Backup Dancers From Hell: Bruno Mars - “Grenade”

We start out with Bruno sitting in what is presumably his bedroom, with rain pouring down outside and splashing against the window. (I’m going to guess the rain is symbolic of the money that Bruno is now making.) But despite his wealth, Bruno’s a little blue, staring at a picture of a couple with sadness and non-dancing. Perhaps he should just put the picture down since it’s so traumatizing.

Cut to Bruno and his fancy shoes fiddling with some rope. It’s not immediately clear what he’s doing, but judging by his strained expression we’ll assume that it’s not fun. He struggles for a while, then we see that he’s actually using the rope to drag a piano down the street. We have no idea why he’s doing this. He has the cash. Can’t he just hire some movers?

The dragging continues, with passing motorists not even slowing down to help him, so he must be in L.A., because people never get out of their cars there, let alone offer roadside assistance. We also see a homeless man, who seems to be staring in amazement at the vision of Bruno toiling, but I think he’s lying. He lives on the streets, so you know he’s seen much worse, like Lindsay Lohan not wearing panties while she staggers home from an after-party.

Okay, some of the motorists are honking, which is a bit rude. Can they not see that this man is trying to make a video here? Sheesh. Anyway, we cut back to Bruno in his sad bedroom. It’s still raining, in case you’re keeping track, and Bruno is touching the window with despondent little fingers, but at least he’s tossed aside that picture that started this whole mess. It’s really amazing how often photography can lead to misfortune and lyrics about loss.

Now Piano Bruno appears to be schlepping his furniture through a part of the Barrio, because we have men with dogs comparing tattoos. (This is probably not the best place for Bruno to be lugging a piano while wearing pretty shoes, but I didn’t write the script.) Naturally, because the street thugs are bored waiting for a drive-by to happen, they mess with Bruno and his friend. One of the guys is super aggressive, and tears up Bruno’s picture, so he’s probably heard about the evils of photographs as well.

The thugs finally get distracted by something else, and they let Bruno pass. Oh look, there’s that homeless guy again, scrounging for dinner in a dumpster until he spots Bruno. Homeless tries to tell Bruno something really important, but Bruno doesn’t care, so Homeless runs off to think about the last time he might have changed his underwear.

Now Bruno is going downhill, still sweating and tugging on the rope, and I don’t really understand that. It’s a hill, people. Shouldn’t the piano be running him over now? But I guess it’s not important, since Bruno soon arrives outside some house, and he drops the rope. Bruno spies his girl in an upstairs open window, and his face lights up. Then we learn that Girl is a tramp, because some stud boy walks up and starts using his tongue to dig for buried treasure in Girl’s ear.

How sad. Bruno stupidly but sweetly dragged furniture across town to win his woman back, and she done found another chew toy. Maybe Bruno should have called first.

So dejected little Bruno picks up the hateful rope and drags his piano away from the house. Slut Girl watches him do so for a bit, then she runs off to play squat tag with her new beau. And now poor Bruno has to push the piano up the hill that it should have rolled down. (It really might be time for Bruno to look at playing some other type of instrument, especially if there’s going to be any more emotional breakups in his future. Just sayin.)

Okay, where did this big-ass bridge come from, with the steep slope? We didn’t encounter that on the way over. Why would Bruno go back home a different way, especially a way that has more serious hills? And it would probably be a lot easier to push the piano if Bruno didn’t insist on singing while he was doing it. Slut Girl can’t hear you any more, so it’s kind of pointless to be vocalizing. Perhaps you should just hum until you get over this damn bridge.

Bruno meanders for a bit more, passing a priest and a nun who look at him with barely-disguised disdain. (Bruno must have missed confession again, probably because he was working out so he could move the piano that didn’t need to be moved after all.) Now he’s at a railroad crossing and it’s completely dark outside, so either I fell asleep and missed something or night falls really fast in this town. As a train approaches, Bruno pauses to play a little ditty on the piano, mainly because the flashing-red warning lights look really pretty splashing on the ivory keys.

Then the train hits the piano and the video ends.

Um. What?

　

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Backup Dancers From Hell: Britney Spears - “Toxic”

We start off with what looks like an apocalyptic setting, and suddenly two vicious birds are flying obnoxiously toward us before zipping past. While we ponder why the hell that was necessary, here comes a futuristic plane ready to kill us as well. (Does Britney want us to die?) The camera zooms through the cockpit, past the two pilots who are cute (of course), out the cockpit door and down the main aisle toward a flight attendant who clearly had an issue with her costume because I’m seeing far more flesh than I care to at 30,000 feet. Or on the ground.

