An ode,

music: Madonna - Hung Up

Madonna, you look real good.

Seriously, for a woman in her early forties whilst all the other Hollywood debutantes lose their dewy sheen of youth post twenty nine, you work it hard. Let's forget the Desperate Housewives phenom for a second, and just focus on you crashing your pretty T Bird into a phone pole and hitting the gas pedal in CFM stilettos. That pin straight platinum bob! That navy blue jumpsuit! Even that pointy coned corset top Gaultier fashioned for your Blonde Ambition was pretty damn cool. Your latest album is Confessions on a Dancefloor, and I'm ogling the music video on your Myspace page. Madonna, you are so cool. That scene with you walking in tune with the beat in that badass black leather bomber and skinny jeans is just divine.

You keep ribbing on your crazy youth, but please don't! We all know that popping out of a big cake and hitting the ground in your white lace wedding gown was your idea, and we love you for it. Sure, you had to make everybody think you hit your vulgar low point in the early nineties, but subs and doms the world over appreciated it. Burning crosses? Just brilliant, Madge.

You had the world wrapped around your blinged-out pinky finger. You were my first strong female figure to look up to, after Michelle Kwan's sweet little figure skating smile, I could instead by hypnotized by your crazy outfits and wild antics. Maybe I can blame you for the way I am today. Oh Madonna, those were good days.

That whole reinvention thing too, makes my stony heart go a flutter. Material Girl to Dominatrix Girl to Nirvana Girl to Goth Girl and everything in between! I wish I could achieve your level of perfect blondeness, sport those bleached-out locks with the same panache. You shapeshifter, you chameleon, you so perfectly in tune with the indiosyncrasies of pop culture (with a clunker here and there, but you are so terribly and charmingly human, after all): you entertain me so. I will rail against those parental watch groups, those Christian lobbyists, who have tried to crush you and only succeeded in driving you even higher up the food chain.

Your controversy is as variable as your hair color. I can only aspire to the same.

Piano Lessons

I suppose some part of me was always rebellious, whether out of human nature or of personal compulsion, I do not know. I remember being carted off to piano practice when I was 7 or 8 or so, with an old lady whose name escapes me now. Her rug was plush ivory cream, her sofas black leather, and I dutifully pounded out simplified Disney renditions and "The Saints Come Marching In" every week. We weren't rich, no matter which way your adjusted or viewed it, so I practiced on a my tiny Kawasaki keyboard a half-hour a day. I remember on her wall hung a list of names and practice hours, and I was number one. One day, we had a mini-recital at her house and I played some kind of Christmas song and afterwards, we were served white frosted cake served on elegantly cut glassware. I had not yet acquired a taste for sweets, so I declined.

I remember that we rented the top half of a house, the refrigerator was rumbly and ancient, a yellow behemoth, and on the lower half lived a college student named Andy. He loved the Lion King, and let me and my friends watch it one time when my family had a party. In the hallway, on top of all the oily floral wallpaper, was a gallery of all my drawings, including an emaciated rabbit with stick whiskers and an Easter basket. I remember there was a bush of red chokeberries by the cracked driveway. Andy told me that only birds could eat them; if I ate them, I would have to go to the hospital. I never tested out his claim. My friend Caroline and I (with whom I had a love/hate relationship) made grand plans to make ink out of them.

My parents always claimed to have my best interests at heart, and perhaps, now, looking from a slightly higher perch, I can see they did. I always give up before I begin, though, and my piano playing days were numbered. One day, my mother held my hand as we walked up that familiar white shutter door, and tucked in it was a note that the teacher had moved. Somewhere else. After that, the piano lessons stopped. I remember going into a showroom of pianos and playing the only tune I remembered, something from The Little Mermaid whilst the salesman smiled indulgently. There's nothing now - not even the faintest memory of what those dense, impenetrable forests of flagged symbols mean. Although, my reasons for wishing I knew how to play are very different now; before, it had been an understanding of some vague destiny of greatness, of Harvard - but now, I just wish I had that musician camaraderie.

I remember two summers ago in a class focused on pop culture, we wrote our experiences with music, and one boy, I believe his name was Justin, he wrote how music was a great way to connect with people, a conversation topic. And perhaps that's a very shallow way to desire it, but it's what I can admit to. Like those girls in the cafeteria in third grade waxing romantic on the Backstreet Boys printed on their juice boxes, they were part of some sorority I had never received admittance to. In the summer before fourth grade, I bonded with my friends over the Spice Girls, and with every guy, attempted to enjoy their musical taste, whether it be the Beatles or Counting Crows or the Sex Pistols. But sometimes, I wish I had continued and played guitar, or drums, or anything, you know. I can't even sing. And I feel like I'm missing out on something, something not as easily attained as agreeing that Brian was the cutest one, right?

Britney, circa 2005

It's been six years since ...Baby One More Time was released in January of 1999. MTV, tired of grunge rock, decided to push the iconic music video of an attractive teenager gyrating in a Catholic school girl outfit, and history was made, securing Spears a spot on the airwaves and on the bedroom walls of young girls and sexually frustrated teenage boys alike. Her much publicized declaration that she would remain a virgin until marriage (and subsequent heavily publicized deflowering by one Justin Timberlake) made her seem at first very girl-next-door, the perfect idol for grade schoolers who would lip sync and dance to her songs in talent shows while donning sparkly tank tops and white pants.

