Let’s agree not to say or write 2020 was the worst year we can remember because, well, we don’t know what’s coming next.
I mean, no one could have predicted this sh-t show, this confluence of events, this utter turd avalanche that hit the world, and the United States in particular, for the last 12 months.
Sure, some of it. But…all of it???
You can’t primarily blame any one person, but here on my throne in Hollywood I do
so, privately, each day. And I do so publicly once or twice a week when I go on his twitter page and simply type –
LOSER. YOU LOST!
(currently googling how much it would be to rent this van #2021)
My husband thinks it’s immature and silly but hey, it makes me feel productive AND a lot better, two things I haven’t experienced much of since, well, 2019.
Admittedly, I do it partly in the hopes that he might see it or someone else will who could tell him. But I mostly do it because one of the few positive things I’ve learned in this horrifically awful past year is that if some small act that doesn’t involve drug taking or violence lightens your load then hey, why not?
Does that make me no better than a Karen or a Ken?
Well, that’s for others to judge. Which, I’ve also learned in the last year, is inevitable.
Speaking of judgments, I will admit that in wanting to normalize 2020, i.e. not give it any MORE than the already underserved and very extra special attention it’s currently getting, I attempted to make a traditional best and worst list.
Everything bad couldn’t come close to the totality of the year itself, so why list any one of them individually? Everything good was simply just that — good. Not great, not list worthy and certainly nothing much to write home, or here, about.
Perhaps there should be a moratorium on lists and awards for anything to the end of time for this entire year?
Can someone make that rule?
Joe? Kamala?
Do we want to give anyone that much executive power ever again?
I gotta say once I get past all the virus, disease, death, mask wearing and hand sanitizing of it all, well, there isn’t a lot left except the nascent smell of alcohol permeating everything in my room or on my person.
Certainly not enough to explore the issue of executive power with.
And if there were I left them in a recorded Zoom chat that has likely already been permanently deleted.
Though as we all now know, nothing is permanent and certainly not one bit of it is EVER permanently DELETED.
I will say binging all six seasons of Schitt’s Creek nicely filled up a dozen or more evenings in our house this year. And learning I’m not that unlike David Rose, only THREE decades older, filled a few online therapy sessions.
There were also the Sarah Cooper videos lip synching to audio of that LOSER spouting off recommendations of bleach injections; Leslie Jones’ Twitter commentary on those opining on the state of the world due to the LOSER; and a barrage of so much cable news that I became obsessed with writing to MSNBC’s Steve Kornacki, gay man to gay man, in an effort to get him to purchase a shirt, jacket and pair of pants that fit him right. That’s how much I felt obligated, as a newfound friend, to tell him. The same for Pete Buttigieg.
Of course, Kornacki was just voted one of the sexiest guys alive (Note: People’s “Chartthrob’) and Pete is moving to D.C. to be in Biden’s cabinet so in the long run it’s probably a good thing I didn’t excel at follow through all during all this turmoil.
Though watching Ryan Murphy’s Netflix version of The Prom was a great big gay piece of bubble gum that gave me relief for about as long as, well, bubble gum lasts. I could also say the same for Disney’s Hamilton, David Fincher’s Mank (Note: Watch Amanda Seyfried steal the Glenn Close’s eighth chance at an Oscar this April!), every Christmas movie on Hallmark and Lifetime and all of the many offerings on Turner Classic Movies that temporarily kept me from going insane.
Except for the Westerns. I hate the TCM (or any, really) Westerns. There, I said it.
Though I did enjoy Damien Chazelle’s dramatic musical limited series, The Eddy (Note: Somehow sorta gay) as well as The Queen’s Gambit (Note: Somehow VERY gay). Thanks Netflix and don’t think I haven’t noticed your 2020 recommendations have now confirmed a sort of, VERY definite pattern.
Though not a list. Never a list.
Which brings me to the one thing I DO gravitate towards and couldn’t resist this year — the 2020 f-k off videos.
If there were a best of list to be rightfully made for this past road kill of an almost obsolete calendar it would be each and every one of them.
You might want to listen to this viral TikTok ditty from this all female group called Avenue Beat, literally entitled “Fuck 2020.” This year being what it is, it shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that these three young childhood friends from Quincy, Ill., who have been singing together since they were 14 year old, have already been getting major nasty Internet blowback for all the attention they’re getting. To which I reiterate their message of:
Though equally as good was the Toronto advertising agency, Public Inc., that produced the ultimate mental health PSA, #Eff2020. It’s everything you’ve thought and/or screamed at your TV, or out loud in small, socially distanced groups when you were feeling especially feisty – aka – All. The. Time.
That being said, perhaps we should close out the year on some small positive note of… hope? I’m not an especially spiritual soul except when it comes to the white witchery of Stevie Nicks.
She released this haunting new song in October and no one told me.
But, I found it anyway.
And if that’s not a road map for 2021, well…..
Stevie Nicks – “Show Them The Way”
notes from a chair 