L-A: I didn’t think I’d need to get my hate on about a celebrity quite so soon after Ally lost it on Blake Lively. I thought we’d make this a once a month thing. But then this happened on my TV screen.
And only a few days before that?
Seriously? Are you mothereffing kidding me? Guest editor for Metro? With sparkly tassles hanging from your bra? I don’t remember newspaper newsrooms looking like that when I briefly worked in one. And cuddling with Ben effing Mulroney?
There is performance art and there is fame whoring. And that is NOT performance art.
I know, we’ve got some history with you. It took us awhile to come around to you. I remember the days when I was all, “who’s Lady Gaga“? And then Intern Eden dressed like you on the streets of Toronto. I started to find you whimsical. Like this, this amused me:
Boobs on fire! Amazing!
Good Witch Glinda/Gaga at Grammy’s? Glittery whimsy!
I mean, not at all practical, but that’s okay. We called it performance art and we moved on.
But something happened. Something’s changed. I guess when you go this big, you ran into the problem of how do you top it. And then top that. And then top that again. Which must be why you pulled this shit:
An egg? If you had proposed that to me, I would have honestly said to you: are you fucking kidding me? But you couldn’t just show up in an egg. Oh hells no. You had to give us some bullshit about it being about incubation. Actually, your creative director did:
She’s in an embryonic stage and won’t be born until her performance this evening
So let’s get this straight? Bullshit answer AND from a creative director?
Because here’s the thing. Your over-the-top-ness is boring. It’s predictable. No, I didn’t guess you’d show up in an egg. I just knew you’d try to do something crazy. So I expect crazy. Every time. Which means the crazy isn’t new. When you hit the red carpet, everyone shakes their head, chuckles, and says, “oh that Lady Gaga! What’ll she think of next?” You know who else we say that to? Little kids. Like when your four year old uses lipstick to camoflauge his face and wears your heels. You just chuckle and say, “oh that little billy! What a rascal!”
You know what’d shock me? Jeans. That would make a statement and a half at this point. Steal Bieber’s hoodie. Then I’d be like, holy crap! She’s got something to say about the fame machine. But an egg as a metaphor for incubation and birth? Chickens are doing that every day.
And then this. This is where you officially lost me:
I heard it before I knew it was you. Before I saw the video. Someone from across the room was playing it. And all I could think was: something’s wrong with Express Yourself.
I know. Blah blah blah, it’s not ripping off Madonna.
WHATEVER LADY GAGA. WHAT THE EFF EVER.
I might listen to you and your producers and accept your status as an artiste, except this:
Sweet merciful, no. Just no. I can’t even decide who the bigger fame whore is in this picture. He’ll interview a Kardashian like she’s actually someone who’s done something worth talking about. You’ll sell yourself to the highest bidder and tell me it’s art.
Well no more. I’m over you. I don’t care what you do or what you say or what any of your fans say. Because here’s the thing Gaga, it’s not me, it’s you. And we’re over.