If you're wondering why I'm standing in a pile of medical waste in the middle of Chetchnya, it's because I just saw Fame. I feel like someone's water just broke on my head. I feel like someone connected my nipples, by jumper cables, to a Toyota Matrix or a Saab. I feel like my uncle touched me. I feel like it was actually me who starred in "The Truman Show," and I didn't mean to but now I'm on trial for the deaths of 50,000 innocent Armenians. I just need cough syrup or some sort of really quiet gun. Or electrodes, or Mexican lyposuction. I also want the lyposucted butt fat made into a really expensive shampoo that I can hug and cry with while I watch "Riding In Cars With Boys."
I hated "Fame." Not in a rational way. I can critique only really its lack of definitive plot, or structure, or organization, or conception of what is art and what sado-meanism, but that movie was an emotional-stability smear campaign. Like I didn't order the pregnant hooker with Cleft Smile Syndrome and I woke up and she was there. And I want to die. I just hated the movie because it was so messy, in a way that I can relate to, so I want to smash it.
The thing is, if it had been somehow fabricated, somehow distanced, from the realm of reason that I live in, I would have laughed at it and had a really satisfied, complacent release at the urinal after. I maybe even would have nodded at the guy next to me and said something like, "c'est bon, sarge," but I didn't because I walked out feeling like my legs were millimeters in diameter and my stomach was one of the Brick Ovens they have at California Pizza Kitchen, which weirdly makes me feel the same way. New World Order? But the movie depicted people my age, with 10 times more resilience and satisfied oblivion than anyone I know, getting literally raped and lavished by life, and submerging, not just happy, but totally braindead. None of the characters were any different than me. They just got less airtime than I give myself.
I liked the song at the end.