From the archive
What is there to really say about Zooey D? She, through no act of her own, has convinced a generation of lonely men that she somehow means more than all the other actresses in Hollywood. Big eyes, bangs, and that monotone voice have somehow turned her into America’s new amalgam of Susan Sontag, Sylvia Plath, and Nico from the Velvet Underground.
Natasha, your thoughts?
Natasha Vargas-Cooper: No! No! I cannot believe this took place! Why not slap some googly eyes on a popsicle stick and prop it up to a microphone instead? What did baseball and America do to deserve this? Jesus Christ, what if this sort of pallid spectacle has come to represent our cultural arrested development? I’m not ready for this sexless sort of knock-kneed kiddie bullshit. I thought Fox would be our beachhead in unapologetic American bravado! The national anthem should be sung by someone with swagger, drama, a full-boom voice that stirs even the most numbed-out bro to take off his damn backwards hat.
Where is the drama of a sweat-drenched Whitney Houston, steeped in struggle, unhinging her jaw to bellow out Our Song? The drums of war echo in her crack-ravaged throat! What the fuck has Zooey DeeDee earned the right to do besides twirl around in a baby doll dress with her face slathered in gluten-free cupcake frosting?
Where have our divas gone? There is no strife in ZoZo’s lily-white aesthetic. No sex, no violence, just tweeting. What a tepid and sniveling symbol she is. She has nothing to draw on, nothing to find resonance in. She’s not even fit for our time. Give us a beleaguered icon. Someone trying to maintain their imperial draw even though they’ve grown bloated and waterlogged with age. I want to hear the sounds of a woman who has known loss and triumph, not the pubescent squeaks of a flinching sitcom star with cute bangs and a stupid blog.
Jay: Beleaguered and waterlogged? How about Barbra Streisand? That would have been perfect, especially with Dubya striding up to the mound to throw out the first pitch.