2000s

Freedom’s Just Another Word for a Complete Lack of Parenting: Kesha – “Tik Tok”

Kesha Tik Tok

We start out with some skeezy-looking girl waking up in a bathtub, and it’s clear that she’s not really sure where she might be. (Don’t start judging at this point. If you have any sense of adventure, there’s been at least one time when you’ve snoozed in a place that wasn’t necessarily designed for slumber.) Eventually home-girl realizes that maybe this isn’t her own bathtub and there might be some type of penalty associated with what she did or didn’t do the previous evening, so she hops out of the cleansing station and proceeds to do some damage control.

First on her agenda? Marching over to the nearby vanity, plucking up one of the anonymous toothbrushes that previously did not contain any of her DNA, and then proceeds to “brush my teeth with a bottle of jack.” Then she waves her ghetto-painted toenails in front of the camera, because it seems like a fun thing to do when you’re a pop star and have your own personal cinematographer, and then she slips on a pair of cowboy boots and little else. (This is probably the part where you can start judging.)

So right away we know we’re dealing with a quality kind of girl, here. Top drawer. Or should I say top shelf? Kesha marches out of the bathroom with some swagger going on (because everyone is essentially self-absorbed until they are at least 30), and she quickly jacks with some pictures of a nice family that are hanging on the walls. Her disrespect of memorabilia is supposed to help us understand that she really doesn’t care about anybody or anything, but I think we grasped her lack of morality starting with the “waking up in a bathtub” bit.

Then she wanders down a flight of stairs in the house, singing about “boys blowing up my phone” and “trying to get a little bit tipsy”. Little bit? Honey, you look like you left “little bit” about five miles back. After you smothered it with a pillow.

She wanders into a breakfast room, where the family from the hanging pictures she violated is just trying to get some nutrition and worship Jesus. Her sudden appearance causes the mom to drop a plate of pancakes, an obvious sign that Satan has just arrived in the suburbs and the Apocalypse can’t be far behind. This is the natural reaction of ignorant folk who have never watched anything other than Fox News.

Kesha then sashays outside the Mormon Tabernacle Condo and decides to steal a bicycle that has been blinged-out in 2-carat gold, because we all know that jewel-encrusted conveyances can easily be found near cheaply-built domiciles in a neighborhood near you. Kesha then rides the bling over to a conveniently-nearby group of wholesome kids who just want to play with balloons and not become ensnared by unexpected pregnancies. But Our Lady of Tawdry Deception quickly convinces them that you really need a pimped-out ride if you’re going to make it anywhere in this world, and the youngsters embrace her vision with startling expediency.

Next up, due to some clearly unfocused editing, we have Kesha looking all trashy while sitting on a curb in front of some wall, while she sings (if you can call it singing) about how all boys want her because “I’ve already got beer and I’m already here.” Then some dudes drive up and pile out, having heard about the beer, and they all look like “beer” is the longest word they can spell.

But Kesha is fine with their potential shortcomings, indicating that her mother may have already prepared her for the reality of marriage, and she quickly jumps in the car with the most redneck member of the posse, and they take off, driving around. Kesha starts singing about “don’t touch my junk,” but this directive is a bit hard to follow when Kesha is bouncing around and thrusting her junk from here to Encino. Sooner or later the sheer gravitational pull of the Earth will result in some junk-touching.

Then the po-po pull the two over, and at first it doesn’t look like a very promising as Kesha is thrown over the hood of the pimp-mobile and forced into a pair of handcuffs. Of course, this is done in a slutty way so we basically get a PG-13 gander at Kesha’s junk that she’s been singing about all along. (Product Placement 101.) And the ease with which Kesha “assumes the position” makes it very obvious that she has sprawled across a few turbo-charged machines in her day.

