2010s

The Unregulated Exhibitionism of a Pop-Tart: Countess LuAnn – “Money Can’t Buy You Class”

Countess LuAnn Money Can't Buy You Class

  Note:  This mess is absolutely terrible, which means I’m completely excited and can’t wait to get started. (That noise you hear is me popping another beer as I stretch my fingers…)

We start off with several model-type men marching into what looks like a crusty barracks from some old-school military movie where lots of things blew up and there was no real plot, so at least the producers are being honest with us from the get go. The guys line up along one wall, looking like they already regret having answered the casting call. Then we cut to LuAnn wearing a fancy bustier in a room with horrid wallpaper, while the title of the song magically appears just beneath her hydraulically-trussed cleavage. She’s going to sing about class whilst shoving her breasts at us?

This train hasn’t even left the station and it’s already off the rails.

LuAnn, somehow managing to put some actual clothes on at some point, sashays her way to the unrealistic barracks, where she proceeds to inspect the troops. (This inspection is mixed with more shots of LuAnn still in that bustier, attempting to look sultry, but it really appears that she might have a gastric disorder.) Inspector LuAnn finds a billfold on one of the guys, an apparently offensive discovery, and she throwss it to the ground with the acting skill of a pet rock. At the same time, LuAnn’s vocals start on the soundtrack, and it’s obvious within half a second that somebody hit the start button on the Auto-Tune and prayed for daylight.

Inspector LuAnn then moves on to the next guy, and she finds a stack of cash in one of his pockets (held together with a rubber band, because that’s how everybody carries their money around, right?). She promptly tosses this aside as well, letting us know that she has no use for currency. (Obviously not, since she clearly didn’t spend any on singing lessons.) Then LuAnn quits hurling things about and selects her victim, dragging one of the guys out of the lineup, heading to parts unknown. (The other three models breathe sighs of relief and salvation, because there’s just something not quite right about LuAnn and her head-scratching sense of self-importance.)

Oh look, LuAnn has schlepped the Chosen One up to her tawdry boudoir with the crushed velvet wallpaper. (She’s made him change into a shirt that coordinates with said paper, the one hint at actual design sense that we’ve seen so far.) Then she forces him to tighten the back of her bustier even more whilst she clutches her globes of self-esteem, a startling display of self-love that we haven’t seen since the last time Donald Trump said something stupid on TV. (Which was probably two hours ago.) And based on the way her little man-servant is instantly familiar with the mechanisms of a bustier, he clearly knows a show tune or two and this relationship simply can’t work out.

We then have a montage of LuAnn in various poses in the boudoir, with “Not Gonna Happen” Guy shoved to the side while LuAnn takes matters into her own hands, touching herself provocatively and looking about as erotic as an armadillo in heat. Then LuAnn launches into a “spoken word” bit that never should have happened in a civilized society, with her babbling about the proper way to treat a lady. What lady that might be, we don’t know, because she surely doesn’t mean the one we can see now, wearing the last bit of sheet-metal from the crash of the Hindenburg while the uninterested male model pretends to know where a woman likes to be touched.

LuAnn actually pauses in mid-rap to apply lipstick in what she presumes to be a sexual manner (because that’s classy) as the model gazes at her in feigned adoration, which really means “studying her makeup tips because he might need them for the drag show on Saturday night”. And did I mention that LuAnn’s speaking voice is really deep? Deeper than mine, and I sound like I have gravel in my throat. She must have boulders. I officially start looking for a cleverly-disguised adam’s apple, but my research efforts are thwarted by Miss LuAnn constantly shoving her breasts heavenward, waiting for the angels to sing and blocking my view.

Wait, we’ve just changed locales (sort of, because we keep going back to the Bustier Room repeatedly, as LuAnn apparently feels most comfortable in the Hindenburg getup). She’s now in some room where another one of the guys from the barracks lineup is texting on his phone. (Is he asking FEMA exactly what qualifies as a disaster?) This attempt at communication with the real world is apparently a no-no in Lu-Lu land, because she snatches the phone away from him and then slams his head into a cocktail table. (Honey, really? You couldn’t just say “I don’t really care for that”? Were you raised by she-wolves?) Texting Guy, realizing that her biceps are bigger than his, doesn’t put up much of a fuss.

