazon creature I had seen at the tea party really exist, or had she just been a mirage ? An early judgement, brought on by my own projections. Maybe I had just externalized my desire to be a fierce queen, taking no bullshit and calling people on the reality they were trying to conceal away from the world ? Maybe I had been wrong to proclaim her my example of living a decent life ? I felt conflicted.
Regardless, I started watching season two, hoping to see a glimpse of the goddess I thought I had seen. When the ladies took a trip to Camille’s ski-castle at Beaver Creek, I saw proof the spark hadn’t been a projection of my mind. Here was this woman, a broken woman, who had lost everything (except of course, a few houses and her children) but who had found the fighting spirit within. And not in the self-destructive way she had fought with the other ladies. She had become playful, funny, and instead of handing out rude remarks she held her own, steering clear of the drama.
Throughout the season her spirit just got stronger and stronger. The - sometimes overdone - remarks on Kelsey Grammer’s literal shortcomings seemed to slowly disappear and instead she took actions to make sure he didn’t cast a shadow on her life anymore. When there was drama, like with Taylor, she made sure to throw it all in the open and demand people to be real, just like she had been slapped in the face with one truth bomb after another in season one. She partied it up, (allegedly) made out with Brandi Glanville and ended the season with a hunky lover. Queen Camille had risen out of the depths of divorce and had rebranded herself as a strong, independent woman who held her own.
Now that she has decided to leave the show, this is how we’ll remember her. A regal goddess, smiling down from her throne, living the good and pure life she always wanted. She gave us a tale we’ll never forget. A tale we’ll tell generations to come. A tale of finally finding your voice and not being afraid of using it. (Suck it, Taylor!)
So off you go, Saint Camille. Off you go, escorted by that hunky beau to live your happily ever after. And when you introduce yourself to people, don’t you worry. You are more than good enough without Kelsey.
Norah Jones new album will be so good.
Heartbreaking, but good.
Thank god she dumped the faux-jazz.