Next thing you know, Kesha and Redneck are zipping along the highways again, so either the po-po are really bad at their job, or they got hired for a promising pilot that is shooting on the next soundstage and they had to be written out of the script. This is never made clear. What is clear is that Kesha is able to party in the Redneck’s car by standing up through the sunroof and bouncing her ta-tas around in a psychotic frenzy. Kesha also makes a lot of hand gestures to clarify that she is really proud of herself, in case you hadn’t figure that out yet.

Then, suddenly, the car is gone, and Kesha is in some weird, stone-walled room where she appears to be wearing animal fur (PETA alert!) while little bits of something sprinkle down around her. She’s waving her hands around above her head like a really bad witch doctor that forgot to read the training manual and she has to do something interesting to keep her teenage fans voodoo clients from asking for their money back.

This goes on for a while, indicating that the director went AWOL for a bit (surely drugs were not involved in any way) and the remaining crew had to just make things up to kill time. Out of desperation, they bring in a wind machine, and they instruct Kesha to lay on her back and thrust her feet into the air, which I guess means that Kesha is aroused by wind, stone walls, chunky confetti, the possible appearance of a Sleestak from “The Land of the Lost” and the ability to raise her arms and wave them about.

Then we’re transported to a nightclub, where Kesha informs us that “the party don’t start till I walk in.” Really? And what party is that? The “Blowing Smoke Up Your Own Ass” Party? Let me know who your candidate is in the next election, so when I go vote (are you familiar with what that means?) I can be sure to rip his or her name off the ballot and use the strip of paper to light something up at the next Burning Man Festival.

Kesha dances all over this place, with her messy hair and runny mascara, apparently not realizing that Madonna perfected this art form in 1984. We know it’s a real quality establishment, because people are drinking their adult beverages from plastic red cups, always a sign that no expense has been spared. The loser redneck from the mysteriously-aborted run-in with the po-po is in the club, so I guess Kesha is a little sweet on him, even though she keeps singing about how there won’t be any junk-touching.

She keeps dancing. And as she gyrates around and we get a better look at this place, I’m seeing things that make me wonder if this is just somebody’s living room. There’s a mid-80’s ceiling fan and some very ugly couches, the kind that will never be snatched up by junk collectors who troll your neighborhood during the week when the city collects Bulky Trash from your curb. What was the budget on this video, anyway? Amazing as it may seem, said budget was apparently lower than the average teacher’s salary in the United States. I didn’t think it was possible to get under that figure.

We have lots more dancing and runny mascara, with Kesha eventually working her way to the Redneck and possibly offering her junk after all, which is kind of sweet but nowhere near as inspiring as Samantha and Jake sharing cake at the end of “16 Candles”. Just to make sure that the jaded teen viewers grasp the concept of finding love in all the wrong places, we are presented with more chunky confetti falling down on the jailbird lovebirds whilst people pass out around them.

Final scene shows Kesha, trashed and missing some footwear, giggling in a bathtub and settling in for another night. She’s picked up an American flag somewhere, which she’s using as a sweatband or some such on her right ankle. Such a touch of class. Then she presumably goes into an alcoholic coma, where visions of sugar rums dance in her head and she actually believes that she is a role model for the youth of America.

Good gawd.

Parents, send your girls to strict boarding schools with plenty of barbed-wire and severe nuns that resort to whacking people with rulers. It’s not pretty, and there are surely some Constitutional violations in the mix, but it’s got to have better results than this….

 

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Originally published on 12/07/09, revised and updated with extra flair for this post.

Poor Decisions on the Family Farm: Jay-Z featuring Alicia Keys – “Empire State of Mind”

Jay-z Empire State of Mind

This little ditty is a tribute to living in New York City, so it instantly has that aura of “we are automatically cooler than you because we live in a bustling metropolis with 876 billion other people and you probably live on a farm where you have hand-fed a goat”. This may or may not be true (I never reveal what I might have done with a goat), but I’m already prompted to ask this: When I walk outside my house, I can see trees and grass and flowers that I actually own. Can you?