Brief montage of LuAnn cavorting some more in the boudoir, then we head to a nightclub, with LuAnn now sporting an outfit presumably made out of a pink Slip-n-Slide from the 70s. (I didn’t know those things even came in that color back in the day, but they must have, because there’s no other explanation for what we are now seeing .) She’s managed to gather up all the guys from the barracks lineup, and they have apparently been instructed to “gaze upon LuAnn with complete infatuation, no matter what her hick ass does”, because they do. One guy even whips out a camera to record the moment, partly because the wafer-thin “script” says he should do so, but mostly because he hopes that someone from CSI: Breastville will find the documentation and prosecute the right people.

The cinematographer manages to pull his camera away from LuAnn for a brief bit, giving us shots of the other attendees at this questionable nightclub, all of them gazing at LuAnn with a wonder greater than the biggest orgasm ever. Clearly, these people are drunk and/or very-highly paid, a phrase that could easily be applied to any official in the upper echelons of the current version of the Republican Party elite.

Then we hit a bit where LuAnn confirms that she has lost touch with reality and should be confined to a sanitarium where there are no sharp implements and an abundance of medication. She actually walks up to two patrons, snatches their beers away, and shoves glasses of champagne at them as recompense. This is just not right in any way imaginable. You do not mess with the beverage choice of a hard-working American who just wants some down time. Nobody who is serious about intoxication chooses champagne as a modus operandi. Just say no.

But do the patrons complain? Nope. Instead, everyone, especially the males, continue to gaze upon LuAnn like they haven’t seen anything that delectable since Grandma baked one of her apple pies with the secret ingredient. (Can you say Prozac?) This encourages the boundaries-trampling LuAnn, who clearly skipped all appointments with her high-school guidance counselor, to then terrify another one of the random model-guys in the proper way to use silverware. Or eat soup. She’s clearly concerned about something that involves a big white bowl on a table and some utensils that were not properly utilized. The guy looks just as confused as we are. LuAnn, now wearing a black ensemble that came out of nowhere, doesn’t care, because she wasn’t given enough time-outs as a child.

As a distraction from the logic inconsistencies, we are treated to more images of LuAnn straddling a barstool whilst no-shame paid extras struggle to get in the same shot with her and pretend that the words spit from her mouth have any type of significance whatsoever. Of course, because there’s no validity in anything the Countess might have to share, we cut to even more shots of LuAnn in the Bustier Room. (Did it never occur to anybody to walk up to LuAnn and say “you know what, I think we’ve seen enough of your breasts”. Could you maybe put those things away for, I don’t know, two seconds?)

Then we roll into a bit where Lu-Lu is screwing around with one of the guy’s ties, adjusting it a bit, like she has any qualifications when it comes to fashion. (Rule Number One: Just because you can afford to buy it doesn’t mean you should wear it.) But I guess she’s not really all that invested in the tie, because the pointless scene is quickly abandoned and we head back to the bar proper, where LuAnn is under the impression that if she just does enough arm choreography we’ll forget that there’s really no reason for her to have a recording contract of any kind.

Then we’re suddenly somewhere that has a giant bed, one that allows LuAnn to wear yet another outfit, this one made out of old-school circuit boards from the first computer ever invented. All of the guys from the original barracks lineup are on hand, sprawled on the bed in what is supposed to be a sensual manner, but actually looks like there has been a drive-by shooting of some kind.

I feel especially bad for the one guy who agreed to have his head placed near LuAnn’s cooter. He looks absolutely terrified, even more so because LuAnn has one of her industrial hands latched onto his head, keeping him firmly in place. If he doesn’t sue his agent for abusive behavior, then he’s a fool.

But I guess they spent a lot of money on this sequence, because we stay here for a while. (There are some brief glimpses of LuAnn in the other settings, but they’re really not necessary. She has breasts. We get it.) For a scene that’s presumably supposed to be erotic, those guys lounging on the bed couldn’t be more disinterested. (I haven’t seen that much boredom since Ann Coulter tried to share another one of her vapid opinions.) These guys are clearly not hot for teacher.