This chippy is facing away from us for now, in an attempt to build drama, but we know it’s Britney because the producers aren’t going to spend the cash on an opening like that for just any old drag queen. Brit picks up a handy nearby phone, then whips her head around for full disclosure and starts singing into the phone. (Is the girl just not comfortable with herself unless she’s holding something that feels like a microphone?) She sings for a bit, and does a few twirls so we can see her skimpy outfit was designed to enhance the fact that she has breasts. As if we didn’t know this from her other videos.

Cut to Britney somewhere else, writhing on the floor and wearing a new outfit that can only be described as basically non-existent. (Sure, we have some strategic glitter patches, by why even bother?) Back to the plane, where Britney is serving people champagne from a cart and hooker-walking her way down the aisle in a manner that suggests there’s a live crawfish lose in her panties. For some comedy relief, Britney spills some champagne in the crotch of a nerdy passenger, and then affects a surprised look reminiscent of Lucille Ball. If Lucille were wearing an outfit that you can accessorize with a stripper pole.

Britney snatches up a napkin and proceeds to man-handle the guy’s crotch in an exuberant housekeeping gesture, which triggers the video to cut back to Writhing Britney, still wallering around on that floor and not really wearing anything. Back to the plane, where Brit and the other traveling tramps, I mean flight attendants, have decided to do a line dance in the aisle. (Maybe the in-flight movie wasn’t working properly?) These girls seem very excited about the opportunity to caress a luggage bin with lusty abandon.

Easily distracted, Britney then focuses on another nerdy guy walking down the aisle, signaling him to come toward her with one naughty finger. He doesn’t seem to understand what she wants, so Britney makes it clear by using her breasts to tune in Tokyo.

Next thing you know, the two of them are scampering into the bathroom so they can have upright sex. Britney decides that her mating choice needs to be cuter, so she rips off his face and he turns into Brad Pitt with long, blond hair. (Hey, does that really work? Might need to try that.) More shots of Floor-Hunching Britney, then back to the loo, where Britney finishes the bump and grind by pinching some device from Brad’s pocket and flouncing out the door.

Zip over to another setting that requires Britney to wear a red wig and disco sunglasses. Oh, it must be Paris, because now they’re conveniently showing us the Eiffel Tower in the background while Britney appreciates her own body. Then she runs to hop on a motorcycle being driven by another cute guy who is pleasingly shirtless. (Can you imagine the call sheet for his character: “Need muscular guy who hates clothes but can straddle a machine and look hawt.”)

They race through the Parisian streets, irritating locals at cafes and causing one Lolita’s dress to fly up so we can see her panties are too small. Britney spends some time undulating on the back of the bike, so she must really like things that rev. Or wearing hair of an unnatural color. We also get more shots of Trollop Britney still doing the splits on that stage, as well as some fishnet-hose-clad S&M girls who appear to be comparing kneecaps.

Eventually, Britney either falls off the motorcycle or is thrown off by Shirtless who has decided that she is too high-maintenance. In any case, Britney assumes a huntress pose in the middle of the street to assure us that nothing important has been damaged.

Brief shot of Brit bellowing into a phone and then something exploding. No idea.

Now Britney is walking down a futuristic hallway that is on fire, which is not something that I would suggest, but I’ve never worn a wig like that so I don’t really know what it might inspire you to do. This bit of defiance causes Floor-Hunching Britney to finally stand up and wave her hands over her head. She has been healed! Can we get a hallelujah?

Fire-Tunnel Britney is now doing something electronic, like hacking into a secure area or maybe creating a vibrator that can also clean house. Hacking Britney races into the room she’s just breached, and snatches up a small bottle with something green. (Birth control pills? Because I’m thinking she might need them.) Britney then goes back out into the Fire Tunnel, which is now apparently the Laser-Lightshow-Tunnel. This change of scenery inspires Britney to do some nice moves that involve high-kicks, yelling, and telling us to be quiet. (Girl, I ain’t said nothin. Don’t look at me.)

Floor-Hunching Britney is now sprawled out on said floor again, so I guess her healing was only temporary. This is what happens when you have HMO’s.

