Even When I Can’t Find Anything Else To Annoy Me, I Can Always Fall Back On The New Yorker
This may be the best explanation I’ve ever seen for why aesthetics and aesthetic experiences have fuck-all to do with identification.
No, I mean,seriously. How fucking self-absorbed and revoltingly shallow can you be? In case you’re never heard of Joseph Merrick, here’s a picture for comparison.
Also, the fact that anyone could consider this average-looking, milksop, white-bread white-boy the sexiest man alive tells you everything you need to know about middle America. I mean, he’s got an OK face, but seriously; only someone who lives in a square state, requires a car to buy milk, and has never gotten laid more than 5 times in one year would consider this guy’s blandness “sex appeal.” He looks like his idea of “shaking things up in the bedroom” would be to give his wife a shoulder rub before their usual 3 minutes of missionary sex.
Then there’s this bit, about how he’s hardly wearing any make-up for the production: “Cooper is thus appearing as the Elephant Man looking like Cooper, albeit hunched over…Rehearsing the contortions [sic] has been painful: ‘It really takes a toll on your body. Like, I feel it just getting up from this bench. Try to do some kind of weird thing for more than five minutes’.”
Here’s a newsflash, asshole: some of us spend our whole fucking lives trying to do “some kind of weird thing.” We spend our entire lives trying to think thoughts that have never been thought, to write music that has never been heard, novels that have never been read, to design unwearable clothes, to short-circuit, resist, and reform the pressure of normativity through creative endeavor. We pay for our efforts financially, socially, professionally, and physically. And here’s this dick-wad, who is the star of a billion-dollar film franchise being interviewed by the fucking New Yorker, complaining about how one of his hips is slightly higher than the other and how difficult it is to stay focused on his posture for 90 minutes an evening while he indulges a theater production designed to satisfy his own disgustingly narcissistic fascination with one of the most deformed men ever photographed, a man who died at the age of 27 of a broken neck, apparently because he tried, just for once in his life, to sleep on his back like a normal person instead of sitting up to support the weight of his massively unbalanced head. Really, though, everything you need to know about Bradley Cooper and about this article can be summed up by a single quote: “Once his run in Williamstown is over, Cooper is scheduled to begin shooting The Hangover, Part III.” Yep. Sounds about right.