SOCelebrity

Whitney Houston, silent for almost a decade, is back. It is perhaps the most anticipated musical comeback of the decade. Well, I take that back: Michael Jackson’s London concert series “This Is It” was undoubtably the most anticipated musical comeback of the decade. But, I digress, a vile of Propofol and a penchant for sedatives put the kabosh on that. So here we are, left looking to the now middle aged Queen who holds the answer to the one question Michael can no longer answer: is a musical comeback of such anticipated proportions possible? Or is ‘the voice’, much like vinyl records and Member’s Only Jackets, part of our past that will only inspire nostalgia for a bygone era?

I have spent much of my evening, for I have a nearly nonexistent social life, listening to tracks from the singer’s upcoming album, “I Look to You.”  It’s hard to put into words how I feel about what I heard, but I’m a master of vernacular so I’m sure I can come up with something. I suppose I feel like this:

If this is what drugs can do to the voice of a generation, to a national treasure, then I don’t even want a Tylenol for the migraine it gave me. Drugs. Are. Bad. The opening track, “Million Dollar Bill”, while catchy as hell, is rather week. It is very Rihanna-esque, taking lesson from Miss Jackson, in it’s ability to mask the singer’s inability to um, sing. It’s not fair to compare the Whitney Houston of today with the Whitney of the past in the same way it would be unfair to compare new Michael Jackson with Thriller era Jackson. While she can still belt it out, there is one noticeable difference between old and new Whitney: this Whitney seems much more forced. She isn’t easily singing along, commanding the track, but instead working to keep up with the heavily pop-laden beats featured on this CD.

Still, ballads such as the title track “I Look to You”, feature small remnants of a voice that is still far greater than most played on today’s top 40 radio stations. While the Whitney who belted out “Queen of the Night” and “I Will Always Love You” may be gone forever, she isn’t going out without a fight.

It isn’t as easy as it used to be for Whitney. She has to work twice as hard to sound half as good in her latest attempt at a comeback. Perhaps her voice is just a mere parallel to the American Dream; A dream in which we all have to work twice as hard to get half as far. If your waiting for classic Whitney to blow your speakers, your probably still waiting for national healthcare and gay marriage: it’s not going to happen on this disk. But if your looking for a set of well crafted songs showcasing what is left of this American icon, a voice that inspired generations, “I Look to You” is where you’ll find it.

But that’s just my opinion.

- Michael

The financial aid office, aka the one place where the Nazi regime still has a stronghold on administrative policy, is where I spent two hours of my life. Two hours that I will regrettably never be able get back.

I have to imagine the application for employment in that particular department consists of two questions:

1.) Are you a complete bitch?

2.) Do you get off destroying the hopes and dreams of this nation’s youth by ripping the financial rug right out from underneath them?

I think this because every person that words in that office is an asshole. You walk in and the receptionist is a gigantic puckering sphincter, winking at you asking, “What the fuck do you want?” Because you’re clearly interrupting everyone with your pathetic, mindless concerns about paying for your degree.

Then they make you fill out a thirty-seven page form regarding the nature of your visit to the financial aid office, which they promptly throw away when you turn it back in. They must, they must throw it away because when you finally do make it to one of the advisors they ask you the same exact questions. It’s a very Nazi thing to do; it’s the clerical version of a forced labor camp.

After waiting several hours, they finally send an obese woman who is the poster child for “don’t give a fucking shit,” wearing an expression that implies she couldn’t really care less if you dropped dead. That’s when the ungodly mental abuse begins.

They sit you in a cubicle and answer your questions with questions.

“I’m a little curious, why did they decide to take back my financial aid?”

“Well, do you know why they took back your financial aid?”

“No, ma’am, I do not. That’s why I am here.” This is when they take a tone with you and act as if you are asking a question you should already know the answer to.

“If you would have read form 124.87B, section 22.3, paragraphs 89-2,300 you would see the policy and procedure that is in place for revoking financial aid.”

