© Stephan Andrade

I went to a Christmas party at the home of one of my husband’s friends, even though I was close to backing out at the last minute. Backing out of things has been my m.o. for most of my life, but I’m making an effort to get out and socialize. God knows I’m sick of my own company.

The host was a lovely and talented young man who can play any stringed instrument and cooked up an incredible feast, including a salmon mousse. His apartment is right beneath the Hollywood sign, and was cozy and festive. I greeted him and his family and went straight to the food.

I met his mom for the first time and fell in love with her. She confided that having retired, all she does is read 19th century novels and watch murder TV! THAT’S ALL I DO, TOO!!! She has read all of Trollope, twice. I would marry her if I could.

A guy named B overheard us talking and later came up to me to say, I know you like 19th century novels but do you also read any modern novels? I replied that I have no interest in contemporary fiction because I’m too much of a book snob. You’d think that would be the end of it but no.

He proceeded to mention a few writers I’ve never heard of but even their names were middlebrow. He asked, Don’t you want to know what younger people today are thinking about? I said, “No, I have younger friends so I already know their perspective.” He didn’t like this answer and then told me about Jennifer Something, who has written three novels, and went on to describe the plots of each one.

I stood politely trying not to have a heart attack from anxiety and frustration. Why was he torturing me? When he finally paused, I asked him if he likes short stories, thinking maybe we had that in common. He said he occasionally reads the fiction in the New Yorker. Now here was something I had an opinion on! I said, “Don’t you think that the New Yorker fiction is always” but he turned and walked away.

I sat down next to a nice woman I’ve met before and we talked about the stress of being online. We agreed that the current climate is especially tense and divisive. She noted that it annoyed her how many people denied there was a “genocide going on in Palestine.” As a Jewish Jew, I countered with, “Yeah, and the people who don’t believe Israeli women were raped and tortured!” Luckily, we agreed that miniature donkeys are adorable.

Later, I met a lovely couple who had family in Jerusalem. The husband, who was French, confided, “I hate Netanyahu” to which I interjected something like Duh, it’s a given, “but I hate Hamas more.” We talked about the worldwide explosion of antisemitism. They both has interesting jobs and asked me what I do. I blurted out, “Nothing. I am nothing.” Luckily my husband was in earshot and he leaned in and said, “She’s a writer.”

I noticed a very thin woman dressed in black and wearing a big fedora. Women who wear hats are one of my pet peeves so I instinctively disliked her. I heard her say, “This is my husband, Steve.” Suddenly, I recalled an awful woman on Instagram who used to keep referring to her husband Steve. I remember that Steve bought her a $10,000 engagement ring. I sat down with my phone and went to Instagram. Yes, it was that awful woman! I was so pleased with myself that I looked around to see if there was anyone I could gloat to. Obviously, I restricted gloating to my husband.

Back at the food table, I started talking to a debonair looking guy in a black shirt who had silver hair and a matching beard. I asked him if he was a musician, since most of the guests were musicians as well as the host. He said yes, and we started talking about song lyrics. He was saying something about how you often didn’t know what your lyrics were really about until you performed the song. I went on a short rant about how a bad lyric. or even a stupid word in the lyric, ruined the whole song for me. I ended with, “a stupid cliched lyric is like an electric shock!” He looked kind of bemused.

While driving home, my husband praised me for ignoring a guy named Richard, who I hate with the force of a thousand suns. I was flabbergasted. I said, “WHAT? RICHARD WAS THERE?” I  was stunned. I couldn’t believe I never noticed him!

I asked my husband if he knew a guy named Jackson, who I discussed lyrics with. He said, “Yeah, that was Jackson Browne.”

What a night! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and even to those who don’t. xo

I never expected the Grammy’s to fuck up my personal life, but thanks to Justin Bieber, it has. I posted a picture of an oversized suit I bought last month from Zara (I know), and several people commented “Justin Bieber.” So today I googled “Justin Bieber suit” and to my horror found that he wore a similar suit on the red carpet. What a bastard. Do I have to take mine back now?? I don’t want to. I don’t want to lead a Bieber-directed life. Let him return his suit.

Other than that, the Grammy’s offered  fewer insults to taste and intelligence than in recent years. It was quite a surprise. The grown-ups won several award that could have gone to some useless clowns. There were fewer rappers performing and more actual singers and musicians (yep, okay boomer, I get it, so don’t even bother.)