That doesn’t stop LuAnn, however. She loves herself so much that she simply can’t fathom the possibility that anyone with a pulse wouldn’t instantly worship her on sight. To prove this, we now have a montage of various menfolk being allowed to touch LuAnn for a second or two, because she’s all about letting the little people have a moment of glory. (The men all respond to this opportunity with professional adoration and feigned lust, but I’m assuming that once the director hollered “Cut!” they all raced to a decontamination chamber, screaming.)

We wind up the video with LuAnn doing another spoken-word bit where she babbles once again about the class that she doesn’t have, including a segment where she grunts out a fake laugh that is the most emotionless sound ever heard on the planet. This is followed up by a quick re-visit to the Shawshank bed where terrified men have been chained to the mattress and forced to appear aroused, and a final run through the crappy nightclub where you don’t dare order a beer or Countess AutoTune will snatch it out of your hands and destroy your dreams.

We close with LuAnn (courtesy of the computer program that is desperately trying to modulate the heinousness of her screech-voice) bellowing “Money Can’t Buy You Class” while she visibly restrains herself from kissing her own ass.

No, honey. Money can’t make your wrongs right. Thank you for proving that…

 

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Originally published on 04/09/13, revised and updated with extra flair for this post.

 

Levitating Beds and a Jacked-Up Tree: The Mynabirds – “Body of Work”

Mynabirds Body of Work

We start out with a woman sprawled across a bed in some forest, her hair dangling off the side of the mattress in a forlorn manner, but before we can ask her if she needs any assistance, we quickly cut to somebody doing something with drumsticks, and then to a woman fiddling around with lots of square mirrors suspended from trees. We’re only 8 seconds into the video and I have no idea what’s going on, but at least we’re not in a dance club so this video is already better than 97% of the videos out there.

More anonymous drumming, some schizophrenic imagery of what I’m starting to think might be the lead singer (or maybe just someone who has questionable access to video-editing equipment), and a barefoot woman running away from what little plot there is. Back to the bed, where the previously very-tired woman has swallowed some type of stimulant and is belting out the lyrics of the song.  This is followed by some more shots of bare feet, this time re-enacting the Lucy Ricardo grape-stomping scene of yore, only there’s no grapes or Lucy or rustic Italian-peasant attire. Just feet and mud. This is one of those things that seems like a good idea at the time, but then somebody has to hose you down when you’re done.

A woman that we haven’t met before briefly struts past the camera and then disappears, which is kind of rude, but she may have urgent things to take care of somewhere that doesn’t involve a forest.  Another lady is trying to take our picture, but she’s using one of those old-school cameras the size of a Buick and we don’t have time for that, cutting back to the woman on the bed. Bed-woman seems to have a lot of issues, but I guess we’ll have to get back to that later, because the woman who disappeared suddenly re-appears, smiling invitingly at us, so her agent must have told her to get her ass back on the set and make nice with people.

More drumming and more hanging mirrors that don’t seem to have a purpose, then we get a long shot of Bed-Woman and we immediately understand one of her issues. The bed is floating several feet above the forest floor, which is kind of festive if you’ve taken the right pharmaceuticals, but rather annoying if you’re just trying to catch some shut eye before the concert later tonight. No wonder Bed-Woman is pounding on the mattress with her aggressive-looking drumsticks. She needs a ladder, stat.

Oh wait, maybe she’s not that upset about the altitude, because now she’s smiling a lot and flopping around on the bed with enthusiasm and gazing at herself in yet another mirror. (Apparently mynabirds like reflections, write that down.) And the next scene shows that they also like to hold up and look through decaying windows whilst a strange man squats behind them and hugs them around the ass. (No idea, but they both seem to be having a good time, especially the Ass-Man.) Then we have a nice montage of random eyeballs, the woman with the camera, Bed-Woman banging her sticks together, someone who may or may not have just sat on a very stimulating pinecone (look at that expression on her face, that surely means sexual release, right?), and some disembodied hands clapping.

Did I mention pharmaceuticals?

The montage continues, with several barefoot women and some dorkily-dressed men frolicking about in a handy stream, the Pinecone Woman eating leaves off an odd branch (I get hungry after nature sex as well), the Bed-Woman temporarily out of the bed and wearing a nice frock while she holds up lit sparklers, and a group of three new women (just how many Mynabirds are there?) doing a line dance that involves dramatic poses and thigh-slapping.

