The Cheese Grits Chronicles.

Ok now it’s official. I need to talk about it.

Prologue.

Last week a couple of friends of mine watched the documentary “Britney: For the Record”, produced by MTV and released on November 30th. They were so touched by it, they bought it so easily I couldn’t even say anything. They got so much sensitive by her side that every time I tried to give my opinion they would get it personal and at the end of every response there was “you haven’t seen it to talk about her that way.”

Oh my god. It’s all Chris Crocker again. An entire army of Britney’s best friends. To talk about her that way? What way? I’m not talking TO her, and I’m not being cruel just because I have a different opinion. And me having an opinion doesn’t mean I’m totally obsessed by Britney Spears. Two weeks ago our topics were credit cards and middle-class chaos, and of course Israel. Britney was last week’s. Tomorrow me and the paparazzi will be searching for another subject. No big deal about it. It’s life going on.

But after watching the film I’ve kinda liked the idea of talking directly to her. Because she really believes the world turns around her, for her good and for her bad, which is not sickness, is just ego. Maybe it’s because I got sensitive to her life and I felt compelled to help her. Or maybe I’m just pissed off with the fact that all sins are created, judged and forgiven by the media. Who knows? The fact is here I am posting in my very bad English, giving a response to Britney: For the Record.

***

I hope you fully understand that you made this film only for yourself. Because, sweetie, no one is surprised. No one. You’re not the first and won’t be the last white trash we see getting in trouble with money, luxury and eating with a fork and a knife at the same time. And you are definitely not the only singer having serious problems when reaching 27. Each one of them had their tools of self-destruction. On the 70’s it was cocaine. On the 90’s it was blonde-rocker wives. You’ve got Starbucks. It makes not much of a difference.

You are rich and famous and overprotected and you have to be flawless and happy all the time. She’s so lucky, she’s a star, but she  cry cry cries in her lonely night thinking: if there’s nothing missing in my life so why do these tears come at night? So you’ve decided to give it all up. You go crazy, get married, get unmarried, get kids, lose kids, gain pounds, lose hair, start making friends like Paris Hilton, go to the clubs without underwear and spend all your money.

And still I don’t get the bald thing. Really. Why did you do that? And don’t you dare giving an excuse à la Michael Jackson, for his whiteness. And mainly why did you have to do that in front of everybody? Every magazine in this planet has pictures of your hair going to Kansas, step by step. If you didn’t want to be botherered, why not do this at home? And if the idea was exactly getting some attention, why did you get so mad after that? Why didn’t you, I don’t know, make a videoclip like that? I mean, get really mad, assume your hairlessness, show everybody you don’t give a fuck, you just wanna dance and live your life. No. Instead you cry, attack people with an umbrella, and shows regret and shame all the time for everything. And then you make a new video like nothing has ever happened.

Honey, the problem is not the fame. The problem is not the paparazzi. The problem is you. It’s within you. Really, it would make no difference at all if you were not famous right now. Actually it would. You would be not only with no husband, no kids, and no curves at all, but also you would have no one to comb your hair and to make a movie about how you feel.

There are days that you will be better, there are other days that you won’t. Yesterday you were able to get your car and simply drive around, now you can’t. But also yesterday you wouldn’t even have the money to have your car driving by the Grove. Not being satisfied with it is absolutely normal.

Britney, for the record: it is called LIFE.

You think it only happens to you. You think no one has ever experienced the pain that you are in right now. You think no one understands you. That particularly is called puberty. People at that time use to blame their parents, for not allowing doing everything they want. You’re just blaming someone else. The paparazzi. The fame. The tabloids.

And also during puberty people use to deal with their problems by writing in journals. Well you also made a journal. On MTV! And you know what? Honestly I appreciate that. I’m pretty sure it was cheaper than a Hollywood therapist, which would fuck your brain up by putting you on hard drugs or transferring all his power of wisdom and judgment stuff to some other god available. But not you, you make a movie, your god is you, you, you! And what the hell, make peace with it. Don’t you go on Madonna’s ways, because instead of sad you would be neurotic, and you would spend your life – and your husbands – trying to find some holy apology to justify your obsessive ego-trip life.

You actually are just like everybody else. You said that yourself. Everybody gets fat when depressed. Everybody once in a lifetime dreamt about being famous. Everybody makes mistakes, makes the wrong decisions, have broken hearts, family issues and imperfect jobs. Haven’t you ever watched FRIENDS? Can’t you just laugh about the fact that life sucks? No matter if you are or aren’t surrounded by troglodytes with cameras?

It is very clear that you are depressed, but we all knew that as well for a long time now. Life is hard anyways, and you made it harder by having two kids. At the end, baby, it doesn’t matter if you shave your hair. Doesn’t matter if you’re not the perfect role model for little girls to follow, I mean, look at what Barbie did. But you have two kids, and that isn’t all but should be enough for you to take more responsability for your life. Don’t blame your mother. Don’t blame your bad manager; don’t blame your ex-husband. You screwed it all up, now fix it. Don’t just say it. Do it. If you don’t know what to do, if you don’t know who you are, let me help you here: you are a mother. Nobody actually cares about how you’re gonna deal with your own life, you are a very grown-up woman for anyone to do so. But deal with your kids. They only count on you.

And for everything else, please go on with the show. Deal with it just as your neighbors do. Join cabala, or scientology, feed yourself with only sunlight, leave a suicide note, be a friend of Dalai Lama, make a porn, then join some church, then make a porn again with your daughter, then use Oprah as a confessionary, then get plastic surgery, then make a dark and twisted album, then get back to your sexy old roots, then join some old-millionaire rock singer into a tour to help Africa, then get more plastic surgery, then get into a new scandal, then publish a book no one will read, then try Hollywood again, and do it all over again and throw all your dignity and sanity away because that’s the price to live like a child forever, that’s the price to live in LA, and honey, that will keep the good old black gold flowing.

As another blond singer with meteorical and troubled career sang once:
Here we are now. Entertain us.

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