This past weekend, I may or may not have finally sat down and watched Twilight for the time (don’t judge me), and I may more or may not have really enjoyed myself (like I said, don’t judge me). Regardless of what did or did not happen this past weekend, though, there is definitely a dolphin statue at the end of Twilight, which of course can only mean one thing: super-secret Showgirls reference! While it remains unclear as to who would be responsible for this homage to the Greatest Movie Ever Made (a cheeky set designer’s assistant? Catherine Hardwicke? STEPHANIE MEYER?!?), that doesn’t mean we can’t discuss the Dolphin Statue as if it’s a thing that it’s most probably not. Besides, my money’s on the Mormon (then again, when is it not?), so let’s talk this one through, shall we?
Over on Facebook, a friend of mine described Christina Aguilera’s Bionic as mostly consisting of “transparent attempts to pander to obnoxious queens.” I recognize that taste is a subjective thing, so he could be wrong, but he did study music production, so I’m willing to trust his critical assessment on this matter. Besides, it probably explains why I’m enjoying Bionic so damn much. After all, if Christina Aguilera’s latest album was an early-to-mid-90s Marvel Comic character, she’d be Nymphomaniac Robotranny Joan Crawford 2099:
In which case, how could I not love this nonsense?
Some of the songs, like the “I Am” (co-written by Sia and painfully lovely in its chamber pop minimalism) and the glorious “My Girls” (a Le Tigre-penned track with a Peaches rap interlude, so electropop fantastiche), are legitimately good songs; other songs, like the ode to muff diving called “Woo Hoo” and the oh-so-unsubtly titled “Sex for Breakfast,” feature lyrics so cartoonishly sexual that they could fit right into Showgirls: The Musical (book and lyrics by Joe Eszterhas, music by Andrew Lloyd Weber on a burritos and meth bender). And then there’s “Vanity,” a song that scales to such heights of camp absurdity that it’s another post all unto itself. Bionic may be neither a work of high art nor a pop masterpiece, but much of it’s so frequently batshit crazy and so thoroughly listenable that I find it irresistible.
ANYWAYS, as I was flipping through the album art for Bionic (which is as bonkers and fabulous–if not even more so–than the album itself), I had a revelation, and that revelation was that Christina Aguilera and I both share a love of Karen Black in The Day of the Locust. Here’s Karen Black on the poster for The Day of the Locust:
I think it’s important to contextualize the new music video for Christina Aguilera’s “Not Myself Tonight” with a couple things: firstly, unless you work in a sex shop that specializes in high-end leather wear and bedazzled gag balls or an office with an HR staff that doesn’t consider getting your Nomi Malone on and mercilessly humping EVERYTHING inappropriate workplace conduct (so basically you work at the Cheetah), then yes, “Not Myself Tonight” might in fact be considered Not Safe For Work. More importantly, though, I’m pretty sure that Sarah Michelle Gellar’s Christina Aguilera impersonation is going to be so miffed that the real Xtina finally got around to doing a cover of Lil’ Kim’s “C*m-Guzzling F*ck Whore”:
Oh lordy, Christina, that was most certainly skanky enough. Bonkers, too, which can only mean that we need to talk about this thing, so let’s all put some aloe vera on our Christina burns and talk about this thing after the jump.
I may know about as much about selling records as I do about finding the G-spot (a surprising amount, actually!), which is precisely why I concur with Christina Aguilera that tranny glambot from outer space is a great look to put on the cover for your latest album, Bionic:
Think about it for a second and you’ll realize how this cover has great crossover appeal for both Joan Crawford enthusiasts AND cyborg fetishists. Genius!
