I didn't think this was an epochal event as others seemed to feel: our culture has sunk lower and in far more interesting ways than the simple evocation of pedophilia initated by something that looked like a rabid chipmunk who had been beaten to an idiot state by a cartoon log. Sorry Miley, you failed to shock, you just disgusted: oh, look your tongue's out like an oral obsessive; oh, look I can alsmost see your titties in your little flesh colored pleather outfit; oh, look how slutty you are bent over like an alley cat. Yawn.
In the year since, its just gotten more inexplicably public and less sexy than the zero sum game it aimed for previously. Miley smokes pot, Miley wears pasties in public--so what? Its mere predictability has rendered useless any message that was intended, if it even went that far. Tongue out? Must be the Cyrus girl, though someone has been thoughtful enough to hand the dumb bitch a tongue scraper.
Cancer during this year has been my personal Miley, equally distateful, introducing the boredom of a type of pornography into my life that I look away from simply because i can barely stay awake to watch it. We know this story, our relatives, our friends, our loved ones, virtually everyone has lost someone to this ass-wagging, tongue-lolling downward spiral of a disease. We know the sudden eruption of a tumor or the progression of a metastisized clump of rogue cells isn't the death sentence it once was, it's a call to battle, to change drugs, to toughen mentally against the coarsening of a life already affected, effected to stagger against a killer who strikes first requiring a constant defense.
There have been articles in the Times and on my favorite blogs about Miley, and like me, they note that's she has managed to strip all the sex from sexy, all the shock, surprise and delicious rebellion from this long, extended strip teaste. A few years ago I started to notice that porn was boring in this way. I've never been a big consumer of it, but you know, an occasional clip or two can really pull on the imagination. But the pizza boy who delivers when the guy is just out of the shower, the paper boy who has to be paid when your robe accidentally opens, the plumber who cleans your pipes then cleans your pipes, you simply know the steps this dance requires. Like a Volta with Elizabeth I, it's the steps and the not the act that become the exegesis of stagnation.
If cancer is waving its ass at me attempting to lure me further into defeat, or if it is waving its tits in ill-fitting pasties hoping the shock will weaken me, all I can say is bitch, please. I live in the age of Miley Cyrus, and frankly, she has just about ruined everything you could use to confound my senses. Rather than sit on my lawn chair yelling at the neighborhood kids to dress it up, I'll do them the favor of ignoring their ignorantly sexualized clothes. That's no more a turn on than I am, dumb ass, and I hope you grow old enough to know that.
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