Olivia Rodrigo has become my most hated figure in pop, dethroning Taylor Swift, who must despise Olivia for muscling in on the My Boyfriend Was Mean territory. Olivia and Taylor both got implants, both have huge teeth, and both like to bleat instead of sing. But Olivia seems even more fake and awful somehow, turning to Doc Martens to signify her punky side. Just ew, Olivia. Every time she didn’t win something, I felt a surge of relief.

I also hate Doja Cat, for obvious reasons, but I was enchanted by her Grammy co-winner, a full-sized woman on crutches and wearing a naked dress with a long train, carried by a helpful Lady Gaga. If you didn’t see it, it was a Moment.

Sticking with Lady Gaga, she performed a sickening Jazz number, playing the role of a 50’s chanteuse to the hilt. I actually had to cover my face. Why can’t she just choose one persona, or, god forbid, just be an authentic and genuine person?

Billie Eilish turned out to be a real rockstar, even if it’s taken a lifetime of looking in her bedroom mirror to perfect the stance. I loved her head banging song, which contained the line You ruined everything good, a lyric for the ages, I feel.

H.E.R was fantastic as always, bringing aging sexpot Lenny Kravitz onstage for a dueling guitar solo, serving up real style and talent that everyone present seemed to appreciate. I want to know how Lenny can squat so effortlessly when I can barely get down to tie my shoe.

What else? Jon Batiste, whoever he is, gave an all-cylinders performance that ended with him jumping on a table, and later gave a beautiful acceptance speech celebrating art. I love it when someone seems like a great human being, even if they aren’t.

Lil Nas X was super gay and super hot, but he ruined things by adding Jack Harlow to the mix. Who the fuck is Jack Harlow and why do we need him?

Carrie Underwood turned out to have fabulous muscular legs, even though her song was stupid, so fabulous that I googled them and found  her work-out regime. I’m not going to do it, by the way. But go look at those legs.

The Bieber performed an annoying emo song about peaches, and I was mad at him without even knowing about the suit insult to come. I would have been happy to just feel sorry for him, but now it’s war.

If I forgot something, let me know.

Surprise, I’m focusing on the positive! Because there are still good things, and here’s a short list.

 Pete Davidson and Kim Kardashian

Isn’t this fantastic! Who could have imagined this?? When she broke up with Kanye, it seemed preordained that Kim would hook up with a wealthy Black athlete or maybe another rap “artist”. But no, instead she chose a scrawny white guy and self-professed stoner. Pete has plowed, ahem, his way through every other single female celeb, so maybe it had to happen, or maybe his Big Dick Energy was the attraction? I guess Kim likes her men to be bi-polar, and why not? I hope this goes on for eternity or at least the next few months. Please don’t let me down, Pete and Kim. You’re living your best lives! Take that, Ariana!

The Beatles Documentary. If you’re a boomer or even a culturally literate Gen X or Y, this is just heaven. I actually changed my mind about Paul, who I’ve hated for years and years. Watching these talented, witty, charismatic young men hang out together and create the soundtrack to our youth is enthralling. I never realized their beauty, because I was too young to recognize it. Their glossy hair and beautiful skin and radiant smiles are pure  magic. Just think: we’ve seem more images of the Beatles than of our own families or anything else. They are the best part of us, aren’t they, boomers? George’s style is a nice surprise (to me), as is Yoko’s relative harmlessness. Be prepared for a flood of nostalgia.

Norsemen.  Another gift from TV, Norsemen is a Norwegian series filmed in English, a deranged satire of Vikings, reminiscent of What We Do in the Shadows but more outrageous in it’s extreme battle scenes and it’s over-the-top homo-erotic (or homophobic) subtext. Every actor is totally committed to the deadpan insanity. There are three seasons to binge or savor, on Netflix.

Jean Stafford. What a great writer who I just discovered this year! She won a Pulitzer prize for a collection of short stories, but even more impressive is her second novel, The Mountain Lion. I’m about 3/4 into it and could not be more envious of her brilliance. If you love Flannery O’Connor, I think you will love The Mountain Lion. Jean Stafford has a similarly dark sensibility that seems well-earned, given her miserable life.

Idiotic Word Usage. I am really enjoying the use of “rescue” to mean “dog.” I just heard a news corespondent say “Oh sorry, that’s my rescue barking.” Haha, you idiot, JUST SAY DOG. We’re not giving out points for how you acquired your pet, for fucksake. I’ve read about celebrities enjoying family life with their two rescues. What do you call other dogs….mill-bred? Store-bought?

Then there is “space.”

“In the world, the eating disorder space, and the body positivity space, I don’t think there’s enough time, energy, or resources spent on people on the higher end of the weight spectrum, people who are fat, and people who are gender queer, trans, non-binary,” she said.