Still, this isn’t my story, even though I often assume that all songs are about me in some way, so I suppose we should listen to what Jay-Z and Alicia have to share. After all, this song is theoretically about how the Big Apple modifies your genetics in a way that simply doesn’t happen in the fly-over states. Since I once took a few college courses in psychology, in between the frat parties and the raw nakedness of my desperate need to fit in, I suppose we can approach this video from a scientific viewpoint and hope that we somehow learn what makes New Yorkers so appalled when you ask them for directions.

The initial part of the video features montage shots of various buildings and street signs while the music begins to percolate. (Perhaps the street signage is a subtle hint that if we tourists would just read such things, we might be able to get where we need to be without interrupting the citizenry with inane queries.) The camera finally settles on Jay-Z, as he begins to sing in front of some building that I don’t recognize. But this structure must be important to him in some way, because merely being in proximity of this apparent landmark causes him to burst into a rap. (To be fair, architecture can have a profound influence on your musical talents. I always start singing “It’s Raining Closeted Men” every time I walk past the first gay bar I entered, about a century ago in Tulsa.)

Suddenly, Jay-Z is somewhere else, standing on a street corner. Based on the lyrics, it seems that he’s comparing himself to Frank Sinatra (really?) and making hand gestures that might possibly have deep symbolic meaning, or it might be that he just always wanted to be a traffic cop. There’s not any traffic, though. Since he’s supposedly in the middle of NYC and yet there’s not a car in sight, this is obviously a dream sequence. What that dream might be, who knows. I’m clearly not qualified to make a valid assessment, based on my birth city.

Jay-Z, now standing somewhere else that I don’t recognize, starts rapping shout-outs to the subway, Biggie Smalls, some guy from Texas, basketball, and the apparent fact that Jay-Z is the most famous person in the world. (I scribble in my notes: Perhaps the “Empire State of Mind” might have something to do with narcissism? Further research imperative.) Then the music gets a little more dramatic, and we are suddenly presented with aerial shots as we zoom over the city. It’s apparently time for a major change in the paper-thin story.

And it turns out that Alicia Keys is the plot twist. She’s on a street corner, wailing the chorus and pounding on a really cool piano, one that you will never find in locales where people hand-feed goats. This ultra-swank piano has the New York skyline etched around the sides, and there’s a replica of the Statue of Liberty plunked on top. I’m guessing that “subtlety” was not one of the buzzwords thrown around the conference table when they planned this video.

Speaking of planning, apparently somebody didn’t, in that Alicia doesn’t have a bench to sit on while she pounds on that keyboard with the over-dramatic intensity of someone who might want to look into medication options. This seems kind of rude to me, this no-bench angle. You’d think they’d have money in the budget for furniture, especially when it involves a guest star who would understandably expect to have a place to park her ass when she chooses to do so. Poor thing. Maybe this injustice will inspire one of the songs on her next album.

Then we’re suddenly back in the sky again, doing more fly-overs, with the buildings all lit-up and pretty, at just the right elevation so we can’t see the crime taking place down on the streets. I’m starting to think that these fly-overs are the go-to resolution when the video editors have no idea how to visually interpret certain segments of the story. (“People like looking at big buildings, and we have thousands of them. Do it!”) Of course, they might be showing us the same four buildings over and over, but we don’t have a clue because we don’t live there.

And then we’re back with Alicia at the piano, where she’ still wailing and still doesn’t have a place to sit. This time, there’s a suspicious white van driving slowly to her right. Does the Liberace estate need the piano back? Just then, Alicia really gets her groove on and starts making this rocking movement while she’s playing, which is enjoyable and all, but she keeps looking in the wrong place for the camera, so there are some focus issues. In all fairness, she’s being forced to perform an impromptu concert at the corner of Who Knows and Where the Hell, with an audience consisting of jaded New Yorkers who have been there and done that a hundred times. (“I was at the Simon and Garfunkel reunion in Central Park. This? Not so much.”)

