LADY GAGA'S BIRTHDAY. I, umm...honestly, there is no way to sum up my excitement in just one sentence. On Monday morning, the inside of my head looked like this:
Remember back when I used to celebrate Wentworth Miller's birthday every year? Lady GaGa is the new Wentworth Miller. Only I don't want to bang her, I just think it'd be cool if we hung out and watched Grey's Anatomy every once in a while. GaGa seems like a McSteamy fan.
The best thing about having to go to work on Lady GaGa's birthday is that I work with two particular people:
One is probably one of the most stubborn, opinionated and well-researched men I have ever met in my life, who (after watching the video for Born This Way) decided The Big G had lost her touch, copied Madonna, and completely forfeited originality.
The Other is my best friend and as goo-goo over GaGa as I am.
On your marks, get set, argue. And since all three of us are borderline alcoholics (I kid) who love yelling at each other in public, we decided the best way to celebrate March 28th was at the pub, with two bottles of champagne and a heated debate:
Is Lady GaGa One Of The Most Original, Inspiring And Geniunely Talented Artists Of Our Generation? Or Just Some Dick In A Wig With Prosthetic Shoulder Pads?
We didn't stop yelling for an hour and forty five minutes.
All in good fun of course, but towards the end I think even the dude behind the bar was getting a bit fed up. He didn't actually say anything, but when I went up for the third round, it kind of felt like he was screaming at me with his eyes:
"If you three don't shut up about Lady GaGa, I'm gonna straight up murder everyone in this pub.
Kidding! Aha! Ahaha! Seriously though, one more comment and you're all cut off."
So we shut up about Lady GaGa. There was no resolution, but at around 7:30 someone randomly brought up Eminem and our debate was forgotten in the rush to find a high-resolution copy of the new Dr Dre video on Youtube. Never in my life have I been more thankful for my short attention span, or the invention of the iPhone 4.
I didn't plan to bore you all with another rant about My Kitchen Rules, but I gotta say this one thing:
On last night's episode, the contestants challenge was to cook a meal in "the world's tiniest kitchen", aboard the Ghan (which, for those of you living under a rock, is that famous train which travels from Darwin to Alice Springs).
About seven minutes into the show, I heard this come out of someone's mouth:
"The Ghan really is 5-star luxury, and I want to make some 5-star food."
I respectfully disagree.
Is the Ghan nice? I have no doubt. Is it fancy? I'm sure it is. Is the trip 100% enjoyable? Well, you'd have to ask one of the passengers. But 5-star luxury is a term I reserve for the kind of hotel that has 24-hour room service and Hugh Jackman on staff to give me a full-body massage. As nice as it is (and I'm sure it's VERY nice), this train is not 5-star luxury.
Want to know why?
Because it's a train.
And I get that I probably sound like a bit of a snob right now, so let me assure you that isn't the case: this whole thought process went down as I was watching MKR, in my undies, with a six-dollar bottle of wine.
I don't think so.
Regardless, it was a pretty impressive challenge, and I give my respect to the contestants. Wholeheartedly. I can only imagine three possible outcomes should I attempt to cook for twelve people in a train kitchen, and all of them involve me accidentally setting myself on fire. I'm lucky if I can manage a meal for one person in my own kitchen without accidentally setting myself on fire. In fact, I'm like 60% positive that's how I will eventually meet my own demise. My tombstone will read:
Jacki Trew, friend to all.
She loved disco,
and accidentally set herself on fire.