This usage is like nails on a chalkboard to me. It was bad enough when “space” meant your apartment. “I like what you’ve done with this space.” Ewwwwwwwwwww! While thinking about this usage, I came across this great glossary of activist terms. It is pretty comprehensive and I would even say poignant. It includes a few words to not use, like “diversity.” Fine with me! Done!

Well, there you go. It’s not much but it’s something. I’m trying to be the shepherd, you know?

If you have some other things to feel good about, let’s hear from you!

Can anyone think of another female vocalist who complained so much about being dumped?

If you happened to see her perform on Saturday Night Live over the weekend, you are probably wondering how you can get those ten minutes back. A tedious new version of some song that her fans loved back in the day when it was only 5 minutes long, it was the stupidest thing ever. My husband and I both laughed and groaned throughout, wondering why there was a video of a couple mooning around in the background. Didn’t she think she could hold our attention with her big chunky white veneers and hair-flipping?

Anyway, if you didn’t see it, the new song is about her break-up with Jake Gyllenhaal, when she was 21 and he was 30. Apparently, the 9 year age difference is one of his felonies, like keeping her scarf. 21 and 30 sounds pretty normal to me. Do couples have to be within a couple of years in age these days? Is anything else exploitation or a power imbalance? Poor Jake really takes a beating, because he dared to get tired of her. But victimhood is her brand. First it was Jon Mayer, boo hoo, then a million other bad, mean boyfriends.

I admit that I don’t know why she’s a star. She seems like such an awful person, obsessed with making money and shifting genres to suit the times. I also admit to a visceral dislike of her physical self. She looks like a rodent and her hunchback or scoliosis is disturbing.

I further admit that she’s been annoying me for years and years. Here’s something I don’t even remember writing!

But it’s so nuts to read a fawning appreciating of her in the New York Times, which I thought was a refuge for normal adults.

“All Too Well” parallels the emotional work that many women have been privately undertaking in the wake of the #MeToo movement: Looking back on past encounters or relationships that left them with a seemingly outsize feeling of unease; wondering what exactly constitutes exploitation or emotional abuse; wishing they could go back and extend some compassion or wisdom to their vulnerable younger selves.

Haha, whatever. If this break-up song is a masterpiece, what is Back to Black?? To paraphrase Etta James, I’d rather go blind than see Taylor Swift perform again.

I wish I had something incisive to say about her as an “artist” or phenomenon, but I’ve always been at a loss, urging millennial friends to explain her appeal. But they always hate her too, because none of my friends are idiots, I guess.

What if all her mean boyfriends got together and wrote a song about dating her?? Why can’t we have that? All the guys would get cancelled for their toxic masculinity, sure, but why can’t they sacrifice themselves for the greater good?

If you can explain Taylor’s success, please, I would love to know! Mean while, enjoy Amy and Etta, who know how to take a romantic punch.

*Scarf exegesis here.

I’m pretty sure you people are too smart to waste your time on this awards show, but do not fear, I watched it for you! I missed the beginning with the Justin Bieber performance but it’s safe to say that it was embarrassingly awful.

When I started watching, a huge fat blonde woman was singing a duet with an older black guy. They were sitting down, probably because she was too out of shape to stand. Imagine my surprise when she turned out to be Katy Perry! What happened, I thought, is she still pregnant? I googled her, and she’s already had her baby with its stupid name.

After that, or at some point, that guy The Weekend performed his hit song with his whole face in bandages like an accident victim. I’ll bet there’s a reason but I’m too lazy to google it.

Megan Thee Stallion came out with some sexy dancers and lip synced a raunchy song about how much she loves her body. There is so much body to love, Megan! She is like a Mount Everest of a voluptuous woman. She is a fleshy giant who can twerk with a bored look on her face, which seems like a special talent. You can’t imagine the twerking, literally. I see why she’s a star: She is mesmerizing.

Poor J Lo was left to writhe around on the floor in a sheer leotard thing, FOR NOTHING! She was just an unfortunate also-ran, unable to muster any sex appeal due to the tragic amount of effort she puts out to make a buck. No J lo, please go back to the block.

What else? This guy Something Capaldi who has the most annoying radio hit of 2020 came out to bleat a different tortured heartbreak anthem. I forget what his hit is but you know it if you’ve ever been in a CVS. I saw that he was chubby and sad looking and it made me feel bad for hating him. I will just hate his voice, not HIM, going forward.

I think that Bad Bunny guy performed, or maybe he just won an award.