Now Jay-Z reappears, rapping about the Yankees and the NYPD, with appropriate still shots of both themes. In the middle of all that is a shot of Spike Lee. I don’t know if this means he’s a big Yankees fan as well or if he’s in trouble with the NYPD for not doing the right thing. This probably involves another New York analogy that I don’t get because I live in a city that doesn’t have subways, a population bigger than most states, or pizza by the slice.

Then I guess somebody handed Jay-Z an energy drink, because he is suddenly really invested in his rapping, letting loose with a blow-your-hair-back stream of words while Alicia tries gyrating faster and faster at the piano to keep up with the gusher. Some of the words in this section were annoyingly bleeped in the video version that I reviewed, so there might be something lost in translation, but Jay-Z sure knows a lot of names for taxi cabs and things that can be sold on the streets.

Next, we’re treated to a brief shot of what appears to be a pregnant man, sporting a facial expression that indicates he just broke water while stepping off a curb. This is followed by Jay-Z spouting another bushel of words that were not bleeped but I didn’t understand a single one of them. I think I heard “Jesus“ mentioned in there, so perhaps Jay-Z was spreading the gospel, not sure.

Anyway, here comes Alicia with the chorus again, and this time she’s joined on the street corner by Jay-Z and his hand movements. But the piano is gone. See, you turn your back for two seconds in this city and people take things, even when cameras are rolling. During the “these streets will make you feel brand new” part of the chorus, Alicia starts bucking her hips like she’s got a really bad itch. Apparently “brand new” equals “horny” in Alicia’s world. She looks good, and the hair is rockin, but honey, take care of that itch.

Then Jay-Z is in a high-rise office with a view, looking all Ivy League. Based on the words, he’s letting people know that this city can turn you, so be careful with your life choices. Interestingly enough, all of the images during this part of the song are women, and the words are all about women going bad and turning into whores. Not a peep about what the men can turn into. Hmm.

Chorus again. This time Alicia and Jay-Z are gyrating around on a giant staircase lit up with red lights. (Are they warning lights? Is Alicia about to get turned bad by the city?) No, guess not, the two of them are waving their hands in the air like they just don’t care how much something costs anymore, because they have solid record contracts. Maybe this segment is a tribute to Broadway plays, or at least the kind of plays that close after a two-night run at a coffee shop in the Meatpacking District.

More aerial shots of the city. (More “not sure what to put here”.)

Oh look, the piano is suddenly back, plopped back down in that one intersection, and Alicia’s singing something besides just the chorus. And she has quite a bit to say, along with lots of arm choreography and hair swinging. Still no bench, though. Regardless, Alicia is a professional, and she ignores the lack of seating just like she’s ignoring the jaded New Yorkers who are glaring at her and her piano for causing a disruption in their evening plans. “Why do they always have to do a video shoot right in front of the exact sushi restaurant that I want to go to so I can take selfies of me being trendy? Jesus.” (In this biblical reference, we’ll assume that the gospel is not being spread.)

Alicia goes on for quite some time with this “featured” performance. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely example of artistry, especially since her contribution has been deemed standing-room-only by some fool in management. But it does make me wonder about Jay-Z’s commitment to the project. He’s been basically AWOL for the second half of this video. Sure, we’ve had a few glimpses of him making those cryptic hand movements, and a couple quick-shots of him watching Alicia do things with her pelvis that he probably shouldn’t be salivating over unless he plans to put a ring on it. But really, Alicia’s been singing way more than him at this point. Shouldn’t this be an Alicia Keys song featuring Jay-Z? Then again, I don’t really know the rules, having spent more time with farm animals than with music executives. (Or are they the same thing? Text me.)

