Week 4: my guilty pleasure

First of all, most of my pleasures are guilty.

That said, I had to pick Lady Gaga for this post because the guilty pleasure she's given me is infectious. I like to say that it started as such and then became a full-on, paws-up, Little Monster passion, but I'd find it hard to declare to someone that I'm gradually learning every word to her songs. And until I have the balls to walk out onto the streets with my disco-bra on, I guess it'll remain a restrained passion, and a guilty pleasure.

Do I have to explain why it's guilty? My three roommates have football players on their walls. The only poster I've invested in this year displays Mother Monster's head transposed onto the front of a motorcycle, and it hangs above the foot of my bed. The roommates have yet to comment on it. At least while I'm present.

The pleasure part probably is owed some explanation. My best friends are metal-heads, I'm a metal-head, and all my other heroes are intellectuals and authors.

To get the obvious out of the way, who doesn't want to just dance to "Just Dance?" Yeah, and especially from the standpoint of a poet whose best friends are avid composers of technical death metal, it probably wasn't hard to write, but who gives a shit? Live a little.

But then we get to the part about disco sticks, meat dresses, drag kings, and "I'm a free bitch, baby." At times when I'm up until three in the morning listening to the Honors kids in the hallway doing their homework, making physics jokes, and having nothing to arrogantly pour about except their classes, Gaga is the angel who reassures me that there's sincerity left in the world. With enough effort, anyone can learn to use big words to show the world that they're special. It's not easy to discourage that. It takes utmost sincerity to dress in steak and sing about your vagina. Nobody would have the guts to do that just for attention.

Furthermore, too many people act like they don't sometimes want to take a ride on someone's disco-stick (or the feminine alternative). If Gaga can admit it on the radio, we can all admit it, and maybe we can all loosen up a little.

There's a sentimental side to it as well. I didn't have "Born This Way" growing up, and it came out just as I was finishing high school. I love Sylvia Plath and Suicide Silence, but what I need to hear when I'm feeling like a loser isn't The tongues of Hell are dull or What's it gonna be? Pull the trigger, bitch, it's I'm beautiful in my way, 'cause God makes no mistakes. Few artists simply make you feel like they love you. And if someone can get away with being a crazy bitch in front of the entire world for a living, then I can take a few risks.

Regardless, this hardly means I want to be seen mouthing the lyrics to “Dance in the Dark” while I'm working out in the gym.