People, I am overwhelmed. I must let it out. I have things to say. Feelings to admit. Special feelings, for a special lady. A special lady named Lady Gaga.
Even though I've gone about six years without network cable (not out of principal, mind you, but because I am broke and busy), and even though I only listen to the same scratched-up CDs over and over again in my car, an outside voice eventually came through to me, through shopping mall speakers and episodes of the Office. The voice said "Just dance. It'll be okay."
I agreed. I danced. And you know what? It was okay.
In March of 2009, I googled this voice and discovered that it belonged to Ms. Gaga. Normally, I don't care enough about musicians to delve deeper, unless a guitarist is particularly attractive. At which point I surf for a good photo of him in leather pants and make him my desktop wallpaper. But Gaga inexplicably sank all these little glittery hooks into me and I continued my search. At first, I was wary of her excessive use of the color taupe. But other recurring elements had me YouTubing like mad. What's with the lightning bolt? How about that fingers-around-the-eye hand move she keeps doing? What IS a disco stick? There are two Great Danes in every video. What does all of this mean?!?!
After further mesmerized, uneducated research, I decided that Ms. Gaga was an admirable person since she writes/plays/designs/conceptualizes most of her own material (even to an apathetic, passive music enjoyer like myself, that shit is impressive). But that isn't what made me fall in love. Lady Gaga knew what she wanted early on in life. She took on crappy waitressing jobs to make time for her art. Now she designs pantless outfits with moving parts and sings shamelessly about masochism. She hops from boyfriend to girlfriend and scoffs when interviewers ask her if she wants kids. My heart was sold. I clean toilets five days a week so that I'll have brain-power left at the end of the day to do what I really love. I would projectile-vomit my own uterus if it were humanly possible. And we all know by now that I detest wearing pants. So this information excited me.
I felt like an impressionable nine-year-old at a school motivational assembly. I've never had a proper celebrity role model. When asked "Who would you want to meet?" and all that BS growing up, I always had some cop-out answer like Jesus or Ghandi. Jesus and Ghandi are both great and all, and I want to mitigate suffering as much as the next guy, but I also want to write a popular fantasy series and bask in the delight of my reader base. I want it. I want it bad. And suddenly here before me is this woman, born on this earth only two weeks before me, who got what she wanted and who is not apologizing to anyone. And you can just tell, when fire shoots out of her metal bra or when she is man-handling some latex slave backup dancer, that she is fucking loving it. She is in love with her awesome self. And more of us should be.
So now, when I get a form rejection letter or I consider that it might take ten years and twenty re-writes to ever get published, I say to myself, "Tom, would Lady Gaga be laying here in bed, listening to the Postal Service and eating cookie dough in the dark and feeling sorry for herself? No. No she would not. She would get up, put on her pantless space-suit, and grab this situation by the balls, and she would cover anyone who stood in her way with fake blood. Now get the hell up and make your shit happen."
Someday I'd like to thank the Lady in person for this real and pure impact she's unknowingly made. I would also love to wrestle with her in jello or take her shoe shopping, but I like to keep my goals broad and attainable. Other aspirations must remain fantasies. Like the one where Lady GaGa rides up in platinum armor atop a rhinestone-studded horse, bitch-slaps me over the saddle, and takes me back to her dark, eerie, neon-streaked kingdom, where she loves me forever and makes me the chief mistress of her man stable.
Because you KNOW Lady Gaga's kingdom would so totally have a man stable.