Laser-Tunnel Britney does some flip-kicking moves that causes something to get smashed, and then we cut to people having sex in a shower. (I probably missed something in the transition.) Brief glimpse of Hunching Britney still not healed, and then Laser Britney fighting off a cloud of flying projectiles. (People returning her last CD?)

It doesn’t really matter, because now we have Britney in another wig, climbing the side of a building using popsicles. She gets to the top floor, and does a flip move while wearing a leather outfit, both of which she stole from either the “Blade” or “Underworld” movie series. In this fancy penthouse room, she encounters a cute guy that might be Airplane Brad Pitt, but I’m not sure because the penthouse is spacious and they are not crammed together, having sex while hovering over a toilet portal that could hurl your ass into the jet stream. (Hunching Britney is still popping up throughout this bit, but we’re basically over her. Bitch can’t walk and she’s horny. Got it.)

Blade Britney throws Brad on the bed. Then she throws him on the floor. Then she straddles him like it’s a Disney E-Ticket ride and they make out. Britney stops tonguing him long enough to whip out a vial of the green stuff she stole while wearing the red wig, and she pours it in his mouth. (Kind of rude, right? That Britney. Sell a few billion CD’s and you think you have the right to change how people have foreplay.) But Brit’s all done with this scene, giving Brad a quick peck on the lips and then running to throw herself over the side of the building.

And she lands in the plane where all this fun started. She gives us a wink (I was just kidding about being an international spy tramp. I just like to fly the friendly skies and serve cocktails.) and then proceeds to lean her breasts into the face of another passenger.

He orders two of them…

　

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10 Things I Learned While Walking on the Treadmill Today

1. I really hate walking on the treadmill.

It’s not the treadmill’s fault. He’s really nice. It’s the concept of exercise overall. Back in the day, when I didn’t have to exercise, but actually had an abundance of energy to do it, I was much more accepting of this exercise business. It was actually fun to exercise, plotzing about, heaving things and waving my legs in the air. I actually wasted years of my life trying to stay in shape at a point when I didn’t need to do so. I clearly wasn’t looking at the big picture.

But now I am, from the other side of that mirror where I was naturally svelte and could eat 7 pizzas in one sitting without gaining an ounce. I need the energy I had at the fun time in my life to be transferred to my current situation. In fact, I demand it. I am formally requesting that the Exercise Gods give me official credit for all that energy I wasted in my Twenties and apply it to my now doughy and lifeless body. Like lay-away, yes?

Sigh. At the very least, I wish a wise personal trainer had walked up to me at the age of 22 and said, dude, you really don’t need to be doing this right now. If you don’t stop, you’re going to be so bored with exercise by the time you actually have to do it that there are going to be emotional issues that require you to blog about them.


2. The mind is a terrible thing to waste.

I spent 5 minutes jabbing at every button on the treadmill console, growing increasingly frustrated that none of those taunting buttons were causing the treadmill to actually start moving. Every single button. I was on the verge of calling Obama and asking him if this was also part of his Healthcare Plan, when it dawned on me that there was actually one more button worth review. The one near where the power cord enters the base of the treadmill. The one that is bright red. The one that says “ON”.

Things went swimmingly after that. I told the White House secretary that I didn’t really care to leave a message, and I hung up.


3. Cats are always the most interested in what you are doing at the moments when you least want them to be.

Just like when you forget to close the bedroom door when you want to engage in some slap and tickle, Scotch the cat came bounding into the middle of things to see what was going on. He was most invested in two things. First, the repetitive back-and-forth movement of my legs had him entranced. I’m not sure why this repetition was alluring, since it was rather boring to me after a few minutes. Perhaps something alarming and rhythmic had happened in his childhood? (And since he’s grown up with us, there’s no telling what we did at some point to cause this neurotica.)

Scotch got as close as he could to the edge of the treadmill without actual contact, then assumed the position which meant he was about to slice something to ribbons. To be honest, I did briefly consider ratcheting up the treadmill speed and letting him hop on, assuredly resulting in a startled yelp and an airborne feline achieving launch. This would be a learning experience for him, and a satisfying moment of jocularity for me.

But I softened, and instead resorted to firmly barking “NO!” in his direction until he figured out I was talking to him, that I apparently did not care for his planned maneuver, and that he should prance into the other room to sulk and contemplate revenge.

