Lady Gaga [1] arrived at the Venice Film Festival on Aug. 30, and when I say she arrived, I mean she f*cking arrived. What other icon would show up, resplendent in a beautiful little black dress, a full face, hair curled delicately and delightfully in a flawless up-do, holding a flower for extra dramatic effect? Not a one, my dear readers, friends, and haters. Not a one. Did I mention that she was on a boat?! I know, many people arrive at the annual film festival on a boat, because Venice is a sea-surrounded city that is slowly sinking into the watery depths below. But few people can execute their entrance with such elegance, such effortlessness, such . . . Gagatry.
The timeless icon — Our Lady of Gaga, Our Mother of Monsters — was of course in attendance to promote her upcoming cinematic triumph, A Star Is Born [2], which arrives complete with a full soundtrack [3] and far too many emotions [4] for my frail, Gaga-addled body to handle. But I shall persevere. And now, without further ado, please, for the sake of all that is sacred, lay thine eyes upon these photographs, for they have the propensity to inspire just as much hope and healing as they do fainting and devastation.
Look at her. The poise. The elegance. The sheer peasantry of everyone in a 300-foot radius.
My crops? Watered. My skin? Clear. My college GPA? Suddenly one full point higher. My English degree? Useful.
Have you seen this one? She's looking off into the middle distance. Looking at the beautiful awards-season journey that lies ahead. There, sparkling in the distance, so faint she can barely make it out, is an Oscar. Waiting. Glimmering.
Oh, to be that flower. Oh to be that boat taxi!
Just a woman, a legend, an icon, basking in the generous warmth of the glowing Sun. Not a care. Not a worry. Not a hair out of place.
Hello? Hast thou gazed upon this one yet? Please. Do.
How can I properly convey the mixture of joy and misery this gives me?
A single kiss, so light that it might float on the air and land on mine tearful cheek.
Taxi 31 shall live on forever as the taxi that conveyed a legend to her throne.
The subtle lean. The steadfast grip. The whisper of a smirk. Even angels cannot hope to paint such a masterpiece.
What thoughts must be running through her perfect mind? Maybe it wasn't a "Perfect Illusion." Maybe it was love. Maybe life is an Enigma, like the Lady Gaga [5]'s new Las Vegas residency [6].
Please stare, but not for too long. For she may vanish, merely an illusion, a wisp of a memory on our miserable minds.
I'll leave you with a simple word, a manifestation of everything this icon encompasses.
Mom.