If you’re the sort of person who spends a lot of time awake–say, three hours a day or more–you’ve probably had one of those “okay, what’s next?” moments. Like in the mid 90s: remember palazzo pants? Remember how you first thought they were all cute and edgified, and then your dad’s girlfriend, Nadine, started wearing them, and you were all, like, “Oh, okay, time for something new”? Remember that?
Well, that’s kinda the feeling I’ve got these days.
Reality television? Next!
Skinny jeans? Next!
Faux-naive TV reporters pretending to be shocked as they cover the “latest” trend in fitness: pole dance workouts (which is, coincidentally, what’s on my TV right now)? Freaking next please, before I put on my robe and slippers, warm up the car, drive down to the station, and bitch-slap both the reporter and that Denise Austin clone-whore with a goddamn boom mike!
I’m bored, people. Must I be responsible for my own amusement? Can’t someone else do it for a change? The worlds of media, fashion, design, music, film–they’ve all let me down, they’ve all disappointed me. Everyone’s saying that even Gawker can’t do it anymore. And when the New York Times tries to do it alone, they either fail miserably, or their dullard readership doesn’t know what to do with it. Or, more likely, both.*
So it’s up to you, people: entertain me! Quick, before I finish that gay-tastic Dorothy Draper book and things really start to go downhill.
* Frank Rich excluded. You’ll always be my snarky little snuggle bear, Frankie.
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