Also, if this promotional photo from the video for “Not Myself Tonight” is any indicator, she’s also wisely courting fans of Showgirls, Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” video, and leather daddies. Or in other words, quite possibly every gay man on Earth:
Showgirls: The Return may purport to be the sequel to the greatest movie of all time (because it adds “The Return” to the end of the title), but if the extended trailer’s any indication, that doesn’t mean I have to treat this half-cooked sauerbraten like its canon:
What have you done, Marc Vorlander? Sure, I haven’t seen this many boobs-per-minute since the last time I watched Showgirls (January 16, 2010, but who’s counting?), which I guess counts as a step in the right direction, but everything else about this trailer is a turgid art-house hot mess. A Showgirls sequel shouldn’t look boring, but this looks BORING. Even worse, I don’t see any Rena Riffel, and we were promised Rena Riffel! Seriously, universe, is there no Penny/hope for a Showgirls follow-up that lives up to the original?
On second thought, that all sounds pretty par for the course around here, so scratch that.
My point is that it might have been a long a curious journey involving frequent over-caffeination and the constant threat of carpal tunnel to get us where we are today, and I thank you for coming along for the ride, my dears. Here’s hoping we continue to ride this crazy train together long into the sunset.
I used to think that this was the absolute pinnacle of the velociraptor meme:
As with all internet memes, I don’t understand exactly why there is a raptor meme, but I had a dinosaur obsession in my childhoood, and Jurassic Park ranks as one of 12-year-old Benjamin’s all time favorite movies (followed closely by Twister and Independence Day), so I can be okay with this.
That said, I was obviously wrong about the above image being the greatest entry in the velociraptor meme canon. THIS is the greatest entry in the velociraptor meme canon:
Sure, we’ve been over this again and again and again, but even broken records are worth repeating every once and a while:
Honestly, it’s perfect in every way, and the only problem I’ve ever had in regarding Showgirls as the crown jewel of camp cinematic masterpieces is that it’s never achieved a Rocky-Horror-Picture-Show level of midnight movie cult status. Rocky Horror Picture Show, with its sing-a-longs and toilet-paper-throwing and audience shout-outs, embraces full-on audience participation; on the other hand, despite being 131 minutes of bare breasts and bitchery, the Showgirls audience has always struck me as relatively demure.
Yes, seeing Showgirls on the big screen is comparable to a religious experience, so a certain amount of reverential silence is to be expected. That, and I WILL shove a bitch down a flight of stairs if they start talking over any of that sublime Joe Eszterhas dialogue:
But Showgirls is also the sort of cinemagic that deserves more than just the knowing laughter of camp appreciation. No no, seeing Showgirls on the big screen should be like watching Stardust Hotel’s Goddess while tripping balls on crazy pills. So, in honor of the IFC Center screening Showgirls as this weekend’s midnight movie, here are a few suggestions on how to make your next midnight movie screening of Showgirls something extraordinary:
Happy new year/decade, y’all! Seeing as it’s now January 5th, we should obviously file this under my inimitable sense of blog timeliness, but can you blame me? You’d be taking your sweet time getting back into the swing of things if you were missing the following deliciousness like the desert misses the rain:
Brokeback Mountain jokes are still relevant in 2010, right? Whatever. Between the chicken biscuits and that damn Polynesian sauce that they inexplicably insist on calling Polynesian sauce because I guess that’s less culturally insensitive than “Sweet and Sour sauce” (?), I’m already trying to figure out how I get myself to Paramus, New Jersey just so I can get myself another Chick-fil-A fix. Don’t judge me.
ANYWAYS, now that we’re back in action, I think it’s appropriate that we discuss the human train wreck that is season four of Bad Girls Club because I just got caught up this weekend. And because this catfight is the classiest thing I’ve seen in ages:
He is NOT to be trusted. First he will replace the world’s interns and personal assistants by winning your trust when he brings you your half-caff soy latte just the way you like it, then he will be use his built-in milk-steamer/laser-canon to exterminate you and your coworkers during the robot uprising. Duh.
That said, Asimo has nothing on this monstrosity from the Sixth Annual ROBO-ONE GATE IN INTERNATIONAL ROBOT EXHIBITION 2009 Dance Competition. She’s basically the dead-eyed posterbot of my waking nightmares:
