Only, you fucking couldn't. This one wasn't even on Stub Hub, and the Hedge Fund weasels couldn't even pay $1,000 for a ticket as they could for BROOOOS.
It was the "after show" SNL party at the renovated Plaza Hotel, just a quick limo or cab ride from Rockefeller Center where the "Saturday Night Live" 40th Anniverary show was broadcast.
It was fucking COLD Sunday night, as it is TODAY. Like, nearly ZERO degrees last night and 5 degrees today with a bitter wind making it feel below ZERO.
Meaning, few energetic fan lunatics were going to hang around trying to get an autograph or photo of the privileged primping pussies on their way in, or the heavy hitter male stars young or old. Reportedly, it was only the giddy puppy Jimmy Fallon who rushed over to allow a few squealing girls to take selfies with him before he ducked inside. He went inside to...stand between Paul McCartney and Taylor Swift and indulge in his continuing karaoke fantasy of being a rock star.
Among the things disgusting about this amusement, is that we, the great unwashed outsiders, are supposed to blink and be content with blurry Instagram and YouTube videos.
At this classy red carpet event, there were actually dozens of fuckheads using their camcorders and cellphones? Why was that allowed? Oh, right, because NBC didn't bid for the rights to officially record and broadcast the party, and shitty bootlegging is always considered moral and proper. "Eh, it's just crappy bootleg quality. Fuck it. Fuck 'em. Fuck everybody."
Besides, it's good for that "you hadda be there, but you weren't and I was" vibe. It's also good for the vibe of "ok, so I wasn't there, but I'm getting to see it anyway, thanks to people taking the law into their own hands, which I'm never allowed to do but it's ok if they do it."
YouTube is making money, and Vivo and Instagram, all thanks to bootlegging.
The mystique continues, as we all think that the coolest thing in the world is to watch, from a blurry distance, rich pussies and pricks primp and pose and play. Our drab lives are enriched by...what, exactly? Living in a fantasy that somebody we'll have that wealth or fame, or maybe know somebody who'll know somebody who'll let us sneak in? Then we can pretend that watching Jimmy Fallon bully his way where he doesn't belong (with professional musicians) is entertaining??
The rich get richer, the have-nots get to have something, and all is well in the world. Or is it? It is, if you're Fallon, or Taylor Swift.
McCartney? He must be wondering about the loud ticking in his head, and that feeling of sand slipping through his fingers. How long before he can't hit the high notes? Before his voice gets permanently quavery? When the jowls start slipping again? When he trades on being "Beatle Paul" and a predominantly black audience stares without recognition even if he DID appear in a video with Kanye. How long before he staggers home and it's mid-afternoon when he wakes up, gets out of bed and drags a comb across his dye job?
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.