Well, I've committed the cardinal sin amongst all who value the preservation of art that exists to inspire rather than to turn a profit...I've become obsessed with pop princess and little monster, Lady Gaga. Now, before you judge me for buying into the well-crafted image of the music industry's most successful meal ticket, consider this; maybe Lady Gaga is more to me than a sequined mystery. Maybe she provides me with more than powerful bridges and aesthetically titillating music videos. She is my Id; the Freudian concept of the area in our psyche that houses basic, primitive notions of pleasure and reacts without conscience.
Lady Gaga goes where only my Id dares to go. Her dark, strange, unabashedly sexed-up style frightens and soothes me at the same time; the Id feeds on such a juxtaposition. I live in a cold city, where the sky is the same color as the pavement and my cube walls are just high enough to inhibit any conversation I might want to start with someone passing by. In my isolated and colorless world, my Id seethes with chaotic cravings of pleasure...in any form. Lady Gaga satisfies my cravings by being brave enough to don fantastical costumes, makeup, and the most giant heels you've ever seen. Nothing inhibits her, nothing stands in her way; she is what she is when she is, and she does what she wants when she wants. Miss Gaga is, by all accounts, the Id. Her seemingly impulsive and predictably unpredictable appearances, shows, and music are a black hole for my basic needs of pleasure.
So that is why I stand my ground when it comes to my Lady, my Gaga. She moves me more than Avril's insecurity, Pink's anger, or Eminem's irreverence. The Id never apologizes, because the Id has no notion of right or wrong. In Gaga's world, right and wrong do not organize things; inspiration, desire, and indulgence rule supreme. I'll follow you until you love me, Lady Gaga.
