Doja Cat, “Mooo!”

Is she rebranding herself? Is she Doja Cow now? She disavows cats in the chorus. She does not meow.

I love this so much because it’s so fully fleshed-out by one person in a bedroom. The question she asked herself is “if I was a cow, how would I own it?” “Time to re-purpose Luda and Kelis with a bovine twist.” From there, she said “I have a laptop and a green screen, how do I film the music video?” “Let me look in my closet for cow-like, farmer-ish outfits.” “Order a burger? Sure, I’m hungry!” And she floats through it all with her charisma and confidence. “Bitch, I’m a cow” never felt so powerful. Been lowing “mooo” all day in both positive and negative tones.

If you haven’t seen her leading single “Go To Town” yet, you might as well. Props for the Cyriak clip that crops up too.

Eliese Colette Goldbach, “White Horse”

Eliese wants to tell you a story. She wants to tell you a story, but there are so many things about which she cannot speak. Particle physics, for example. Also, industrial psychology, protein synthesis, polymer science, and the peculiar magic that makes water bugs skate so perfectly on a pond. She wants to tell you a story, but she lacks so many things. Multivariable calculus. Pie making. And there is so much she has forgotten. The conjugation of the verb vouloir, the purpose of a Golgi body, the middle name of her first boyfriend. Eliese does, however, know about horses. She can talk about horses. She knows equitation and conformation and equine disease. For example, Eliese knows that white horses must be bred with care. Sometimes, a white horse is born with a fatal genetic disorder known as lethal white syndrome. A foal with this disorder will appear healthy at birth. It will stand and suckle and sniff its mother’s scent. A new, white life. But deep inside the foal’s gut, something has gone wrong. Its colon has not formed properly. It cannot expel waste. These foals always die—either naturally and painfully over the course of a few days, or through euthanasia. A white, perfect body splayed dead on the straw. The violence of a harbored, hidden waste.

This is one that I’m not going to expound upon. It’s a story we’ve heard before but is new and deserving of our attention every time. It’s more-than-okay when a story other than my own conveys a “shut up and listen, for a rare shining moment, shut the fuck up, dude.”

Kotaku, “Ninja Should Stream With Women”

Yes, obviously Ninja should stream with women. His excuse–that inviting a woman onto his stream will bring about an avalanche of gossip–is a weak one; as a public figure, there’s already gossip. It’s not as though the situation will be more toxic for it, merely a different flavor of toxic.

But I’m linking this more to discuss his handle. How can you allow yourself to rise to the peak of gamefame and still go by Ninja? Was it selected when he was twelve? Does he know it can be changed? I’d be loathe to give up “FMchubs,” everyone knows this; but by god, it’s mine, it’s not a noun that could be strung into a “versus” title with zombies, pirates, robots, etc. “Ninja” has the slightest tinge of appropriation, of a man aspiring to be that which he isn’t, on the back of not only physical capability and training, but of culture. He wasn’t raised in a country that has ever developed ninjas. “Darkflame” is preferred, or “Excalibur,” or “Mercenary.” “Peasant,” “Nutsack,” I can come up with preferred names all day. Of course the number one Fortnite player is also its most basic.

“The Bad Glazier” by Charles Baudelaire

One morning I got up feeling sullen, sad, disconcerted, and fatigued by idleness, with what seemed to be a desire to do some grand and radiant deed! And then I opened my window, alas!

The first person I noticed on looking out my window was a glazier, a glass-seller, the sharp discordance of his cries drifting up to me through the stale and heavy Parisian smog. It’s not possible for me to say why I was filled with such a sudden and tyrannical hatred for this poor man.

“Hey, hey!” I cried, motioning for him to come up. Not without pleasure did I reflect that my room was on the sixth floor and that he would climb those flights with difficulty, lest his fragile goods be damaged.
At last he appeared. With great curiosity I examined all of his panes and finally said: “What? You have no colored glass? No pinks, no reds, no blues, no magical panes? No panes of the gods? Impudent creature! You sell your wares to the poor, and yet you have no panes that are able to make life beautiful!” And I abruptly pushed him, groaning and stumbling, out to the stairs.

I then went out on my balcony and grabbed a small flowerpot; when the man reappeared at the door I let my engine of war fall right on the back of his pack, the reverberations from the impact sending him reeling. Falling on his back he managed to break all of his poor, portable merchandise with a crash akin to lightning striking a crystal palace!

And intoxicated by madness I screamed furiously: “Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!”

Though such capricious endeavors are not without peril, and one must often pay dearly for them, what does an eternity of damnation compare with an infinity of pleasure in a single second?

A friend sent me this one. I told her I identified with the last line, she told me it makes sense, as she had re-read it and felt Baudelaire was bipolar. And then I gave it a second pass and found myself laughing openly by the end. He wakes up bummed and is driven to wreck a rando’s shit, at which he’s tremendously successful and his conclusion is: yup, it ruled.