We check in on Bed-Woman, now properly back in her bed, and she’s still doing the same thing, using sticks and a floating bed and even more mirrors to tell the story of something unsatisfactory that happened in the Ozark Mountains. Cut to a woman who may have fallen and can’t get up, a brief shot of clouds, another group of women who seem very invested in jumping, more random trees, Bed-Woman using a telescope to see if anyone is paying attention to her drama on the daybed, more trees, more mirrors, and the never-ending usage of drumsticks.

Montage #37: A trio of colorfully-dressed women sneakily creep down an embankment toward that stream where people were previously dancing, looking like piñatas up to no good, more mirrors, more exuberant jumping, a shot of what might be Lisa Kudrow wondering when she will ever score another part like “Phoebe”, clouds, the piñata people launching three paper boats on the stream (is this a tribute to Columbus?), a woman spewing glitter dust out of her mouth (pharmaceuticals!), and a woman sitting in a jacked-up tree and gazing into yet another mirror with the passion of Maya Angelou writing a poem about the mystical inner-strength of women who sit in jacked-up trees.

Uh oh, Bed-Woman is out of the bed again, waving those lit sparklers around in a dangerous manner. We should probably tell someone, I’m just not sure who that would be.

Then we have a nice bit where the line-dancers are back, doing something interpretive with their hands and hips. Wait a minute, one of the dancers from the original scene is missing. Is this like Dreamgirls? (“And I’m telling you, I’m not leaving this forest!” Then whoops, she gone.) Brief bit with a woman who might have starred in The Ring standing near two trees, followed by another brief bit with a solo dancer who might not be listening to the same song that we are, and finally a man apparently freaking out and waving his arms about. (What, is this too much estrogen for you? Are you in the Republican party?)

Oh wait, Freak-Out Man was apparently the introductory dancer to a sequence where everyone appears to have at least minimally lost their minds, gyrating and flailing like they really mean business. (Mixed in with this are shots of Bed-Woman still pounding and what might be summer-camp photos from a camp that never really existed.) This culminates in a big-ass dance off where lots of people are jumping around in a field that was apparently adjacent to a Janis Joplin concert in 1969.

Another shot of clouds rolling across the sky, reminding us that Mother Nature loves us all even if we do extraordinarily unusual things at times, then we cut to one of the Mynas sitting amongst some foliage and whipping her hair around with enough frenzy to power Newark for the next three months.  (That girl is going to need some pain-killers at the wrap party, for sure.)

More sparklers.

More jumping.

And we roll into the final montage with Bed-Woman properly ensconced back in her Levitating Slumber Slab of Freedom, more mirrors, some mess with people running along and waving homemade flags, Jacked-Up Tree Woman looking at us like we just said something insipid during the Summer Solstice passion play, something about a half-door that leads to a pond that might have algae-buildup issues, and another review of the Janis Jumpers as they whirl around like the Von Trapp family just ate mushrooms on an Austrian mountaintop.

We close it out with all of the Mynas and their Myna-friends standing in formation and wistfully gazing up at the sun. The sun gazes wistfully back at them, but doesn’t say anything. Because it can’t. The Mynas wait. The sun waits. Then somebody hollers “Cut!” and everybody runs to pack their bags for The Burning Man festival…

 

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Originally published on 04/28/13, revised and updated with extra flair for this post.

A Shocking Absence of Lemon Garnishes: Adele – “Rolling In the Deep”

Adele Rolling In The Deep

  We start off with Adele sitting in a chair, in what might be a hotel conference room, as long as that hotel is somewhere vaguely European. It seems we have some remodeling going on in this hotel, since some of the furniture is covered in plastic and such, but nobody is standing around explaining anything, so who knows. What we do know is that Adele is sporting a hair bun that could easily take over the planet. This makes me a little tense.

We start getting jump shots of a Ninja Woman in another room where there seems to be mounds of snow on the floor. It’s not clear if this is an artsy statement about local weather conditions or an advertisement about the availability of inhalant drugs in this community. Cut to a shot involving thousands of water glasses covering the floor of an otherwise nondescript lobby in said hotel. This makes me think that lazy waiters have not adequately attended to parched customers in the hotel restaurant, and it saddens me.

