Britney Spears's premature "comeback," like what you are about to read, will horrify you, surprise you, make you feel ripped off and inundate you with shock and awe until the point where you can't say anything but, "Did you see Britney?"
Turn in your library cards right now and cash in your Barnes & Noble gift cards. That’s right, now let all of the tomes on your bookshelf that you know you keep there just to impress guests collect a light, foamy coating comprised of microbes, dead skin, insect droppings, airborne toaster residue, pollen and AC window unit, room fur. Send all Coffee Table, Fiction, Poetry, Haiku, Limericks, Non-Fiction, creative Non-fiction and James Fry, Stephen Ambrose, Jayson Blair “truthiness,” books, to hell! Damn them all!
Who needs to read anything -- including this piece -- when we have Britney Spears?
Britney, who has “written” books of her own by the way, this week transcended herself. Wait, don’t try to think for me, I’m not going to say, “She’s an open book,” or that the “Chapters of her life are a page turner……” Well, yeah I am but I’m not going to use those words for my illustration. Much like Britney has, when stepping out of a car in the dead of night sans unmentionables, I plan to show not tell. Ready? If you’re familiar with this “Blolumn,” you know that it don’t start poppin’ until after the third “graf” anyway. That’s how I roll.
Britney Spears has ascended to the unknowable place, broken through the portal of this plane of existence to singularity, to oneness. She has reached zero hour, she is omnipresent and omnipotent, Alpha and Omega. Indeed, Britney Spears is no longer a pop princess or for that matter the queen or royalty, or matriarch of anything. She is no longer a troubled young woman caving under the pressure of constant scrutiny and groping for meaning amid her questionable personal choices that she aired out to the world while claiming she wants to be left alone. She is no longer the frontrunner for young mother of the year. She’s not even human anymore.
She’s a walking, morphing, entity, a vessel for modern communication, catapulted from a mere punch line and into the annals of haughtiness, into the sneering confines of the puffed up, smug-nosed intelligentsia. She is the new interactive literary device.
Stay with me now.
The events leading up to her catastrophic-worst-than-a train-wreck-involving-a-herd-of-rabid Buffalo-five-flaming-airplanes-and a-Sumo-wrestler-covered-in-peanut-butter-and-anchovies-Video-Music-Awards-appearance, made her a curiosity. But it was her phoned-in “show” this week – let’s not use the word performance – that made her the first real interchangeable tool of our emerging 21st Century lexicon. OMG, LOL? Yes, “Britney-Speak,” if you will.
Simile = Britimile (Using the beleaguered pop tart in a ‘like’ or ‘as’ situation)
Britney Spears is like Muhammad Ali in the ring with Larry Holmes. After phenomenal success, sweet tantalizing dancing that’s pleasing to the eye and titillates the senses, we witness a rapid devastating decline. After the stardom and global appeal garnered at the top of her profession, she’s stayed around too long and her defeat is sort of painful to watch.
Britney is like this week’s Music Television Video Music Awards presentation itself: rushed, sporadic, forced, confused, chaotic, manic, depressed, too quick into American homes to be properly digested, too fragmented to be noticed, too ubiquitous to cherish, too manufactured to adore, too artificially constructed to feel complete, too artificially saccharine to feel empathy or even sympathy for.
Alliteration = Britilleration (No real rhyme and reason, just compulsory for the sake of compulsion)
After beguiling the public with beautiful, bunny-like, bountiful harvests of bouncy, buoyant, musical numbers as a member of the Mickey Mouse Club, Britney is beset by booming, bionic beats, blasting the Billboard charts -- hardly art -- bye and bye, becoming a blonde bombshell, “Baby one more time.”
Thus, thereafter, theatergoers as well as so-called cool and cultured-critics trail off thematically on a topical tangent after a torrential treat of hardly tantalizing or tasty triages of terrible, tumultuous and tawdry, Britney fare – music, film and public appearances. Such is her life as suspicions and sycophancy, spawn the copious and canny comparisons to the faltering, foundering, floundering, flailing and failing music industry itself -- as we've seen this week (See Britilmile).
Don’t worry, Leffall, the loquacious but lazy-ass leveler of luxuriously pretentious but patented lip service is moving on.
Allegory=Britagory (see also Meta-whore)
Spears’s exalted words, “Honestly, I think we should just trust our president in every decision he makes and should just support that, you know, and be faithful in what happens,” exemplify a deep understanding of the roots of monotheism and also explain why religion has killed more people than all the wars, diseases and intelligently-designed Dinosaurs from 6,000 years ago, combined.
The infamous haircut was in Tarazana. Tarazana, The Valley, personal valley. Tar-zan, Jane, the desperate need to be a plane Jane, Tarzan, the jungle of, thought, the density of probing cameras and eyes, no clearing in sight. Deep. Hence, the bald-head is a foresaking of the weight of the human spirit, when bound by earthly pleasures, material goods and appallingly lame “whigger,” "dancers,” “hangers-on” and “models,” who like to have lots of sex with no condom and get married after burgers and cigarettes at 3 a.m.
Can you see it? I can. The umbrella hits the automobile while the figurative lightning flashes (read paparazzi), a signal of the coming storm that will loom over humanity. She strikes a blow for Homosapiens everywhere when she bangs on the tires and doors with the umbrella. She is, to coin a phrase, “weathering, the storm within and without,” while claiming to prepare for a "role." That right there is too deep for further elaboration.
If the proceeding has brought you to tears -- not due to the remarkable "skill" it takes to create a “Proem” (prose + poetry) within a “Blolumn,” (blog + column) -- because of the magnitude of what Britney means vis-a-vis human thinking, speaking, acting and pro-creating from here on out, then I apologize.
I'm sorry but you can’t think this s**t up or make it up. You can’t fake this. Word to Dennis Hopper:
You can't travel in space, you can't go out into space, you know, without, like, you know, uh, with fractions – what are you going to land on – one-quarter, three-eighths? What are you going to do when you go from here to Venus or something? That's dialectic physics. Dialectic logic is there's only love and hate, you either love somebody or you hate them."
That’s how I feel about Britney, or do I? Actually, I feel neither love nor hate, just space. Unexplainable space, space on television, space on Web pages like this one, space in newspapers, magazines, parking lots, waiting rooms, taken up by her. I can’t quantify it damn it and I don’t want to. It just came out of me, the laptop was a burning bush, a crack in the sky, the keyboard played itself like a stupid-ass haunted house piano or a washed up actor on a second rate sit-com. I can’t take credit for this “masterpiece.” I’ve been touched by the dew of the life-giving flowers from the “Britanical” Gardens.
Alright I'm back. The real truth of the matter is that one could come up with all the adjectives, verbs, made-up words and components of language throughout all the sections, sub-sections, genres and sub-genres of human conversation and still not come close to adequately describing the colossal rise and ongoing fall of Britney Spears. Further, no language can explain why we actually care about it in the first place.
After Sunday's "Garbation" of an appearance, what can we say about Britney that has not already been thought, said, filmed, pontificated, pilfered and projected and/or photographed? We’re speechless now. Just let her speak, with whims, words with actions. Let us listen.
Because if you give a monkey, or Britney, a typewriter, eventually they’ll both write War and Peace. But what will that mean? A monkey is a monkey and she’s Britney after all.With that, there is nothing more to utter, language is dead, no words are left – only Britney, only uninspired chants of Give Me More.
