Lacquered Love

"No, no, no, don't go away, oh you got my heart beat running away.."

While Nicki Minaj was shakin' her badonkadonk on the diamond mountain ranges of Mars (her native planet or so her catsuit would suggest), I was busy dancing to "Super Bass" in my mom's car. Yes, there I was, pounding the steering wheel and working it out like the yuppy cheesehead I am.

What can I say? I love Nicki Minaj. I love everything about her: the Barbie wigs, the thuggy voice, the two mile booty, the glitzy "schtickala" of Wonder Woman Gone Bad.

I'm a pop junkie and I can't get enough of Nicki or her superhero counterparts: Lady GaGa, Rihanna, and Robyn. These artists keep it real (to use the colloquial term) by tweaking the boundaries of the female form and pushing it to its sexiest limits, mp3 included. Their decadence--sartorial and psychological--is contagious, inspiring, a force of nature. GaGa's moods conduct the weather (I'm guessing Irene was an aftermath of her belch) and Rihanna's visage is glued onto the walls of shanty houses and trees in Africa--an icon of of the new revolution.

And let's not forget the music, the root of my obsession: fierce, transcendent, and reckless. The music-- a siren call of sex and lacquered love undercut by hot beats. I just can't get enough. I apologize if I sound like a lesbian/ amateur anthropologist/ or drug addict but the music, the women, the love! It's changed me. As Robyn says, "I keep dancing on my ownnnnnnnnn."

Now where is that leopard pill box hat?

Snip Snip

"It's good, it's noble, this whole business of trying to evolve your look. Here's what you do. You wash your hair, nothing too frantic, just work the suds until the grease is gone. Reminds me of washing the dishes sometimes. Okay, now blow dry the roots. Pull from the roots and lift upwards. Your hair is really curly so you've got to get the little fuckers at the roots otherwise you're toast. Use thickening balm, and don't be afraid of that word "thickening." Where was I? Okay, so the hair is damp but the roots are smooth. Take a break, maybe drink a cup of coffee or watch the morning news. Go back to the mirror and don't be afraid of your reflection. You look like shit but it's all uphill. You're a warrior, riding into the battle that is Hair Care. You're prepped and ready with a majestic victory in sight. Finish blow drying your hair. Then reach for your curlers and gently bend your hair around them. Did I mention my mom can do all of this in six minutes? Unbelievable, right? She hates my boyfriend because he rides a motorcycle and gives me leather jackets. He has a Napoleon complex but I kinda like it. He just tattooed my name on his breast. Okay, so take the curlers out and brush hair downward. You should be getting a sort of Botticelli wave. Believe me. You are going to look like the fucking mermaid emerging from the shell if you stick this. Okay! We're all done. How do you feel?"

I promptly threw up and then bought a curling brush. (FYI my hair looked damn good).

#Botticelli, blow drying, battle, feminine incompetence

Topography

Nothing compares/ no worries or cares/ regrets and mistakes/ they're memories made/ who knew how bittersweet this would taste

Adele, if you're reading this, you break my heart. And like a masochist I want it again and again. I want you to take my heart and smash it on the floor when you rush to the piano and feverishly get to playing, never caring that you're waking the neighbors and setting the roof on fire.

Let me explain.

I walk my elderly beagle, Patty, on the all-too-regular in Chicago's West Loop. We stroll through the alleys and freshly planted cabbage patches, through the urban wild flowers, and past the criminals smoking outside of Cook County's Parole office.

To ease the pain, I often listen to Adele and her heavenly piano rifts. When I do this, the urban decay transforms into a surreal opera in which the El tracks, hot breeze, and smell of fertilizer are all necessary and good--components of a life that refuses mediocrity instead of the non-life I fear is mine.

I'm not usually this dour, I promise, but I'm in the arduous process of putting my life together (college graduation!) and I need an inspiration and an idol. I need Adele's drama and heartbreak because otherwise I'm only partially employed, walking the dog, waiting for life to begin.

Adele's voice has its own topography, its own moons, stars, mountains, and I need to travel where it leads. I need the simultaneity of my life lifting and rising with her cadences, and the rocket trip to her universe. I need her adventure.

So thanks, Adele. Thanks for taking me with you. I really appreciate it. You couldn't know how much. And if you need an assistant, call me up. Seriously.