Sorry to "melt your popsicle," but "California Gurls" is a wrong that, hard as I try, I just cannot right. Obviously the song's spelling freaks me out. No comment on the lyrics. And do not get me started on the music video.
There is also the whole Beach Boys issue, but I have come to the conclusion that that is a little "apples and oranges."
I am calling for a brotherhood and sisterhood, America. Hometown pride is great, but it does not make anyone better than anyone else. At the end of the day, we are all on the same team. Let's stop trying to outdo each other. West Coast, East Coast . . . why can't we all just get along?
Besides, everyone knows the Midwest is the best. And if you have not realized that by now, then wait for my album to drop.
Let's not even talk about the fact that there is a "Jersey Shore" version of this song, and let's also ignore the "All Night Long" hook. (No disrespect, Lionel — and that is my point here)
"I Like It" is awesomely bad, musically speaking. I am just having ethical issues loving a song with really disturbing lyrics. Enrique Iglesias puts me in a dark place starting with the first verse:
Girl please excuse me If I'm coming too strong, But tonight is the night We can really let go. My girlfriend's out of town And I'm all alone, Your boyfriend's on vacation And he doesn't have to know. No, oh, oh, Oh, oh, No one can do the things I'm gonna wanna do to you. No, oh, oh, Oh, oh, Shout aloud, screamin' loud Let me hear you go!
Before you judge me, I should acknowledge that, true, Iglesias is not exactly Bob Dylan . . . but still! I am having a hard time fist-pumping to a song that promotes infidelity, which is backed up with Pitbull's reference of Tiger Woods and Jesse James. Something tells me that Iglesias would not want Anna Kournikova "really letting go" with some random dude. Sorry for being on a moral high horse, but it is just tacky. The rhythm divine is not all we need.
On very rare occasions, I love films that are based on novels. To Kill a Mockingbird is a really great example of a life-changing book-turned-movie.
Hey, everybody, have you heard? Harper Lee's work of art is turning the big five-oh.
And maybe The Devil Wears Prada is not as profound as To Kill a Mockingbird, but I love watching Meryl Streep give Anne Hathaway the stinkeye almost (almost) as much as I enjoyed reading about the psychological abuse Andrea Sachs suffers at the hands of Miranda Priestly.
That On the Road is being made into a movie bothers me no end. This is a big mistake. Huge. The beauty of Jack Kerouac is stream-of-consciousness. Everything exists within the reader and is interpretive to the nth degree. On the Road means something different to everybody, and whoever is directing it, Walter Salles, will probably go with his interpretation, which is probably wrong, and screw it up for people like me, who are right.
Also, is Stewart really the best we can do these days?
Her conversation-starter of choice? "Feline AIDS is the No. 1 killer of cats."
This chick might just be the most miserable person ever. All she does is sulk, mumble and show up to and win MTV awards. Yet it seems like she has all the opportunities in the world.
Which is really upsetting, because she should not portray a character from On the Road. Maybe she could get away with playing some angsty Vampire-lover (all this "Team Edward" and "Team Jacob" stuff is beyond me, so this is anyone's guess), but Stewart was not born to play Mary Lou . . . like I was. Seriously, Salles, I am just a phone call away.
Until then, I guess I will just keep hitting the books — and throwing mental daggers at the film industry.
A lover of Flintstones multivitamins and the Rolling Stones, Meg is a pop-culture junkie who is always up for an adventure. She is inspired by David Sedaris, Kurt Vonnegut and Jane Austen but is allergic to Virginia Woolf. In between writing, talking and the occasional jam session, Meg enjoys the endless search for size 12 ballerina flats. This is her story.