Generally my music-scene knowledge is limited to movie-soundtrack composers, songs I hear on TV, and bands that were around when I was thirteen (Roxette 4ever!). However, once in a while I will see someone and think, “I must find out about this person AT ONCE.”

Her name is Lady Gaga, and she kicks everyone’s ass in this room.

This girl is awesome-slash-nuts-slash-a-total-social-construct. Also, she’s a stalagmite.

Lady Gaga is a 22-year-old (!) pop star, who got her start writing songs for the Pussycat Dolls and Britney Spears at some obscene age like 13. She got her own recording contract, and now has a Haus of Gaga that she’s modeled after Warhol, where everything from production to fashion design is apparently churned out by magical underage pixies who know how to make stalagmites stick to dresses.

Also, her songs are genius. They may not be good from the perspective of enduring history, but these are precision-tuned electropop that is tested by scientists to make sure it bores its way directly into your brain and remains their until you drip blood out of your eye like in a J-horror.

She’s too raunchy at times for my taste (I’m eighty-five, I think everyone’s too raunchy), but I do like that she seems totally in control of her own image. Everything about her is patently, gloriously false; you know you’re never getting to “the real” because she never presents it. She presents bows made out of hair and huge Grace Jones shoulder pads and face armor and masks made out of mirrors. (And that’s just Tuesday.) She says things in interviews like, “You can’t have love and art,” which is sort of sweet coming from a 22-year-old. But when you’re wearing the enormous black patent shoulder pads, it probably behooves you to seem self-confident and world-weary.

To conclude: I am not sure I even like Lady Gaga, but I can appreciate someone whose entire life is performance art. Especially when they’re in bows-out-of-hair and leotards and huge hoods and nude fishnets and five-inch heels, and I’m at home in my pajamas.

A glimpse of her aesthetic: this song, Poker Face, is 90% word salad, 20% teal Grace Jones leotards, 30% face armor, and 10% Great Danes.

Disclaimer: I don’t care about Valentine’s Day except that it gives me a chance to make a list post. I am the Switzerland of Valentine’s day. (Unless people ask me if I’m excited for my “name day,” and then I sigh, because seriously, that joke was old in fourth grade, it’s old now.)

- Michael Fassbender. You inexplicably turn me all caps, big guy. Can’t wait to see you in your disastrous Wuthering Heights next year.

- Star Fleet wallets. I am the bird! (God, did I ever leave the house as an adolescent? Don’t answer that.)

- Family and friends. Dear Mom, I love you so much. Sorry I’m not changing my name. Apologize to Grandma for me.

- Fassbender, my portable computer. It allows me to be rude in public whenever I want.

- My TV. It took away the dialogue track for this week’s Eleventh Hour. It was amazing. Graeme Revell, one of my favorite composers, gave me a little concert, and I got to see the worst arch-enemy arc in recent memory. See for yourself at Tor.com!

ETA: And I never have to watch another episode of Dollhouse now that I turned in my opinion piece to Fantasy, which makes this day practically Thanksgiving!

Yesterday I promised to write about monster trucks for people who hated costumes, and I got called out on it. So, guess what I’m writing about today!

I will say that before I started researching monster trucks, I had no inking of the monster truck culture except that they like to yell in their commercials, and that their events always take place on Sunday.

…uh, it goes way beyond that.

First of all, monster trucks and their owners work in Westminster Dog Show teams, and the web sites all read like the moments during the show where the on-air commenters talk about how the dogs are thinking and feeling things. Typical monster-truck blurb:

Known by the glowing red headlights, Dennis Anderson and the Grave Digger have been thrilling fans for over 20 years.

So, what have I learned?

Monster trucks are alive, that’s what!

Alive and reaching out for you! These arms can crush 20 empty, matte-painted cars!

Those arms are 3D, too, you know. They are not playing.

Every monster truck site has shots of the truck that look like American Kennel Club registration photos:

Here, last year’s winner of the Best in Group – Non-Sporting. With that shiny coat, it’s no mystery why she won.

Some truck-parents take the more photojournalistic approach:

So much feeling in those eyes; it’s almost like they’re human, sometimes.

Of course, it’s not all work and play for these gentle beasts. They are playful pets, and are happiest when they can socialize with one another. And of course, there’s no beating the cuteness when two trucks are playing together:

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head…

Jokes are often made about “stage mothers” taking the whole event too seriously. People worry: aren’t these adorable trucks over-groomed, over-stimulated, and over-competed? Shouldn’t they just be a family pet? Well, if you ask me, these proud parents could not take more care of their magnificent animals:

Look how happy that little buddy looks! These guys thrive on the spotlight.

Besides, there’s no reason to worry about the welfare of these beautiful babies; obviously safety is the first priority, and even in the show ring care is taken to make sure that things are smooth, uneventful, and perfectly safe:

…good doggy?

Lo, that was a serious con.

“Then I was all like, I’ll go to Comic Con Saturday, the busiest day, that’s not overwhelming or ill-advised whatsoever! Awesome!”
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We’re living in Strange Days! FINALLY.

Last night on the way home from the con, Nick and Justin and I got to see the Myvu ads plastered all over the 34th St station. The ads feature various smiling people with imaginary shows being beamed directly into the cortex. Someone had written “MIND CONTROL” over two of the ads, but there were dozens of ads, and I guess one Sharpie only goes so far.

The website, unfortunately, does not fully convey the effect of dozens of ads of people smiling blankly, their eyes hidden behind the lenses.

Oh, the future. You’re as creepy as I ever dreamed you could be.