Finally, years later, after an entire generation of kids has been once again underserved by the public education system because Republicans hate learning and love to slash budgets, Alicia finishes up with her mammoth soliloquy and moves on with her life. (The one guy who was all bitchy about the sushi interruptus? He rushes into Phee Phi Pho and manages to upload a photo to Instagram of him shoving a dragon roll in his mouth just before the counters reset at midnight, thereby upping his traffic stats for the day. Good for him and his overcompensation for having a tiny appendage.)

We roll into the final chorus, and we’re back on the giant lit-up staircase that even drag queens would shun, with both of our stars doing some hand choreography. Jay-Z throws his arm around Alicia (had they even met before this point?) while she assumes what she hopes is a street pose, but really looks like something Salt N Pepa did back in the day, and they did it better. As the music begins to fade, Jay-Z raises one hand in the air in what might be a victory sign or some type of fight the power gesture, but really looks like “this is how you stand on the subway if you don’t want to fall on a homeless person as we careen our way out of the Meatpacking District.”

Moral of the story? If you move to New York City, be prepared for it to change your life even if it doesn’t need changing, make sure you bring your own bench because nobody is going to just give you one, keep an eye on your piano at all times, and make sure your agent fully understands the extent of your singing responsibilities before you sign anything. Word.

 

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Oh wait, you can’t click there. The video is no longer available on YouTube. I guess you’ll have to trust me that the video existed at one point. (Insert awkward moment.)

Originally published on 12/04/09, revised and updated with extra flair for this post.

 

Sleeping with the Enema: Lady Gaga – “Bad Romance”

Lady Gaga Bad Romance

Our innocence is immediately shattered two seconds into the video, when we are presented with all of these oddly-clad people gathered in formation at one end of a white room. For those who know movie history, think Stanley Kubrick’s “Eyes Wide Shut” crossed with any movie that Ken Russell ever directed. (For those who don’t know their movie trivia, think “recreational drugs”.) No one looks very happy, and we seem to have a lot of uncomfortable bondage gear going on, but this doesn’t stop them from posing artfully for the latest defiant cover of Vanity Fair.

We zoom in on Gaga, who has naturally been placed in the center of this tableau of people who have probably been banned at least once on Facebook. She’s not looking at us, because she doesn’t have to, instead staring off to the side whilst sporting cryptic glasses that completely block her vision. (This is what rich people do, buy things that serve no purpose, just because they can and we can’t.) The camera closes in on one of her hands, with her fingers sporting a weird chicken-wire nail polish that you aren’t going to find at Walgreen’s. She pushes a button on what looks like a wireless modem at NASA, and then all hell breaks loose.

We are suddenly in a room full of these odd pod things (tanning beds? incubators for the Gaga army that is about to take over the world?) scattered about, while brief images of alcohol bottles flash on the screen. It’s too dark in this room for my comfort level, and there seems to be a Gestapo-esque searchlight seeking out uprisings that must be quelched. Then a helpful title appears explaining that this is the “Bath Haus of Gaga”. Really? I never even want to go there and I’ve only seen ten seconds of it. Please take me off your mailing list. Thanks.

But before I can add the “Haus” to my spam filter, the pods suddenly open and some surprising things crawl out. They appear to be somewhat humanoid, in that remote way that Tea Party members also appear to be humanoid, even though their life choices clearly indicate that they are not. These crawlers are sheathed in white latex, including their faces, and the tops of their heads have white spiky things, as if Bart Simpson has been dipped in a marshmallow vat. The crawlers, despite being unable to see due to the unexplained plastic coating, immediately hop up and start doing a line dance, with Lady once again assuming the focal point in the center of this shin-dig. (Well, I’m assuming it’s her, because we sure as hell don’t spend any time on the other pod people.)

Then we zip over to another random room, where someone has helpfully placed a bathtub, within which Lady is exhibiting an Annie Lennox-on-acid hairdo and proving that she is very limber by basically throwing her leg over her head. But before we can ask what return-on-investment she might be seeking by doing such, we cut to another room in this apparently cavernous Haus. We now have Lady dressed in black and singing to herself in a mirror, wearing a black spiky hat that sort of matches the headgear of the dancing pod people. Does this mean she’s a bad pod person? Or is she late for a funeral, a tragic death that occurred when one of the tanning pods became disconnected during intergalactic travel?

