Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Jay Leno

I had a dream last night that Jay Leno kept trying to tell me about how he lost his virginity.

It was horrible.

I mean, I don’t have anything against Jay Leno, and I was relieved to hear he’s not still a virgin. But in the dream, there was a kind of horror about it all. He just wouldn’t stop telling me the story. And I couldn’t figure out if we were on t.v. or not. We were just sitting on these couches, and I couldn’t see any cameras, but I had this feeling that it was all being taped. Which made me very anxious—I don’t like having my picture taken, let alone being on national television.

Let alone being on national television talking about sex. Jay Leno sex.

And I was also kind of worried for Jay’s dignity. It was just awful. Weirdly, I can’t remember anything about the story. If it was funny or tender or tragic or whatever. These stories should either be funny or tragic, I think. Both is best. Never tender, because that just sounds like a lie or somehting that you would read in some drippy teenage novel.

Plus, ‘tender’ is just a gross word. Unless it’s preceded by ‘legal’ or ‘bar’ or 'you won't take my love for.'

Why David Hume Rocks Harder than Madonna

Occasionally, Madonna causes us to wax philosophical here in the Feemus household.

Every article, review, blurb about Madonna mentions her genius for reinvention. Less favorable pieces will also tend to say that “her real talent lies in self promotion.” But this is always said with a grudging approbation. Reinvention and self-promotion are not just the cliches of music journalism, but part of the myth of Madonna. She is a woman whose skill lies in promoting a self that she continually erases, or so we are endlessly told.

But the self isn’t really erased—she keeps the name (and the bank account).

Following Madonna is the ultimate in brand loyalty.

It is, in fact, a test of brand loyalty—the product is never the same, just the name on the label.
An allegiance to the sign despite (or because) it has been fully severed from the signified (in fancy-pants jargon).

Madonna is, in this sense, a triumph of post-subject liberation, a self released from the shackles of self-continuity. It is the ultimate challenge to humanism, "the human" contra the Hume-an. Hume suggests that self-identity is just the habit of calling oneself "I". Madonna forces us to interrogate our own relationship to consumerism, identity, and even language—what does it mean to be a “Madonna” fan if the object of fandom is only a name anchored to quicksand.

No, wait. She doesn't.

Madonna is what's wrong with self-congratulatory postmodernism. It's reinvention as costume change. From a lace halter top to a whalebone corset to a metal breastplate to a leather bustier. Wow--way to reinvent ways of showing off your tits! You've come a long way, baby!

Also, the music all sounds pretty much the same to me.

The Missus and I watched Madonna give an interview some months ago. The Missus, Polly, isn't a fan, either, but does like to watch celebrity interviews. Madonna had recently broken her arm and said that it was "The Universe" telling her not to work so much.

Polly wonders what "The Universe" is trying to tell those folks in Darfur. Maybe to stop breathing so much.