The newf and I had a big night on Friday.
Determined to revitalize our youth before losing it slowly with each mortgage payment, we planned a spontaneous evening over a breakfast date before work. (Nyawwwwww….we’re adorable). It was so exciting that I could barely contain myself all day – it was THAT good!
So after work – and our 6-8pm nap – we left the house. Left the house! AFTER 8PM!
We are clearly spiraling out of control. Oh – I should mention where we went.
Was it a club? A bar? A raging party? A secret outdoor sex ritual??
No – we went to the movies. A PG13 movie, no less.
We went to see Fame.
Have I successfully raped all the excitement and badassedness out of this post?
Perfect. Let’s continue.
So having seen the original Fame, I went expecting a feel good movie about the importance of eating disorders, the hidden benefits of moderate to high hard drug use, the cool factor of chain smoking and grade-related suicides that weed out the weak. And what did I get? WHAT DID I GET?
A happy-go-lucky movie about child stars being all popular, talented and successful.
What the Walt Disney is going on here?!
I don’t want to pay $10 to feel old, unsuccessful and untalented. I CAN DO THAT AT HOME FOR FREE. And you know what? I’m GLAD I had the proper upbringing that allows me to summon my own feelings of inadequacy thanks to the movies that I grew up with.
The original Fame taught me there are always going to be prettier, more talented, more successful, sluttier people than me and that should remain a constant source of embarrassment leading me to starve myself, smoke with abandon, and turn to cocaine in order to stay awake long enough to perfect my pas de bourrées.
Fosse fosse fosse…
And that onesies paired with jean jackets and headbands are always a winning choice.
Am I the only one concerned about where teenagers are going to get their dose of self-loathing and drive to be better than others? How else are they going to realize that you need to be thin, pretty and the best in order to survive and if you’re not, you might as well off yourself the night before the big recital?
Don’t tell me they’re going to learn how to be a tortured artist from a Jonas Brother…
I fear for the future, friends. I really do.
Now if you don’t mind, I need to go throw up, count my ribs, do a line, and stretch in a room full of mirrors whilst gawking at a shocking interracial couple.
Thanks Fame 1980.