When I’m in Paris on the weekends, I usually stay in my apartment and enjoy my own company by doing things I love–like scrubbing surfaces and trying to moonwalk. When I’m rich, or even not, I am going to have a maid come in. I will have everything clean, but I want to walk around with glazed eyes and a white glove and pretend to see imaginary grime, then, when the maid starts groveling, I will say, “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the dirt!” Basically, I want to be Joan Crawford. Anyway, I love cleaning and Sundays are my cleaning days.
Unfortunately, Jessica does not share my enthusiasm for spending a few hours making everything sparkle and all my attempts to turn her into a housewife from the 1950s, like me, have failed. I don’t think I will be able to change her.
Sadly, for all my domestic greatness, I have managed to turn half the towels in the apartment a lovely shade of powder blue. Personally, I think the color is an upgrade to boring white, but I’m not so sure the owners will feel the same. I will have to get some new towels. But, my socks and shirts are also this lovely blue!
The only thing we had planned for the day was going to the Virgin Megastore at ten o’clock for the Lady Gaga party. There was going to be a lookalike contest and then a DJ and then Born This Way was to be released at the stroke of midnight. There was no force of nature that could keep me away from a Gaga lookalike contest, and Jessica begrudgingly consented to go. She would much rather stay burrowed away in her messy room, but I must make her do things.
So, Jessica and I spent the day writing a pop song about the rapture. Post-apocalyptical references are very popular in music these days, so are dance floors, getting tipsy, and clocks. So, we combined all those elements and vomited up a song called Rapture. Honestly, lyrically, I don’t think it’s any worse than songs you hear on the radio. Have you ever actually listened to the songs on the radio–that stuff’s crazy. Sadly, I only have limited experience with Garageband, so my beats aren’t quite as sick as the production on a Lady Gaga album or Ke$ha, but it wasn’t horrible. Jessica hasn’t recorded her rap yet, so it’s just me. This is me live, no tweaking. I wouldn’t have said no to autotune, but I haven’t perfected that yet, so, without further ado, well, a little ado, ado, here is the song we are sure is about to sweep the iTunes dance charts.
[I’ll figure out how to link this later, lo siento.]
You enjoyed that, didn’t you?
The day was passing by slowly and quickly, we had soup for dinner again and once again it was amazing. Best tomato soup ever.
I watched people walk by the window awhile, and there is nothing worse than a tourist in strap-on sandals carrying an earmarked library copy of Rick Steve’s Europe 2005. Nothing in the world.
As time drew closer for us to leave, I wondered if I should perhaps try out for this Lady Gaga lookalike contest. I contemplated my wardrobe, the closest thing I had to anything remotely Gaga was a denim jacket, but sadly, my jacket lacked a unicorn made of sequins. All the shops were closed, so there was nothing to do but not try out. If I had known what the costumes were going to be, I would have hopped in a dumpster for a few minutes and put something together and won.
We arrived at the Virgin Megastore just as the show was starting, Jessica was immediately unenthused, wanted to leave, and was uninterested in watching, so she scuttled off somewhere towards the Arche de Triomphe. I could not understand why she wouldn’t just watch. It was amusingly bad. I will now present you with horrible photos of the contestants:
The drag queen in the blue one piece came in second place. Thomas was robbed! I am never happy when a drag queen loses. She was one of the only ones who actually resembled Gaga. Instead, they chose Mika, the guy wrapped in saran wrap, saying that he best embodied the spirit of Gaga, he didn’t imitate her. Uh, sorry, Mr. Official Gaga Remixer (That’s an actual job, by the way. I know!) we all thought this was a lookalike contest. Whatevs.
Now it was time for the DJ and the Gaga dance party in the middle of the Virgin store. I was looking forward to this. The music started and nobody moved. I mean nobody. We all looked around uncomfortably at each other, each of us asking, “Do I really have to get this going? Can’t you?” Everybody began tapping their feet after a while, then once in a while somebody would bust a move or toss their arms in the air, but it was sporadic. Only once in a while did we all shake our butts at the same time. Even though the dancing left a lot to ask for, there was something wonderfully charming about it. I mean, how can you not be happy when there are about two hundred gay men, old women, and preteens trying to sing a complex English song with a French accent? You can’t. When the guy next to you starts shouting, “God mavey no meeeskates. I vas vorn dis way, baby,” you can’t help but smile.
This went on for an hour. Jessica was becoming less and less amused by the second. We did French & Saunders dancing for awhile whenever the camera would come around. The video should be online sometime, I’ll post a link when I find it. I enjoyed the DJ, too. He was terrible. Every ten seconds he would throw his headphones off and point at us. Nobody pointed back at him. Then, he would put the headphones back on. I’m not a DJ, I would love to be one, by the way–hire me, but I’m wondering what the headphones did for him? He didn’t tweak the songs either, he just hit play and looked at the lights. I found his incompetence amusing.
As midnight neared, the host and the Official Gaga Remixer took to the stage to discuss the new album. The remixer told us that Gaga was inspired by Édith Piaf and that she could sing many of her songs by heart. Well, bitches, so can I. He also told us that she had found a new French artist called Gagita. It was a joke, but nobody laughed, even the DJ looked embarrassed.
Then all of a sudden we were counting down the seconds. 3…2…1…and then mad dashing it towards the checkout. I didn’t do too poorly, probably back five people, but I budged around like French people do, they see a mile in three inches, and got myself up and was soon in the proud possession of Gaga’s new album. It was absolutely bitching.
Jessica was absolutely delighted to leave and we were soon back on the Métro reading over the track list. It all sounded great.
Because I bought the special edition version, I was entitled to a free entrance to Gaga night at the Queen club. Swell, I thought, that should be an interesting experience and fully intended on going, but then read my ticket and discovered that it was happening as I was reading and there was no way I was leaving the apartment.
I shoved the disk in the computer and discovered that it was wonderful. Thank you, Gaga, you have a masterpiece.