It’s been sort of a disturbing Cher week. First, a very astute Cher scholar took me on a pilgrimage of Cher’s evolving teeth, from her 70s wild teeth, (which I loved), to her large Witches/David Letterman-era teeth and beyond. And I don’t know why but the whole tooth-journey has taken me quite a while to get my head around, so to speak. (I think I’ve finally found an incidence where this phrase makes physical sense to me). Yes, things did seem odd around the time of Witches but at the time I chalked it up to the new nose.
But the larger problem is I can’t stop thinking about the-Witches-era teeth. For some reason I have a crazy, dancing, grinning kachina running through my brain. He’s like the kachinas from my Dad’s childhood on the Hopi reservation near Keams Canyon in Arizona. My dad told me kachinas were meant to teach children important lessons or to scare them into behaving. So I figure my sudden imaginary kachina must be here to scare me out of getting those da vinci veneers.
Scary enough. But then news broke that in August Cher fell down her stairs and broke some toes. Apparently she’s in a lot of pain. I hope she feels better soon and doesn’t get hooked on Vicodin or Demerol or Celebrex.
And then I read that Mask is being made into a musical! When will it all stop??
I suppose I’m just feeling overly anxious because I’m trying to detach at bit. I’m trying to learn website architecture and compliance on my job (which is helping me redesign the woefully web 1.0 Cherscholar.com); I’ve just finished some new book reviews and a year’s worth of research for some new poems; I’m getting ready for my 20th high school reunion in a few weeks (should I keep Cher Scholar on the low down?); and I’m helping my parents plan their 50th wedding anniversary in New Mexico. To aid in all that mess I’m learning meditation, yoga, and ceramics. Surprisingly, it’s working. I feel very calm.
So let’s break it down. Not ever Cher movie needs to be made into a musical. And stories of extensive plastic surgery only serve to remind me that show business is a dirty business. Not a dirty business like a Starbucks franchise. More like an underground gambling, break-your-knees dirty business.
Or toes. And maybe show business is a knee and toe-breaking business which demands physical perfection.
But as my meditation and ceramics teaches me daily, imperfection is God. And maybe that’s a good arguement against pop culture; it’s not art because it’s too perfect.