“I have no idea what form 124.87B, section 22.4, paragraphs 89-2,300, is.”

“Sir, this is not that complicated to understand.”

“Well, clearly it is that complicated otherwise they wouldn’t have dedicated 6,000 square feet of office space specifically for the sole purpose of explaining it. If it wasn’t that complicated this area would be a cafeteria, but alas, it is an office designed for explaining financial aid, so it must be that complicated.”

Today while my advisor was rambling on about some whatchamafuck form, all I could think was how both myself and the bolts in the chair she was sitting on are both under a great deal of stress; sooner or later, one of us is going to snap. Oh, but you can’t say that out loud, not on a college campus. Not with all the decapitating of fellow classmates and such that is going on these days. No, they would rather drive you silently to the brink of insanity, keep it to yourself, go home and down a bottle of pills and end your suffering in a quiet, dignified manner. It’s the proper way to do things. I’m sure there’s a form that explains all of it, but I haven’t been able to find that one either.

Her advice to me was that I could put the tuition payment on a credit card. That’s the same thing the woman at Macy’s told me. And Guess. And Gap. And H&M. Now Visa owns not only my mortal body but my soul in the afterlife. I have started selling off parts of my brain to help patients with brain damage to make minimum payments. It’s cool though, I clearly have more than enough brain to go around since her suggestion was one of the stupidest ideas I have ever heard in my life. Yes, let me charge this semester to my credit card with 300% interest, you dumb asshole. Maybe if I’m lucky that will earn me enough Reward Zone points to get a $5.00 Starbucks gift card so I can sip a macchiato and mull over the sad state of my financial affairs. I think that is exactly what I need.

- Michael

My Intro to Prose Fiction teacher is really rubbing me the wrong way. Let’s talk about it, shall we?

I have not in the last 5 semesters gotten anything lower than an A- on a single test. Today she handed back my exam on The Awakening by Kate Chopin, the word’s most bland book, and I saw an unfamiliar letter on the top. She gave me a B. A fucking B. She gave me a B because in one of my essay questions she said that part of my answer was irrelevant to what was asked. 

Not relevant? Let’s talk about irrelevant. Let’s talk about how irrelevant that knock off Burberry scarf she had draped around her neck like a loon was to her outfit, see EXHIBIT A below: 

What? Why, why was it there. What purpose was it serving. The room was quite toasty, and it clearly matching NOTHING. Irrelevant my ass, clearly she doesn’t understand the concept of relevancy. 

And fuck yes I take pictures of people when they aren’t looking. Why not? What’s the purpose of a camera phone if you don’t use it to take embarrassing pictures of people? Technology is of no value to anyone if we don’t use it to it’s fullest potential! 

- Michael 

A supposed new Janet Jackson track has leaked called “Secret.” I have to wonder who they got to sing this track because I am starting to highly doubt it was actually Miss Jackson. Regardless, it is sort of catchy, whether it’s new or old it is sort of growing on me, yet, still leaves me longing for more. Copy/Paste the link below to listen….

- Michael 

http://blogs.sohh.com/soul/2009/01/its_no_secretjanet_jackson_mak.html

To my shock and surprise, at the beginning of the semester there was some confusion amongst a group of students in my class pertaining to my sexual orientation. I’m not sure where the confusion came from as my whole personality in general pretty much does everything except get on a megaphone and scream “I’m a homosexual.”

It was a Tuesday morning when a girl in my class informed me about the original uncertainty that surrounded my sexuality.

“Well at first I thought maybe you were just a sissy boy or something like that” she said. I usually say words don’t affect me, but it felt as if someone stabbed me in the chest with a ratchet wrench. I didn’t feel this way necessarily because the statement was offensive, more so because it was asserted with such blatant ignorance. Did she really just say that to me?