Then we have a drummer, banging on his instruments while shoved under an obscure staircase. The mystical nature of his origin story is not immediately evident. Has he been bad? Is he in timeout? Or does he just not understand that this is probably not an appropriate place to beat on things?

We get more shots of the brimming water glasses. They are vibrating to the beat of the song, which might be triggering their reproductive instincts and thus explaining why there are so many of them. This is a potentially important development, I’m just not sure why.

At 35 seconds into the fun, we have a tribute to R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” video, with crinkled paper taped to a wall, moody lighting and an array of inexplicable props. This is very cool, if they planned it. Not so much if they didn’t. And why is Adele unable to get up from her chair? Is she scared of water? There’s certainly enough of it around.

Oh look, that Ninja Woman has had enough of the snow, and she starts to… I’m not sure what she’s doing. I don’t know if that’s a leaf blower or a walking cane, but she’s using it in a violent manner on the pretty snowflakes. I think there might be some issues that we don’t comprehend, and probably shouldn’t question. Just let the woman work it out.

Meanwhile, Adele’s hair bun continues to dominate the world.

Okay, we start getting glimpses of some shattered crockery piled up on the floor. It’s never a good sign when you encounter hillocks of violated dinnerware, but let’s see where this goes. Well, it seems that somebody is at the top of a staircase and hurling cups and saucers at a conveniently-placed movie-screen thing, which is resulting in the Pottery Barn fallout on the floor. Since we can’t see the person destroying things while trying to remain hidden and escape blame, I’m going to guess this person is Sarah Palin.

We roll into a montage, with jump shots of culinary destruction, Adele still captive in her chair despite the lack of visible restraints, twirling Ninja Woman with the negative attitude about frozen precipitation, and that drummer who really doesn’t understand that he’s probably not in the right spot if he wants to gain a following. Why can’t he simply go start a band page on Facebook just like 70 million other bands?

Oh, and we have more shots of the glasses. The creepy water glasses all lined up and staring at us with their uniformity and rabbit-like population explosion. And not a single one of them has a lemon wedge. I really don’t care for those things. Just say no.

This goes on for a while. Hair bun, plate-smashing, Ninja ballet and inappropriate drumming. I’m sure there are people watching this who can figure out all of the symbolism in about three seconds and then write a thirty-page essay on the structured allegory of it all, with references to Greek mythology and Enya. I’m not at that point just yet. Apparently I didn’t take the right classes in college or maybe something happened in kindergarten that stunted my ability to process water-based imagery.

Finally, we get something new, with the camera zooming in on what might be a model of the New York City skyline, arranged on a fancy table in a room with discarded deer antlers piled on the left side. Before we have enough time to study the model and figure out where the best subway entrances might be, we have to go back and check up on Bun, Ninja, Drummer, and Glasses. They all seem to still be invested in their original assignments, so we don’t learn anything new.

Brief shots of some ceiling medallions involving man-horses shooting arrows at unseen targets. I’m going to guess that this symbolizes record producers. Or maybe Adele just has a fondness for beastly men with archery skills. But she certainly doesn’t get out of her chair and hand them her phone number.

Suddenly, back at the NYC Skyline Table, somebody sets off what might be sparklers on the ceiling, and flaming bits of some such shower down on the buildings. That’s nice. Like the people of New York appreciate reminders that crap can fall from the sky and force them to make updates in their daily planners. Oh, and it gets better. While Bun, Ninja, Drummer and Crockery continue to cavort, some of the model buildings actually catch on fire and melt. Insensitive, much?

Then again, I wasn’t asked to participate in the planning sessions for this video, probably because I drink too much and they knew I would take too long to answer my emails. So it’s entirely possible that I’ve missed the boat here, with Adele and her producers focused on a vision that has nothing to do with terrorists and disruption of wireless service, and more to do with an embittered woman getting her musical revenge whilst trapped in a hotel where thirsty people are not satisfied.

Final shot is of Adele and her belligerent hair sitting in silence, staring at the floor. She’s probably wondering just how the hell they are going to pay yet another hotel bill where some fool in her posse thought it would be fun to throw plates down a staircase…

 

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Originally published on 04/2011, revised and updated with extra flair for this post.