Down the Tubes

I guess you wonder where I been. I searched to find a love within. I came back to let you know. Got a thing for you, and I can't let go.

Not really, but I'm listening to Bobby Caldwell circa 1979 and I'm feeling kind of sentimental. I found the video on You Tube by accident. One of those random links that somehow popped up as they do only on You Tube. You start out looking for the Smiths. That turns into guinea pigs dancing to Jungle Boogie from Pulp Fiction, which leads to Filipino prison inmates doing the Thriller dance complete with a man in a halter top playing Michael Jackson's love interest. That led me directly to the Bollywood version of Thriller, which was actually really scary. I don't think they were faking being dead.

I've learned a lot since diving into You Tube four years after everybody else. Apparently, I am not the only person who thinks her cat is way more fascinating than she actually is. My cat really is spectacular, despite her crossed eye. And those who've seen the photos on my cell phone will back me up. Making bird noises at a moth, however, is not what I would consider post-worthy. Neither are the clips of meows with subtitles that translate what the cat is supposedly saying. To the person who showed video "proof" that his cat meowed a cover of Gimme More while he shook the bag of Meow Mix: What your cat actually said was "Dude, put down the pipe." Nevertheless, I watched about a mini-series worth of cats mewing in tongues. Loser? I prefer the term media anthropologist.

I never did watch that Chris Crocker guy cry about Britney Spears' disastrous performance at the VMA's. I'm so sure. I was busy watching the Bee Gees perform Jive Talkin' in what looked like white full-body Speedos with plunging necklines. Tragedy indeed. I'm pretty sure no one was wearing underwear. That led to the obligatory walk down Saturday Night Fever memory lane. What exactly is someone if she is More Than a Woman? A hermaphrodite? Sensory flashbacks of my stepfather dancing to Donna Summer forced me to move on or I would have been in the disco round all night.

When I see children at Target I usually despise them. If they aren't already screaming, they or some close to them will surely start within seconds. And when one starts they all start -- like all the neighborhood dogs barking simultaneously when they hear a siren. It's just what Target does to children. Like the moon and werewolves. I want no part of it. On You Tube, however, people post their kids being hilarious, precocious and just straight up crazy. Why do we think it so funny when kids swear or slap their fathers across the camera? I admit I was laughing. But I also saw stuff I don't think Children and Youth Services should know about. Then again, teenybopper slut pageants are legal, so what do I know? Besides, the secret to success for girls these days seems to include telling the press you're a virgin while simulating sex onstage.

I admit I haven't actually looked for anything of real educational or spiritual value, so I don't know if it exists. Of course, I do place value on things like being able to watch Tim Curry belt out Sweet Transvestite while I'm at the library studying. And Jesus singing I Will Survive inspired me -- as an artist. When I was in ninth grade my mother decided that our illegal MTV had ruined me. Madonna. My mother was clear. I wasn't supposed to be like a virgin. I was supposed to be a virgin. I was forced to wear pantyhose and attend a Christian youth group where nobody would talk to me. I sat there silently, trying to memorize bible quotes, playing with my black rubber bracelets. I knew that one day I would grow up and say whatever I wanted to say even if it was stupid. Okay, not true. I always thought my running commentary was brilliant. Like a cat who meows Britney Spears on the Internet. And I guess that's what we're all doing these days. We're having our say and convinced that we are fabulous.