If you’ve made your way here, then you have probably already read this over at the LA Times Magazine, but just to be sure, here’s yesterday’s news:
Eurovision is, from what I can gather, a contest between European countries to see who can bring the craziest, least musical yet most overly produced number to a stage where glitter and unicorns would not seem out of place and then gather votes to be crowned the champion of essentially nothing.
2011 Eurovision took place over the weekend at some point (international datelines confuse me so I can’t say exactly when). I am not sure of the voting process, whether it’s a panel of judges or a popularity contest like that Idol show I refuse to watch for fear that I will get caught up in its fast rushing mainstream waters. I know I could do some research to figure this out, but it seems a lot more fun to make shit up about this contest. I mean, no one has bothered to bring actual talent to the contest why should I bother to bring reporting skills to my commentary?
I am also not sure whether Europeans know how insanely bad this thing is or, if like their penchant for flashy, clashy clothing they take it seriously. I love Eurovision because it’s bad. I am being ironic. I am unsure if Europeans understand irony in quite the way that I do, but then again, I’m not so sure if anyone is as gobsmacked as I am by most of what goes on in the world.
My favorite entry from Moldova (where?) didn’t win. The unicycle and the monocle at the end did earn Zdob si Zdub a trip to the finals, a retinal searing for all who watched in can’t-take-their-eyes-off-it-amazement, but alas not the giant chocolate fountain trophy. That went to Ell and Nikki from Azerbaijan. Trust me, you don’t want to see their performance. After the unicycle girl, it’s totally boring.
Oh, and the chocolate fountain trophy? Yeah, I made that up, but wouldn’t it be awesome?
The name of old Zdob si Zdub’s song “So Lucky” was actually the whole reason I started in on the Eurovision thing in the first place. You see this is my last official blog post for the LA Times Magazine. And the words “So Lucky” describe how I feel to have been associated with the LATM and to all the people there who let me spread my vitriol (and exquisite taste) to the world (population 348).
So anyway, you’ve found me and my pointed tongue (pointed, never forked). I hope you’ll come back often. Please visit me soon. I’m planning on liveblogging my Moldovan cross-country unicycle trip tout de suite.
Originally posted January 27, 2010
When I was in the eighth grade at the illustrious Congdon Campus School in the very tony Potsdam, New York, we performed a musical. I had been waiting breathlessly all year long to see what our music teacher, Mrs. Factor, would select for us—a bunch of hapless musical-theater nerds—to perform. Would it be something I deemed cool like Bye Bye Birdie or something I already knew and loved like Damn Yankees? (You can see by my choices how naive I was and what kind of standards I had for determining cool at age 13.) Anyway, fat chance. When Mrs. Factor told us we would be performing a little known Ethel Merman vehicle (and I’m sure Broadway flop) called Happy Hunting, let’s just say even I knew we were going to make the audience squirm.
As I clicked through all of the photos of John Galliano’s couture collection presented earlier in the day today (or probably yesterday—I can’t be expected to do complicated time-zone math, can I?), I realized that if only Monsieur Galliano could have done the costumes for my eighth-grade play, then I would have been in heaven, and my parents would have one less humiliation arrow in their quiver of shame.
Dior’s red riding jacket over a long windowpane-checked skirt avec bustle paired with a netted top hat and a riding crop would have been perfect for my character. The Bride of Frankenstein white streaks in the model’s FLDS-esque pompadour braids and the hot pink satin riding jacket over the white skirt would have been even better, as I played a snooty mainline matron. (Not so easy to pull off in the eighth grade if you don’t have boobs yet, I might add.)
I should pause for a second to say I am not mocking here. I am in love with every single thing that trotted down that runway. Those riding boots with the granny buttons on the side? I would cut a bitch if she tried to pry those out of my fingers. That Stephen Jones leather snood? Dang, I wish I had one of those to wear in front of the computer tomorrow. I couldn’t click through the photos fast enough. Then just when I was almost at the limit of my horsey fantasy, Galliano switched gears ever so slightly with the most confectionery lace dresses—almost Mae West, only with perfect style and a little Grace Kelly thrown in for good measure. It knocked me right off my Aeron chair.
Haute couture to me is like clothing porn, and I am apparently going to have to seek counseling for my online addiction to it.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering what Galliano wore to take his bow at the end of the show? Black riding jacket, white riding pants, knee-high riding boots, top hat and riding crop. The dandy knows how to drive the point home, you’ve got to give him that.