He was back in roughly 3 seconds. Now he was fixated on determining the cause of the whirring noise emitting from underneath the treadmill. The faceless creature that lived under there was surely of interest, and might even be tasty. So now paws were being poked into potentially violent, dismembering areas, and I had the challenge of maintaining my balance and breathing levels while dissuading Scotch from ending his own life as a side result of Daddy being fat. Eventually, a leaf fell in the front yard, and Scotch lost all interest in my mechanical monster as he raced to see who had dared to invade his proclaimed territory.

4. The time-space continuum is entirely dependent on your level of happiness.

Why is it that a 30-minute sitcom can whiz by in mere seconds, but thirty minutes on a treadmill can feel longer than flying to Paris, in coach, with a crappy movie playing, a family of spasmatics in the row in front of you doing everything they can to rip their seats out of the floor, and a flight attendant who insists on ramming that stupid cart into your knee every time you glance away? It’s just not right.

5. It’s hard to remain hydrated when you don’t have the right equipment.

You’re supposed to keep water nearby when exercising, taking petite sips now and then to keep you from drying out and blowing away. A sports bottle is recommended, and we have a few. I just don’t know where they are and I didn’t have the desire to track them down, because I was already doing one thing I didn’t want to do, why increase the pain? So I just got a regular drinking glass, half-filled it with water, and set it on a table that I could reach.

This was a bad call.

I’m sure some people can successfully retrieve refreshing liquid from a drinking glass whilst their legs are pounding along on a treadmill. I am not one of those people. That water was everywhere but in my mouth. Even when using both hands and my tongue to support the glass, I still got the water in my hair. I shoved the empty glass back on the table, hating it with intense passion.

Then I spied the liquor cabinet, also in reach. This thing was filled with enticing, slender-tipped bottles. All I had to do was pop the neck of the bottle into my mouth and guzzle away. Just like a sports bottle! And it would certainly improve my mood. But alas, I resisted temptation and just kept walking, my throat so dry I was afraid to cough lest my head should explode.

6. There are these little workout arms that you can use to pretend that you are cross-country skiing or picking up litter with one of those stick poles. This is supposed to increase your calorie burn.

I didn’t even touch them.

7. I no longer have a sense of balance.

There are also support arms on both sides of the treadmill, so you can keep your balance during moments of instability. Apparently this is the entire time for me. Every time I let go of the things and tried to walk nonchalantly, as if I were just out for a stroll, my legs would go completely insane and I would lunge all over the rolling mat, convinced that the treadmill was going to slam my head into the concrete behind us.

Really? Have I gotten that bad? God.

8. Sweat is not my friend.

I’m the first to admit that sometimes sweat is sexy, like when it’s dripping off the hairy chest off a muscled cowboy who wants to check my spurs. But most of the time, sweat has little appeal. Included in the non-fun category is sweat generated whilst walking on a fake moving sidewalk. Not a fan. Especially when you forget to bring along a handy towel and the saltiness is now blinding you while an inquisitive feline is trying rip your kneecaps open. Nope, the only time I want to sweat is when I’m having sex or I’m moving new furniture into my house. That’s it.

9. I no longer require cute workout clothing.

Back in that wasted day when I worked out pointlessly, I always had matching little outfits that were flattering and coordinated. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of my workout couture actually had fringe and a Liza Minnelli wristband. If anyone in that day ever questioned my sexuality, all they had to do was look in my gym bag. Case solved.

Now? I don’t care what I work out in. Today for example? I walked in the door, ripped off my work clothes, fed the cat, and jumped on the treadmill wearing dress socks and boxer shorts. Sexy, eh?

10. Getting off the treadmill requires another set of skills that I don’t have.

Even though you might be living for the second when you have served your time and can turn off the treadmill, it’s not completely euphoric. Immediately, there’s this decompression feeling as the treadmill stops, even though your body feels like it’s still moving. The simple step from treadmill to actual floor is rife with peril and calamity. Your legs feel like noodles, even though you were just using them. What the hell is up with that?

So there I am, staggering around the room like I’ve been doing tequila shots all night at a skanky bar where everybody is too happy and clothing has become optional. All I want to do is get away from this treadmill that has been sucking the life out of me. I’m just about to escape from the room when I nearly lose my footing on a stupid step that somebody decided to build right there. (Oh wait, we did that.) I clear that last obstacle and slap off the light.

My last glimpse of the Death Machine is a golden tail sticking out from under it, as Scotch takes advantage of my distraction to stalk the whirring demon who lives under Daddy’s toy…