At the same time, she shockingly bared her navel and danced suggestively, earning the condemnation of PTA moms worried that she would turn their Susan or Michelle into a promiscuous, pole dancing, python toting, utterly poisoned slut.

Spears walked the fine, fine line between virgin and whore, biblical Mary and Heidi Fleiss.

In the beginning, I couldn't help but love her. Findng Baby One More Time on Kazaa, the legendary* opening chords, with her voice soulfully churning out "oh baby, baby" thrice before launching into a heartfelt regret over love lost, it just brings me back to intermediate school, six years prior, when Backstreet Boys were still the main hearthrobs of all my friends, and the music we listened to was a pristinely commercial, unthreatening brand of whiteness and Wonder Bread. It was a more innocent time, as hindsight tends to romanticize all memories. I remember watching a particular talent show performance where a boy, backed up by a troupe of stiffly dancing girls, performed as Britney, wearing a miniskirt over his chicken legs and stuffing down the front of his top.

I have only pleasant memories of her here, she being a pop princess in rivalry with "Genie in a Bottle" Christina Aguilera; she was the girl who I wanted to be, but could never be, and in this way I suppose she caused me pain in that her image made me feel displaced and conflicted. I never worshipped her, but I found her music pleasant, and who would not admit as much anonymously? There was never any real substance or "authenticity", but this never kept a roomful of middle schoolers from dancing and making a cheesy slap-across-the-face movement along all the same.

And then I turned. She was burned at the stake, and constantly brought up in conversation as an example of all that was wrong with music, with culture, an evil, suffocating force on the innocent, unblemished minds of our young. Hell, she was probably even used by terrorists to justify their hate of our capitalist, hyper-sexualized culture. No cool kid in seventh grade would ever admit to liking or listening to Britney Spears; they were all too blase, too in-the-know for that, they liked Avril Lavigne and her ersatz hardcore regalia, or the pop philosophy of Michelle Branch. They seemed more real, authentic, angry, whatever quality it was, it was merely a superficial departure from Britney, stripped of her reputation, put down as a dirty skanky slutty piece of human filth. (Later, this label would be applied to Aguilera during her chaps** and baby oil phase.) I, of course, the fish swimming along with the tide, would declare my distaste for her as well, though I admit I secretly still danced along to Stronger in front of the bathroom mirror.

These days, Spears is no longer the queen, or even the princess, she's a tabloid relic, another acne ridden, out of shape piece of pitiful white trash. She inspires malicious glee rather than self doubt and awe, and her recent marriage to Keven Federline makes even her worst critics extremely glad she made him sign a prenup. But I've also come to appreciate Britney Spears for what she is: a figure in the entertainment industry. So what if she has no talent, and even her looks are failing her? All of these shortcomings merely make her rise more puzzling, her personality more human. For what it's worth, I find Britney Spears entertaining, and no one can deny the sheer, exploitive pop genius of the Toxic music video, nor deny that they don't occasionally linger on the tabloid headlines on whether she's gained weight or walked into a restaurant in flip flops and cutoffs. Her much maligned musical efforts are really never that bad; it tends to be the backlash speaking. So let's have some support for Britney, our infamous Mouseketeer, maybe she has made you laugh or smile, so why not for once, drop the double standard*** and admit she's actually pretty... entertaining.

* - maybe this is overreaching.
** - seatless pants, often seen on cowboys, and in gay strip clubs.
*** - the double standard I am referring to is that guys can sleep around and be totally The Man, and girls will invariably be labeled as walking wastebins of STDs.

Chuck

Yes, I have finally discovered Mr. Chuck Taylor. High. In brilliant pink and grape. Soiled just the right amount. I think we're in love.

When I wear my Chucks, I feel like I am part of some larger cult of latte-swigging hipsters who proclaim their love for obscure New York garage rock bands and those lanky, long haired boys in the perfect jeans. There is a lot of bleedover, of course, and the retro appeal is undeniable since I'm an 80's girl who wears earrings approximately the color and shape of neon saucer plates. Chucks are supposed to symbolize the stick-it-to-the-man, anti Nike attitude i.e. authenticity.

Paradoxically, Nike bought Converse and Chucks are also being embraced by middle class suburbia with all their trappings of ruffled miniskirts and Juicy Couture. Hypocrisy? Yes, please. But that doesn't change the fact they're ridiculously comfortable and look right at home under a pair of jeans and add a spin to casual dresses. Being part of that middle class suburbia, I'm sure those holier-than-thou hipsters are spinning in their mosh pit graves... wearing a pair of grayed hightops, no less.

Two

I once knew a boy named Julian. He was half-Korean and half-Swiss and looked undecided in his race, like a Korean with shoulders a little too broad, a shade too tall, cheekbones that were counteracted with the Swiss blood from his father's side. I love the way biracial Asians look because they are suspended on a silk line somewhere between East and West, not quite meeting either way and deliciously satisfying the requirements of both. And I am jealous, too, because I am Chinese by birth and American by upbringing, and magazines seem to forget I exist; maybe the editors at Cosmopolitan think that my eyes are so small I can't see how alien I feel on their glossy white pages. But the children from Asian and Caucasian couples are like the Suzie Wongs, Yokos, Ching Chong Changs, after an Extreme Makeover episode. The yellow's been beamed out of your skin, or your eyelids are sliced and sutured in black; maybe prosthetic bone has been hot-glued to your nose bridge. You are not quite yellow and not quite white, and sometimes you are so beautiful.