Some People Make Me Sick

My world is shrinking since I can tolerate less and less of the detritus spewed out daily in newspapers, magazines, on TV and the Internet. Most of it makes my blood boil, and with my numbers already dangerously high, boiling blood is something to be avoided at all costs. Doctor's orders.

Judy Garland singing "Over the Rainbow" does it for me.

The latest bit of detritus that caught my eye concerns the latest bit of detritus to rule the world, a woman who, by her own admission, is hugely omnipotent: "I know that, yes, I am powerful. I'm more powerful than my mind can digest and understand." Who could it be, you wonder? Michelle Obama? Close, but wrong; it's that girl named Beyonce with an accent somewhere in her name. You know, the one who lip-syncs her studio-recorded songs to save her voice. Her accompanying lights and props and electrical doodads recently sapped the power out of the stadium during last week's Superbowl. You remember her.

Today I read that she employs a photographer to follow her around every day, all day, for 16 hours a day, snapping pix for her archive to enlighten future biographers or whatever the fuck. This makes me want to throw up, and I hate throwing up more than anything. Really, more than anything I have had happen to me, including childbirth, which was no picnic. Perhaps I would hate waterboarding more, or maybe being Beyonce's mother. Beyonce is of course fabulously, ridiculously, obscenely wealthy, and for what I wonder. Her hair? Her makeup? Her body? I've heard her sing and she's certainly no Judy Garland, Eartha Kitt, Janice Joplin, Patsy Cline, Diana Ross, Barbra Streisand, Barbara Cook, Beverly Sills, Peggy Lee, Loretta Lynn, Ella Fitzgerald, Edith Piaf, Donna Summer, Cher, Brenda Lee, Bette Midler, Bonnie Raitt--shall I go on?

I guess in a superficial society, superficiality wins, especially when it's done up in thigh-high black leather boots with a slinky dress slit up to there and down to there. And a funny name with an accent somewhere.