Billie Eilish performed and it was the usual with a couple of twists. Now that everyone has seen her large chest, she made sure it peeked out of her Kimono thing. She sang in an under-amplified voice and pranced around looking impressed with herself. When she fell backwards off a miniature stage, it was a nice little shock. Otherwise, I’m tired of her shtick now, are you? I want her to knock it off or go away.

A rapper called Doja Cat accepted an award by saying “wow” over and over then raising her arms in triumph as though she’d just won the Olympics. I really really hate her, having witnessed her lack of even a smidgen of talent on another stupid music awards show.

What do you think of smidgen? What would be a better word? I’m pretty stoned so I’m blanking out. A soupcon? An iota? A shred?

Anyway, to sum up, Megan -1, everyone else – negative 100.

By popular demand, I’m going to do a halfhearted and highly truncated review of the show, focusing on the musical performances, okay? Here we go:

Janelle Monae opened the show and even though it was a wildly all-over-the-place showbiz mishmash, she is a great performer who deserves our praise. She’s come a long way from an obscure fashion darling with a great Rockability look, to queer-spokeswoman Superstar. If she’s good enough for Prince, she should be good enough for you. She can sing, she can dance, she’s really pretty and she still has great style. You go, Janelle.

Idina Menzel is still someone who I don’t know anything about. I don’t like her name. It sounds like a marriage counselor who won’t be able to solve your problems. Whatever. She has great big pipes like an American Idol contestant and she wore a questionable Princess dress. I don’t know why there were a hundred other singers onstage who shouted along in foreign languages. Do you? It was stupid. Sorry, Rosetta Stone and Babble users.

Elton John was probably good but all I could focus on was the big lacquer red piano. It was so beautiful! I want one. Who doesn’t love lacquer red, especially in a piano or home appliance? I like the purple suit with the red, one of my favorite color  combinations. We will miss Elton when he’s gone, even if we’re sick of him at the moment. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Cynthia Erivo was fantastic, singing the song from her movie about Harriet Tubman. I had no idea that she was a singer! And Tony-winning Broadway star! Her performance was flawless, unlike her acting in the stupid Steven King series I’m watching on Netflix. What’s it called? She plays a weird psychic detective. It’s a terrible role and not her fault.

Crissy Metz is too fucking fat. Come at me, body-acceptance militants and fat-apologists! Too fat is too fat. It’s scary and unhealthy. Just admit what your eyes are telling you. I can’t say anything about her performance, obviously, because I’m such a big meanie that I didn’t notice her voice.

Billie Eilish singing “Yesterday” was surprisingly great. Surprising to me, since I have been braced to dislike her, given all the hype about her and her kooky green hair. But what a talented girl! She’s clearly on a bummer, and I can relate. At only 17, it’s quite a mature bummer, bringing to mind the young Fiona Apple. I think Billie will be a force in music much longer than Fiona was. I hope so.

Eminem was a big deal, apparently baffling the entire world with his appearance. Personally, I wasn’t baffled, just thrilled to see him, even though he could lose the beard, right ladies? He’s still a thrilling presence on stage, and dynamic as ever, even though someone criticized him for being winded at the end. I will have sex with him ANY DAY. Here’s what I wrote about him in 2011, and I’m standing by it:

Eminem confirmed his status as the rapper we’d most like to have sex with. An angry ball of rage, Eminem is on fire! He is the Ryan Gosling of rap. Talent plus intensity plus physical charisma = YES.

If there was anyone else, too bad for them.

There you have it. I hope you’re satisfied, you, the people!

It’s a cliche that cliches are often based on truth, but the biggest cliches are easy to forget, like the ones about beauty. Beauty isn’t truth, but it elevates the soul just as much as garbage debases it. I keep forgetting to look for beauty in my search for relief. By relief, I mean relief from my own thoughts, which are my own worst enemy (not counting my trolls of course.)

Last night I went to see Van Morrison, and was reminded of the healing power of communal joy. Normally, I don’t want to make the effort to do things that involve any commitment of time and energy. A Van Morrison concert requires buying tickets, a strategy to get across town, a timetable to keep, packing snacks to eat, putting together an outfit that’s comfortable but reflective of my superior style, and so on. Thanks to my husband, I gathered myself to go.

Beauty is probably everywhere for all I know but I’m finding I need to search for it and cling to it. I wish this would become a habit, like checking the New York Times to see what new travesty is afoot. All my habits are bad but I know it’s possible to form new ones, better ones. Smoking weed is a relatively new habit that’s improved my life immensely. Same with Chai Latte.

