Last week on the way to see X, the day overcast and still cool, damp, I listened to a lot of things, not least of which was Symphony X (har - and definitely connected with "us", too). The real tone of the day, though, was Bowie - specifically, the cracked funk space glam of "Aladdin Sane".
Like so many things, it took me something like 20 years to actually look at the title Aladdin Sane and (a) think to myself, there had to be some sort of reason for this title and then (b) figure it out. (To be fair, B did only take a moment, once I finally got to A. Ahem.) I am an uncritical recipient, with a lot of things. This has obviously changed as I've grown older (see also - my desire for a t-shirt that says "can we please stop raping Deanna?" and my general response to the Battlestar reboot - disturbing (not in a good way) entertainment presented rivetingly well), but the point at which I engage my willing suspension of disbelief is the point at which I become a full participant.
This makes it possible for me to enjoy a lot of things very much - some of it gleefully crappy - but the tendency, also as I get older, and have this crackpot idea in my head that I am getting wiser, makes me wary of myself. Even as I indulge in ANTM (well, that has finally come to an end - but I did stick it out for 17 "cycles" apparently ... eesh) and the occasional dram of "Mob Wives", I indulge the pop-cultural equivalent of White Liberal Guilt, and indulge the luxury of overacted embarrassment about my viewing.
Ahh, thank goodness for cable. Or not. Of course, I'm no worse with it than I was without.
But Big Ang is a gas, even with the quasi guilt. Enough to drive a lad insane (talk about cracked funk space glam ...).
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