So I watched an Avril Lavigne music video…

This one:

It’s called “Hello Kitty” by one Avril Lavigne. I believe she’s famous for having trouble with skateboarding children, who she would see at a later point?

So, the music video starts off with this young woman speaking with a thousand voices in Japanese and pointing at me.

Why is she pointing?

Why is she pointing?

I don’t know what I did, but she’s quite excited.

Then she’s morphed into a room accompanied by disapproving, silent Japanese ladies. This will be their face and general demeanour throughout the entire parade of American teen-pop diabetes-inducing shitstorm the video is.

Come play with us.

The colours made my eyes crawl inside my skull to die in pleasant darkness.

Then the music skips tragically on her saying “Ka”, so she says, “ka-ka-ka-kawaii“. And that’s when my brain shook its head, put on its hat and left via my nostrils. It knew the actual music would start.

SPIN FOR NO REASON, AVRIL! SPIINNNNN!

SPIN FOR NO REASON, AVRIL! SPIINNNNN!

She plays a guitar which apparently contains the trapped soul of Skrillex.

DO SOMETHING WITH THIS FLUTE OR WHATEVER MUSIC PEOPLE CALL IT!

Help! I’m trapped in the body of a shittily programmed guitar!

Then she does this weird… “dance” thing?

I can move my kneeeeeeeeeeees

What is she holding? Why is she now wearing candy spectacles? Why is she dancing with that… thing? It looks like the Staypuff Marshmellow Man’s aborted child.

KEEP YOUR EYES ON IT, AVRIL!

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And on it goes.

This blistering, glittery-nailpolished middle finger to music; this blackboard scraping called vocals; the music sounds like the someone throwing a small angry police car around. It’s not so much music as it is glorified white noise, allowing this pop-star to use the colour palette of Candy Crush as a weapon against common decency.

And where the fuck is she? It’s like a racist’s fever-dream of Japan, after taking too much LSD. Everything looks like it takes place in Willy Wonka’s sweatshop.

This would, of course, be nothing without the lyrics. WITNESS THESE GRAND POETICS TO MAKE EVEN DANTE ALIGHIERI WEEP.

Mom’s not home tonight [1] [2]
So we can roll around, have a pillow fight
Like a major rager OMFG [3]

Let’s all slumber party [4]
Like a fat kid on a pack of Smarties [5]
Someone chuck a cupcake at me [6]

It’s time for spin the bottle [7]
Not gonna talk about it tomorrow
Keep it just between you and me [8]

Let’s play truth or dare now [9]
We can roll around in our underwear how [10]

Every silly kitty should be

My thoughts correspond with the notes above:

1. Where is your mother?

2. It’s not night-time at all in this music video.

3.  What is… nevermind.

4. You can “party” and “slumber”; and you can have a “slumber party” – but you can’t “slumber party”. You are not using those words correctly.

5. OK, now I don’t know what you mean by slumber party. Is this only something “fat kids” can do? Do thin kids not enjoy Smarties?

6. Dear god, who else is at this daytime event where you slumber party that “someone” must throw dessert at you? Won’t your poor mother on her night duty have to clean up?

7. OK, now I’m convinced there’s more than one other person at your day-time event.

8. But now this reads as though no one other than the person you’re singing to is there. Who else would the bottle spin toward? I’ve never played, but I did see attractive people play it in high school.

9. Wait, is spin the bottle finished?

10. Is that before or after truth or dare??

And so on.

This bizarre explosion of “culture” has some racism going for it, too, with its portrayal of everyone who isn’t the white American woman as mindless Japanese drones. So yay for integration. Or whatever.

Conclusion

Whoever decides whether humanity should continue or die will surely be yearning to push the red button after hearing this – because afterward they won’t be able to hear anything else like “Please, no!” Imagine we sent this off as part of a collection that constitutes who we are as a species; imagine intelligent aliens found it. I think it would be immoral for them not to destroy us, as the sound of a cat getting its tail stepped on screeches lyrics about bottle-spinning and day-time slumbering partying. If you’re not diabetic after this, I admire you: the twee and candy-coloured hatred for all things humanity has built in its long march away from oppression makes avoiding sickness difficult.

But whatever. Don’t watch it. Just know it exists. And I watched it for you because I’m apparently a masochist.

Golden Globes “Red Carpet” “reporting” makes me hate this species more

So there’s this thing called the Golden Globes, in which awards are given out to famous people for doing things for which they’re famous for: i.e. pretending to be other people on television. Famous people arrive, wearing clothes that cost an amount more than you or I will ever spend in several years, to an event to celebrate make-believe. An event where famous people sit for hours, listening to their colleagues name genres, then name names, then give awards – again and again and again – with shots of bored performers interspersed with laughter or smiles.

Of course, where there’s famous people, reporting – sorry “reporting” – is sure to follow.

Oh dear god no. Please, won’t someone do something!

Aside from dropping jewellery, famous people telling other famous people they had met before was also worthy of headlines.

Things got fantastically weird and idiotic – more so – when E! revealed it didn’t know how language worked – or perhaps did know, since anything they reported just was “fun”.

And if that wasn’t enough, they had a gritty sequel.

This was followed by “FUN FACT: WE ALL DIE ALONE”, “FUN FACT: CHILDREN DIE OF STARVATION WHILE OTHERS DIE FROM OVEREATING”, and “FUN FACT: EVERYTHING ENDS, ALL IS FORGOTTEN, EFFORT IS MEANINGLESS IN THE VOID OF NOTHING AND SUFFERING.”

The creepy obsession had a moment of self-realisation which was soon forgotten, as Gawker, who had been reporting on this non-event since it began Tweeted:

“We know this is a boring, stupid event, but we’re going to keep reporting on it anyway for your viewing pleasure because we need to meet the demands of our advertisers and viewership.” How cynical and insulting.

I love that we celebrate creative genius and brilliance; indeed, creativity is essential to any person, no doubt, each of whom likes a variety of creative mediums. TV is no different: Look how Breaking Bad worked Dostoevksyian magic and genius into itself and was the darling of TV critics; look how so many are enanmoured with BBC’s Sherlock with its wonderful plots and exquisite cinematography.

What I hate about celebrity culture is how we’ve turned celebration of the art into obsession of the performers. Yes, let’s award them as we do even for scientists. But, at the very least, can we question the purpose of the red carpet? Are we really reporting on famous people walking to an even more boring event? Are we really so cynical about what audiences do and should enjoy that we focus on what women are wearing rather than on how they did their art proud? Why do we celebrate or tolerate the creepy fawning and nitpicking and brazen abandonment of reason when it comes to celebrities? They’re walking down a carpet. Walking. Down. A carpet.

I’ve had enough of this and I hope more of you do too. Those sites whose Tweets I’ve captured have great content, but they morph into Mr Hydes of creepy stupidity and banality when awards happen. So do some people. We need to point out how stupid this is, because the performances and the art itself matter more. Let’s celebrate the art and artists for the actual wonder and joy they bring; not the dress they’re wearing or how much jewellery they’re dropping.