I know you’ve got a forthcoming album to promote, so you’re going to have to give a gajillion interviews loaded with controversial statements, so that blogs will have something to write about, so that Twitter will get a new trending topic, so that you’ll generate more buzz, so that the wheels will get greased, so that the whole machine behind making you a pop star will get cranking, but I’m going to need you to stop talking for a while, okay?
Because every time I read another interview with you, I like you less and less. And I like you a lot. And I’d like it to stay that way. But it’s kind of impossible when you say things like you’re living in Brentwood because you can’t afford New York. Not that I’m not curious about why you’re living in Brentwood. But, as HuffPo pointed out, real estate there goes for $636 a square foot. You know what would be revolutionary and guerrilla-style? If you said something like, “I’m a mom now, and Brentwood’s safe” or “I’m rich now, where do you want me to live?” or “I like how unchallenging Brentwood is, I don’t have to be cool here” or even something hilariously bourgie like, “I picked Brentwood because I fell in love with this particular house.” You want to get heads spinning? Tell me you’re a Westside–and, uh, I don’t mean in the 2PAC sense–soccer mom. But tell me you’re living in Brentwood because you can’t afford other places, and I want to punch you, as Diana would say, in the neckmeat.
You’re an artist and a storyteller, and we love it when you embellish the truth–as the GQ profile I’m talking about points out you often do–but we don’t like it when you’re dishonest, not so much in the factual sense, but in the emotional sense. So the only solution for this that I can really see is less talking, more rocking my face off. Because when you’re rocking my face off, you are the real real, and I love you for it.
And while we’re on that subject, I think you’re 1 for 3 so far on the new album. Love XXXO, especially the remix with Jay-Z, hate Born Free and Steppin Up. The latter two tracks make me feel like I’m stuck in mud up to my knees, on some kind of horrible date-rape drug that may or may not make me acccidentally shit my pants.
Not that I’m a music critic, I’m just a fan. For now.
Ever tenuously yours,
Filed under: Brentwood Sucks, GQ, Ladies Who Rock, Lynn Hirschberg, M.I.A., M.I.A. GQ Interview, Maya Arulpragasam, Rocking My Face Off, Sri Lanka, STFU, Stop Talking, Tamils, Terrorism, Truffle Fries
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