Baah, Blaah, Black Sheep
Baah. Baah.
That’s the sound a sheep makes.
And also, “Ooh, this looks vintage,” or, “I was thinking of a faux hawk? Meets Scarlett Johansson’s mullet thing?”
Weep with me.
It seems bubble gum’s backlash to itself is black and deconstructed, retro and boho, and how I mourn that bottle brown is the new blond. I smell blasphemy while Britney is strategically disheveled in patched denim; I’m still celebrating uniqueness but see most of middle America toasting individualism just so they can continue to drink, and be drunk.
I see the selling of mass marketed, manufactured quirks reflected in loft-style condos, weak pop lyrics by young Jane Does (and Big Producer), and yeti boots paired with minis for summer uniforms.
And all this might be beautiful refreshing, only I read the usual intelligence in mass marketing and mainstream mindlessness in conspicuous consumption.
Do I rant?
Forgive my melodrama, I’m just nervously considering my first faux tan.