“Then I thought maybe you were just Goth.” Because when I think of myself I immediately picture high black boots, heavy eyeliner and red lipstick. I’m almost never seen out of the house without an S&M style dog collar around my neck and black nail polish and a The Cure band t-shirt is a must at all times. Please, I’m probably one of the most main-stream, preppy dressers I know.

“But then I decided that wasn’t right, you were probably just like a sissy boy or gay or something like that.” I had to raise an eyebrow to that statement as I’m almost one hundred percent positive a sissy boy is a gay boy. They are pretty much interchangeable terms as far as I was aware. Show me an eight year old boy who plays dress up wearing his grandmother’s clip on earrings and mom’s high heels that doesn’t wind up blowing a guy in a gay bar bathroom in the next ten years and I’ll show you a miracle.

I don’t enjoy talking about my orientation. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s not because I’m uncomfortable with who I am or because I’m worried about making other people feel uncomfortable (I thrive on it to be honest, it’s like a drug and I love the high!). It’s the ignorance of the other person in the conversation that makes me uncomfortable because I almost feel bad that they are so stupid. Calling me a sissy doesn’t necessarily sting, but at the same time it sort of does.

I thought about this situation and how the end result would play out if this was me having a similar conversation with an overweight person.

“Well at first we said she has to be one of those people living with gigantic inoperable tumor. Then we decided that couldn’t be, someone would cut that thing off eventually, she has to be pregnant with octuplets we all said. How often does that happen though? So then we decided you were just a fat sow.”

I graciously ended the conversation by stating that no, I’m not a sissy boy or Goth and I don’t eat human babies or house demonic spirits in my soul…I’m just a gay. It never ceases to amaze me the things people say directly to my face. Even my teacher, upon learning that I grew up on a farm looked at me in amazement and stated “I can’t imagine you of all people grew up on a farm! Your so…”

“Gay?” I thought. Go ahead you can say it; we all know it’s on the tip of your tongue.

“Chichi.” Chichi, which is pronounced “she-she” from the French meaning pretentious or fussy, is now my favorite word. I make it a point to use it in at least three sentences a day.

If I get a new haircut that I absolutely love and ask a friend how it looks, they can’t just let me have my moment. They can’t play the fake a compliment game. They can’t just bask in the glow of my personal elation over the new style but have to rob me of the joy mah new dew hath brung me by being brutally honest.

I just got a new hair cut. After over a year sporting long out of control hair that implied I may have had an unpleasant run in with an electrical outlet and a knife, I cut it all off opting instead for a retro late eighties early nineties design complete with lines etched on the sides.

Instead of just faking a compliment I was told I looked like MC Hammer. A curious statement to be made as if anyone has met me I am not African American, at least to my knowledge. I’m pretty sure the name we were searching for was Vanilla Ice, but that’s really just comparing apples and oranges. Coming out of a bar a friend says to me that perhaps if I let my eyebrows grow in a little thicker I wouldn’t look so much like a woman. I didn’t even ask for an opinion as I’ve been very content with my Joan Crawford style arches for the past several years. I realize I have a hard time being excited or acting surprised about anything these days. I decided it would just be simpler to skip the whole process of even trying and just arched my eyebrows into an eternal look of shock. When that statement was made, however, I arched them so high in actual shock they went completely up over my head, down my back and rested on top of both my butt cheeks. Why in the hell would someone say that out of nowhere? It wasn’t even on the table for debate.

Everyone does it though so I can only assume I must do it as well. The only difference is I feel I would only say such things after being provoked. It’s a very Pearl Harbor situation. Someone might add commentary about my new hair style, I respond with Hiroshima. “Well I’ve been fucking your boyfriend” I might say, or “since we’re being honest with each other, yes, you have put on about fifteen pounds and no, it’s not attractive you disgusting slob.” Because let’s face it, I could bicker back and forth all day with someone if I wanted, it just gets so tiring after a while. You have to get in their and drop a bomb that will really shake them right to the core and end things quickly before your whole day is wasted. I’m a busy person, I don’t have time for all that nonsense. Seek, destroy and commence myself to mixing a martini while humming my own little gay version of Stars and Stripes.

