Fandom these days is leaving me feeling like I’m missing a gene as a lady, right?
Because the last thing I feel like doing in the brief reprieve before the gates of true meteorological hell that is July in my state open up and unleash their full fury is debate whether Tay and Travis are wearing tulle or taffeta. I really don’t get the Swift phenomenon (Katy Perry’s songs are at least as good in my uninitiated opinion, and she is following more of the pattern that untold hours of “Behind the Music” might lead me to expect and finding more joy in interpersonal relationships as she hits a career valley.) I didn’t ponder Taylor for the same reason I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about why people who grew up behind me prefer sour-apple candy to lime for their green-candy wants. I might not agree with it, but it’s not for me. (In pop years, maybe I’m Lucy the cave-woman.)
I don’t think anyone is interesting enough for the kind of saturation coverage that she gets, but it gives me plenty of time to wonder how one might run an empire with one expression—admittedly a peaceful and happy-looking one—on one’s face at all times. Sometimes I think of her like a Beefeater that I either want to break up with uncontrollable snorting laughter or totally disgust, depending if I’ve had a happy time that day myself, which, mostly not, lately.
When I am feeling *massively* uncharitable, she sort of resembles an offspring that might have come from a Bambi/Barbie pairing I might have dreamed up in that brief window when I still played with toys but kind of knew what sex is. I can’t believe she’s an It girl, no matter how refreshing it seemed at the beginning that we never came close to seeing her cooch, but, again, more for others! And, nothing like love with a football player to ensure a relationship of peaceful longevity, but, hey, somebody probably pulls it off.
Sometimes it’s funny to imagine myself, in an alternate universe where both my appreciation of Courtney Love (“Live Through This” is pretty brilliant) and my heavy Internet use could happen at the same time. At least I would know how my life got thrown away if I were part of some grassroots army that thought it was our job to beat back Courtney’s bad press—I might have still been there, like Ringo Starr answering Marge’s letter on The Simpsons, but to Ms. Love’s credit, I doubt that she would accept that.
Maybe it’s Gwen from No Doubt that makes a better analog—Tragic Kingdom being a big old breakup album and all that. I suppose I rooted for her to find happiness with her cowboy, but it’s clearly not a chicken-in-every-pot scenario, or Oprah showing up all “Everyone in the audience gets a cowboy!” (Would I enjoy him? Maybe one like Raylan Givens.)
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