I am so ashamed.

I have tried so hard to create an intellectual profile. I have written entry after entry mixing semiotics with symbolism, the occult, culture, ecology, romanticism and depression. I have made my eyes bleed and my brains (the what?!?) melt with the effort to be serious and badass. Well now I am about to toss everything out of the window. I am deeply ashamed but will admit it regardless of the consequences, regardless of what people will think of me. I will fear no criticism and no comments, I will bear the pain, So yes- the cat is out of the hat now.

I LOVE CINEMA BIZARRE.
 
I love the fact they are over the top, gay, fluffy, glittery and absolutely-not-serious entertainment. I appreciate the ridiculous statements they make, i.e. "style is war". You bet YOUR style is war- to all 'manly' common sense. And I LOVE THAT. I am fascinated by the fact the singer looks like a rather ugly yet attractive woman and behaves like an annoyed schoolgirl primadonna. I worship the gay GOD Luminor who plays keys and just exists to be gorgeous in front of the camera and I will be sooooooooooo sad if he indeed leaves the band. I ogle the guitarist who wanders around in lives without his shirt on to make little girls squeal. Finally, I love the fact they try so hard to look like a j-rock visual kei band and miss their target by miles, thus accidentally creating a whole new genre: gay glam rock. I adore their style, pose and music because they are so fake and artificial and exaggerated that it is a crime of irrational proportions against any 'serious' music.

To shed some light on this mystery, I also adore Oscar Wilde. He once said, "to regain my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early or become respectable." Cinema Bizarre are somehow all the ridiculous and nonsensical and artistically incorrect things combined together in one band. And this makes them perfect. It makes them ideal to wear on a t-shirt, especially if the person wearing it is of the over thirty variety like I am. Guaranteed to scare away any suitors looking for a good wife and mother of their children. Also guaranteed to scare away all those humorless types that appreciate strictly high culture and only manage to take a shit once a month. (There are rumors Alexander the Great and Adolf Hitler were also chronic cases of constipation, you know. I mean, if you can't possibly take a good honest crap like other people, you are bound to make someone pay for it.) Also guaranteed to make you appreciate irony, rapidly lose face and self respect and finally the last of your worries concerning how cultured you are. Like admitting in front of a full auditorium that you like to sniff your socks and underwear when you take them off. Or that you actively support extreme right wing politics. Something as bad anyway, guaranteed to stigmatize you for the rest of your life...

Okay, here is a video by Cinema Bizarre. You have been forewarned. After watching it, you'll be seeing little shiny thingies dancing in your peripheral vision for days to come. Those are glitterons and glamerons, particles emitted by such bands. If you are a boy, the glamerons will affect you in an irreversible and possibly fatal way, changing your brain wave length and forcing you to wear nothing but tiny tank tops and skirts with sequins and feathers for the rest of your life. If you are a girl, then glitterons will enter your body and will make you a faithful sexual slave to Cinema Bizarre till your last days. The only catch is that you won't be able to ever do something about it because they are all probably mostly gay. (No offense intended, I was affected by glitterons too so I feel your pain.)

Hey! Did I actually refer to the fact their music is very enjoyable?

I can't.

I can't put my finger on what's bothering me. I have been like this for days. It's like I am expecting something but I am not expecting anything, anymore. I simply exist in the center of a whirlwind. Envelopes arrive in the post-their contents fail to keep my interest for more than an half an hour at most. E-mails arrive in my inbox- I feel dissatisfied and bored to even read them, let alone answer them. People arrive at my doorstep- I chit chat and go with the flow. I don't really care.

It's not like I sit flat on my ass doing nothing. I am doing more and more important things than ever before in my life, but I somehow lost the silver thread that connects me to reality and my feelings. I run around like a headless chicken, confused to the utmost and delirious with need for something I cannot identify or capture. Someone may say to me that I need to find a partner, fall in love again- last time was in 2000. I will not accept this. I am my own center, my own person. If this happens again, it does, if it doesn't, it doesn't. And anyway, I need more than those pale imitations of people that I see around me to fall in love again. I know the one I need, but he is so many miles and months away that it's like he lives in a different reality. So love is out of the question, and lust is not my cup of tea. What now?

Go on, I suppose. Eat lots of ice cream to deal with the hormones and punch all my pillows to deal with the disappointment. Right? Right.

Wrong.

Random thoughts- or, mad with this portion of the universe.

All those males who drive their car in a small street of a quiet suburb as if they participate in the fucking Dakar rally, making so much noise. Adding turbo engines and nuclear power units to the equivalent of a bathtub on wheels. Why not stick a big paper on their windscreen stating the obvious? "Desperate-Please help! I haven't scored for three years now. Don't remember what female genitalia look like." Admitting your problem is halfway to the solution-without referring to the fact some woman may take pity on you and save my ears from the pain and my eyes from bad taste pollution.

For those of you who wonder what I am talking about, you have seen these guys. They are a subspecies of subhuman driving a vehicle that looks like a crossover between an oversized ninja turtle and a miniature baroque spaceship. Those vehicles can also be traced from their strictly blueish lights. If you have not figured it out, those special lights are a way to signal to their mother ship, in the hope it will come and collect those poor EIFOWs who got stranded here by accident.

[EIFOW= easily identifiable fuckhead on wheels.]