I try to pass off like I’m so much more mature than everyone else. Really I’m just as guilty as anyone for acting like a child at times. The only difference is I’m well aware of it while most are completely oblivious to the fact that they spend most of their adult lives acting like third graders.

- Michael

Nobody will ever guess what I did today, nobody. It was so out of character for me even I was shocked.

I ate lunch in the student center at school…at a table with other people. I know you’re surprised as well. I couldn’t believe I was doing it; a very out of body experience is how I could best describe it. Usually I eat in my car alone listening to NPR. I find the voice of the host of Fresh Air refreshing and calming. But that gets old after a while and today something called me to be social.

The thing that scares me most is that I enjoyed myself. I sat there, enjoying my chicken pita (who knew the student center served food, I didn’t!) and thought “well this is really nice.” Usually I engage in a rigorous conversation with the radio.

But listening to the news becomes a little depressing after a while. I don’t know if anybody is aware but things aren’t going very well with the economy. From what I gather a lot of people are pretty scared. I try to understand and sympathize with what a lot of people are going though but I suffer from a real disconnect to this particular situation. I’ve never made more than $7.25 an hour, I live in my parents basement and own nothing. I own absolutely nothing. I really have nothing to lose. You can’t lay someone off that doesn’t have a job and you can’t repossess a car that I don’t own. I just drive it into stationary objects, doesn’t mean I paid for it.

A lot of people say “wait, you don’t work?” Uh, no I don’t. I’m on sabbatical thank you very much. My last job had worn me out. I said I need a break from this working nonsense. Who knew two weeks would turn into five months? I sure didn’t.

A lot of people say “doesn’t that contradict your standard of only dating someone that has a job?” Uh, no it doesn’t. Once again: I don’t work. Someone in the relationship has to have a job to buy me things. Someone has to “bring home the bacon” as it were. I hate to use that expression as I personally do not much care for feasting on swine. I know, people say “but don’t you enjoy ham?” That is true. I do love me some ham but I tell myself it’s from the cow.

I used to have a job. I worked at H&M, another fine Swiss company importing incredibly shitty products to the United States. Everything they sell is two threads away from being assemble-it-yourself clothing. It’s the Ikea of fashion. They fired me because I chose to educate myself. Yeah, hah, imagine that. They found out I wanted to make more than minimum wage folding $19.90 sweaters for the rest of my life and they fired me. They found out I didn’t want to wind up a bitter crusty bitch who looked back at my life and was filled with nothing but regret wondering “how the frick did I end up thirty-two years old working here?” No. I will wind up a bitch and I will wind up bitter I can almost assure you (I’ve already begun laying the groundwork for that project), but I will not wind up crusty and filled with regret. Those types of people wind up taking their frustration and dissatisfaction with their life out on everyone around them.

I’m surprised those creepy historical fanatics aren’t a little more excited about the recent demise of our economy. I am. I’m very excited. I had spent so much time sitting in history class reading about the Great Depression imagining what it would be like living back then. I no longer have to imagine. I can just drive down the street where there used to be people buying things and now there are just rows of empty buildings.

I knew things were getting rough when I drove by an empty building and remembered there used to be a Starbucks there. That’s when it hit home. It hit home that should I suddenly crave a Carmel Macchiato I would have to drive two more miles down the road until I came to the next Starbucks. Tell me these aren’t hard times and I’ll show you a reality check. Tell me these aren’t hard time and I’ll tell you to look out your window. When you see regular people who own homes and drive half way decent cars going into a Wal-Mart on their own accord to save a few nickels…the economic decline has hit crisis mode. No, Wal-Mart is no longer simply for those living in trailer parks or government subsidized housing: it is the new face of the new American dream.

- Michael