Music used to a big part of my life before smartphones. Driving and listening to the mixes Max made me was always so pleasurable.  A house full of musicians was something I took for granted. The empty nest is quieter, and there is a joy that can’t be replaced but there is still joy to be had. I might need some mechanism to remind me: A rubber band, an alarm clock, a mnemonic acronym like MOEB (Music Or Else Bummer)?

I wish I could follow Van Morrison around the world and see every show. I wish I could rouse myself to get out and see more art. It’s a first-world problem but a life or death one for the severely depressed. (See Schopenhauer.) The crack is not where the light comes in, it’s where the vessel will break under pressure.

What form of beauty do you turn to for consolation? Tips, anyone? Here is a video that my friend Andra sent to me, an excursion into undersea beauty that left me weak with religious ecstasy.

And here’s some sparks of joy for you synesthetes.

As far back as I can remember listening to music, Aretha Franklin has been part of my life. She was my first idol. She made me feel like a natural woman at 15. No one ever surpassed her effect on me as a vocalist. Amy is a close second. But Aretha, she is a goddess.

Her piano playing, her gospel singing, her infinite coolness, her strength, her femininity, her dignity, her furs, what more could you ask for?

The last record of hers I actually spent cash money on was Young, Gifted and Black, a fucking masterpiece, but I have spent many happy hours listening to her on our digital files of a billion songs. Just like everyone, I feel like she is singing to me personally, one sister to another.

I’m writing now because I don’t want to say goodbye. Long live my darling first love and may we all think of her at every stage, young, old, fat, thin, fully alive and blessed with that commanding, singular, phenomenal voice. Our Queen forever and ever.

Has everyone heard about toska, a Russian word for a type of misery with no English equivalent? It’s one of those words that make language nerds feel superior, sort of like how “schadenfreude” makes dumb people feel when they hear it on TV and congratulate themselves for knowing it.

People seem to revel in the nebulous kind of misery that toska defines. It’s so uniquely Russian, according to some. Here’s how Nobokov describes it:

“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

Now I’m no Russian but some of my  ancestors were. And I experience toska all the time. I think that “miserable,” in the Morrissey sense of miserable, covers all those nuances perfectly well.

When we were teenagers, we used to call this feeling The Pain of Existence, facetiously but sincerely at the same time. What’s the word for THAT, wordists?

Here’s a ridiculous chart someone made while expounding on the ineffableness of the word toska.

Someone else says that Americans are too emotion-averse to experience toska, or to admit feeling it even if they could. I disagree, obviously. It probably depends on your particular social circle. I wouldn’t even want to be friends with anyone who didn’t suffer from  existential malaise or depression at least some of the time.

What do you guys think? Is toska overrated? Is it as good as weltschmerz? What words would you like to hear more of?

It’s fitting that toska reminds me of Tosca, the opera, because my mother loved Puccini and went around the house singing arias. As much as my sister and I begged her to shut up, she persisted. She actually had a beautiful voice. And god knows she was miserable.

Here, enjoy Maria Callas, who exemplifies misery at it’s most exquisitely miserable.

How many people who’ve seen Walk the Line (the movie about Johnny Cash) would be amazed by these pictures of his first wife, Vivian?

I can’t get over how dismayed I am by the choice to portray Vivian Cash as a white Italian woman, given the truth.

I know that at the time, it was illegal to marry a person of another race. In the South, it must have been pretty risky. And if you wanted to be a famous country performer, it would cause way too much controversy. In fact, after the photo above was printed in a newspaper, the couple were threatened by the Klan, and there was a movement to boycott Cash’s records.

So his manager or someone produced records that “proved” Vivian was white. She was described as Italian or Sicilian. Now, everyone was happy.

But not me. Cash had four daughters with his first wife. None of them seem eager to discuss their ethnicity, and it’s nobody’s business anyway. Still, as a fan of Johnny Cash and a gullible moviegoer, I don’t want to be fed some bullshit about his life story. Whether it’s more palatable to the public to forget about Vivian and just think about Johnny and June instead, or because the movie business still can’t stand to portray women of color, it’s dismaying.

2018 is beginning to feel like 1953 in America, before civil rights and before racism was identified as something to be condemned. What the fuck! When can we go back to correcting wrongs instead of perpetuating new ones?

I guess black people are accustomed to being whitewashed by Hollywood. I feel bad about being so ignorant.

People argue about Vivian’s ethnicity and see what they want to see. I’m not a genealogist but I’m not blind either.  I see a cover-up and I’ll never think of Johnny and June without a sense of betrayal. Fuck them.

Thoughts?