I guess it doesn’t matter, because now we have a montage cutting between the three scenarios: the line-dancing white pod people, the Lady wallowing around in the bathtub, and the Lady that just wants to look at herself in the mirror (and possibly tend to the needs of her lady garden, based on what her barely off-camera hand is doing). This montage goes on for a while, longer than the political careers of Republican candidates who don’t immediately agree to sell their souls.

Side Note: That quick shot where Bathtub Lady is looking off to the side and then rolls her head forward and does the thing with her eyes? It’s freaky but fun, which basically sums up Lady Gaga’s entire career arc, and it’s my favorite bit in this video crammed full of images designed to impress you with the fact that Lady Gaga’s life is obviously way more exciting than your own.

Just as we kick into the chorus (I guess it’s the chorus; it’s hard to tell with Lady Gaga songs) two rude women break into the Hygiene Annex and try to drag Bathing Lady out of the ginormous bathtub. (She just wants to be clean, people, let her scrub the dirtiness away if she wants to do so. We’ve all been there, don’t judge.) Gaga puts up a fight, but eventually the bitter duo wrest Gaga away from the soothing waters of her own self-involvement. To show their displeasure with her uncooperative attitude, the Gulag Girls rip Lady’s blouse off in a Cinemax-worthy moment of pointless plot.

(Yes, Bathtub Gaga was bathing whilst clothed. Just accept and go on, as there’s really no point in questioning reality once the dancing white pod-people slithered out of the Easy Bake ovens and we didn’t change the channel.) To show her displeasure with the matrons’ rudeness and the rending of her garment, Lady then thrusts her breasts at the interlopers in a moment of mammary insurrection, making this an official catfight. The matrons then up the ante by forcing Bathtub Lady to drink some mysterious clear liquid that she probably would have imbibed on her own if there hadn’t been all this bullying behavior.

Next up, we have another version of Lady Gaga, this one surprisingly free of avant-garde outfits and confusing accessories. This Gaga seems to be channeling Belinda Carlisle during that phase when she broke free from the Go-Gos and the drug-ingesting, wandering about on a windswept beach and looking for love in all the wrong sandy places. She’s acting all emo and emotionally-fragile. Is this Vulnerable Gaga? Does such a thing exist?

While Belinda Gaga braves windburn and possible grit in her cracks, we get yet another version of Lady Gaga, or maybe this is one we’ve already seen. (It’s getting very confusing; I’m still mystified by Grieving Gaga at the Self-Pleasure Mirror.) This Gaga is sporting some baggy outerwear covered in graffiti, indicating that unsupervised inner-city juveniles may have broken into the Bath Haus at some point, tagging things with malicious intent. (This is not an indictment of all inner-city youth, as stereotypes are bad, but it is an indictment of lazy parents who allow their children to obtain paint-propellants and then look the other way when those children sneak out at night.)

Whatever the case, some rude go-go booted women rip off Gaga’s social-outcry garment in a manner that suggests the booted women did not go to the proper schools. Once the raincoat is sent asunder, we see that this version of Gaga is sporting skimpy beaded thingies that really don’t do much to obscure her baseline anatomy. (I’ve seen better coverage issued by people selling auto insurance out of the back of a taco stand.) The rude, manners-deficient booted women snatch up Lady and her indiscreet snatch and haul her into a room filled with men who appear to have had plastic surgery that somehow involved metal plates being used instead of, well, plastic.

