by plermpt

Rihannah avoided the last leg of the red carpet in an outfit of ironic hillbilly (mullet and tattered white T) and took the furtive route in the cave behind it. In this way she became unbound by her security guards and the safety of the press fence when she passed me with the iciest stare on the carpet. I reached out to grab her red lips and missed, instead smearing her makeup along her nose and cheek. Someone with a high pitched voice screamed, and I crouched behind the satellite truck and licked her lipstick from my palm like a rat lapping a puddle of vodka.

I saw so many lebrities on the red carpet at the MTV VMA’s last week (thanks to my friend, Denis) : Billy and Jason Pinkett, Taylor Swiss, Ladie Gah Gah, Kaylie Perry, Swiss Khalifa, One Dimension, Selma Gometz, Two Chain, Jasen Timperlake, Jody Hi-Roller, Sahara, J.G Levitt, Sedric the Entertainer, Birman, Dray, Miley Ray, Riannah, Mikal Moore x Bryan Lewis, Adam Lampert, FlyLo, Juicy Jay, Ferrell, asap ricky, demi lovabo, 30 seconds of Mars, Robin Stick….

…and I gave myself one week to make sense of the resulting nightmares that have only become more intense and incomprehensible.

(Editor’s Note: The dreams posted to this blog are the result of a vigorous technique of recollection, and never completely accurate. Most dreams dreamed are like a complex series of frenetic and intertwining circuits, with pulses of narrative, emotion, imagery, character, fun, memory, fear etc. moving in a directionless flaneur across zones held within sensitive, sentient dimensions that become insulted when the triviality of language is used in attempt to summarize or explain what is likely a closer feeling to believing in “God” than anything experienced in this physical world.)

Naturally a quiet type, I lit up the red carpet with never-before-seen abandon by sassing the passing lebrities in a way that every prospective talk show host would envy, proving my indifference and obliviousness to the existence of their skills and fame. Though I received some eye rolls and side glances, the hippo inside me is a whore for the glamor and just as taken as every tween in attendance.

Until last week my knowledge of pop culture has been completely unintentional. Now my interest is sincere after becoming overwhelmed by the collective hype of glimpse catching false gods in their fragile human frames. I’ve jacked myself into the mainstream without the assistance of a television by subscribing to TMZ on YT. What used to live in my periphery without my consent now occupies my focus as I thoroughly examine Miley Ray’s transformation and the history of Nysync’s dissolution and reunification through the following queries:

– personal history vs public memory

-the difference between public image and personal image

-the importance of maintaining relevance for a pop star

-how much of one’s art’s relevance is dictated by current trends or by corporate sponsors or personal choice

-How many millions of people can be satisfied by a group of a couple hundred beautiful faces, bodies, voices?

These pop stars represent a life of coolness not a life of music. For the past week I became captured by their coolness, which is why I can understand how the mainstream settles for comfort over the pursuit of passion when they choose to give their taste to Viacom and believe that the preconception for happiness is watching somebody sexy on the flat screens we keep in our laps, in our beds, in our air conditioning. These public enigmas serve as fuel for conversations between strangers at parties or friends in the workplace, while they sleep on the cool kids who never bend to the suggestions of a marketing analyst. But the cool kids wouldn’t be cool if they were pushing for attention outside the music itself. This is truth. Respect goes to the heroes and the outsiders. Dreams remain unexplained. No new knowledge gained.