How the Glittery Glove of Pop Culture Touched Me This Week.

What a strange landscape this week has been.

So, I went to see The Transformers movie.

(Sigh)

It. was. AWFUL. By now, the critics have let their opinions be known, so this is no secret.

I'm not a fool. The Transformers Movies have no pretensions to art and so my expectations are pretty low. And even then, EVEN THEN, friends, my desires were thwarted.

You know what I wanted to see?

I WANTED TO SEE SOME EMMER EFFING ROBOTS KICK THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER. I WANTED TO SEE OPTIMUS PRIME TRANSFORM HIS GIANT TRUCK ASS INTO A ROBOT AND STOMP AROUND AND SAY WISE SOUNDING SHIT AND SMASH THE BALLS OFF OF MEGATRON. I WANTED CHASE SCENES.

What I got was two and half hours of my life stolen as we watched the most ridiculous "plot" and "dialogue" force its way onto the screen and call into question English as an effective form of communication. A six year old could have written it. But they didn't, because a six year old would have done a better job.

I did my share of hooting and hollering. It's like a reflex. I can't help it. But it left me exhausted - spent from the roller coaster of aching disappointment and overweening enthusiasm.

Ef you, Michael Bay.

Also this week, if you are just waking up from your Lunesta/Captain Morgan bender, Michael Jackson died.

The King of Pop has not been on my radar for many years now. Once my Thriller madness wore off, I never regained my interest. At a certain point (after jumping about 36 sharks) he cemented himself in my mind as one of the most repulsive examples of public excess. His decrepitude made me lose my appetite.

I will say though, that the monstrous being we all pointed to and laughed at seems so separate from the Michael Jackson of old. I watched a few videos on the yootoobs and that kid was a genuine talent. Is it possible for anyone of watch these old clips and not shake their heads with "Boy, what a shame"?

I remember wondering as a kid (whilst in the throes of my slavish love), what the world would be like when he died. What a desolate, hopeless hunk of rock we would inhabit. The thought twinged my heart with urgency, I may have even cried over it. Please don't die before I meet

you.

Needless to say I never met Michael Jackson. And it is a peculiar feeling to be alive on a day you imagined as a child and have it be so different than what you expected.

Finally, I was made aware of this little item on Wednesday:

W. T. Fuck.

For serious? A gigantor hamburger loaded for bear at a mouth of a woman suspiciously made up to look like a dead-eyed blow up doll?

Look. I know sex sells (I should again iterate that I have no problem with sexual practices - orthodox or un - between consenting adults.).

It would appear oral sex sells even more. Why would that be? Because, Christ knows, if you shove seven inches of beef in its mouth you certainly don't have to hear it talk.

AND THE TRANSFORMERS EFFING SUCKED.