For no apparent reason whatsoever, Barely-Beaded Gaga and her unrequited cohorts suddenly start line-dancing for the Metal Men. (They were in a catfight two seconds ago, but a whiff of testosterone in the room causes all of them to have an interest in synchronized choreography?) While this mess is going on, we get shots of another Gaga, or maybe an extra, don’t know, who is nude and looking really undernourished. I think she’s trying to get clean, since she appears to be having an emotional moment in a public shower stall at either a health club or a high-school gym (we’ve all been there, right?), but I don’t really see any water. Whatever she’s doing, she’s very skinny, and she might possibly have a tail that people generally shouldn’t have.

Beaded Gaga and the Gaga-Ettes continue to line dance for the Metal Men, eventually ending up on their knees crawling toward said men while Gaga sings “I want your love.” That’s great for the self-esteem, crawling up to a standoffish group of males, begging for their affection. Do these women realize they can actually vote these days? Or is Gaga making a political statement about the possible future if we don’t stop letting rich, white, amoral men run our country? (Despite the obvious ease with which Gaga shares her physical wares with the world, she’s got far more depth and comprehension than 99% of the automatons who tune into Fox News on a daily basis, paralytic drool running down their chins.)

Oh wait, it turns out that these men are actually bidding to “win” Lady Gaga, as we can now see by the voting results on convenient laptops off to one side. (At first, I thought Lady Gaga was just obnoxiously showing her sky-rocketing profits. I had to rewind.) One of the guys apparently wins, but first the women have to do another line dance. Not sure why. Maybe it’s protocol, a bit of contractual procedure included in the “Bath Haus” brochure for folks who purchase the Platinum Package.

It’s a long line dance. While this is going on, we get jump scenes of Lady Gaga in lots of other outfits. (The wardrobe expenses on this video must have been enormous.) We have Gaga in black bra and panties, standing still in a frozen spray of ice cubes while the camera circles around her. (A perceptive take on the sterility of certain men?) There’s Gaga in some type of metal gear where I think she’s explaining the solar system. (Sorry, Pluto, you don’t matter anymore. Here’s the business card for a really good galaxy therapist.)

And then we have Gaga in this golden outfit that is totally out there, with a hairdo that looks like she has a loaf of bread shoved up in that mess and making her look like Gary Oldman in Francis Ford Coppola’s version of “Dracula”. My guess is that most of the fashion budget went right there, although it’s entirely possible that Gaga already owned this ensemble, something she picked up at a flea market in another dimension where couture is vaguely reptilian and purposeless.

Eventually we get to the soul-challenging part of our story where Gaga has to go… sleep? trade outfits?… with the guy who bought her. And we start jump-cutting all over the place. We revisit almost all of the Gagas in their various incarnations, and there’s a new batch of line dancers, this time dressed in skimpy red Ace bandages but just as flexible as the other teams. (Gaga is right there in the midst of the Crimson Brigade, natch, completely unafraid to frolic about energetically despite the merest wisp of material barely concealing her nocturnal portal.)

As Purchased Gaga approaches the bed where the winner/misogynist is waiting, she apparently uses her mystical powers to set the bed on fire. Wouldn’t you? (I hope Metal Guy bought the maintenance plan for this product, because I don‘t think the regular warranty is going to cover destruction of high-end bedding. It would be a shame if low-level employees at this establishment are fired because the hotel owners now have to fund a messy civil lawsuit.) The jump-cutting to all the Gagas intensifies, but mostly focuses on the red line dancers where Ace Bandage Gaga has picked up yet another hairdo somewhere along the way.

Final scene has one of the Gagas (I have no idea at this point) lounging in the scorched bed. Her purchaser is now just smoking bones, but Gaga seems to be fine, other than the disturbing impression that her breasts appear to be short-circuiting. (Don’t you hate it when that happens?) The camera slowly pans backwards while a snippet of classical music plays, yet another tribute to film-making, and another reminder that Lady Gaga is all about The Art.

Lesson learned? Take a bath at home. You’ll be glad you did. There’s no need to bathe in a public setting, because it will just lead to singing, dancing, clone replication, and death by fire.

 

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Originally published on 12/03/09, revised and updated with extra flair for this post.)