Goiter

This morning, that Gotye song woke me up.  I don't know the name of it and I'm too lazy to look it up, but it's the one that he whispered/sang on Saturday Night Live the other night and the one those crazy Glee kids covered not too long ago.  I don't necessarily have anything against the song.  In fact, it's sort of become a silly catch-song (like a catchphrase, only with harmony, I guess) in our house, with Riv belting/growling out the "Somebody!" part. So I don't really hate the song.  I do, however, have a multitude of issues with Gotye himself, and I'm just PMeSsy enough to numerate them below.

• When Gotye first got popular in the States months ago, people kept writing on various social media outlets, "OMG, I love that Goyte guy so much!"  Or "Dang, Goyte is smoking hot."  Or "Have you heard that new Goyte song?  It's DA BOMMMB!!!111!!!"  Or whatever.  And I was all, "Dude, did somebody seriously name their kid a version of the word 'goiter?"  What?  Are we trying to start a new urban legend about dumb names?  Seriously?  Give me a fricking break."  And I'd stomp around the house.  Then I realized that, no, Americans were just dumb and can't figure out how to spell or pronounce things properly.  (See:  nuclear, y'all, and whoa.  WHOA is spelled W-H-O-A and has been forever, y'all.  GAH.)  Anyway, now that I know who the dude is and what his name is, I still can't get around to calling him Gotye and instead, always imagine somebody like one of the older characters from Seinfeld or possibly Danny Devito whining, "And now here's Goyte with that song he whispered/sang on SNL which Heather still can't bring herself to look up."  
• Speaking of his name, when I realized that he was actually NOT the name of a swelling in the throat area, I was irrationally irritated to learn that this was his oh so precious take on the spelling of Gaultier, which is the French version of his real name, which is Walter.  WALTER.  Now, I have no issue with the name Walter.  One of my favorite people in the entire world is a dude named Walter.  But...somehow, the fact that this fellow was naming himself Gaultier and then spelling it Gotye drove me up the dang wall.  It still does.  I mean, I am totes down with self-expression and all that and if you want to name yourself Biscuit Toe-rocket, go right ahead.  But don't expect me to hold back on the blog, Biscuit.  Because you named yourself Biscuit.  And, frankly, Biscuit, I commend you.  Because you didn't name yourself Gotye when your name is Wally.  Bravo, Biscuit.  Brafrickingvo.
• My biggest issue with Gotye is not actually his name.  My biggest issue with Gotye is his reaction to Glee covering his song.  A former show choir member who straight up ROCKED the crinolines and clip-on sparkly bowties,  I have many problems with the show.  It can't decide whether it wants to be a serious, preachy, after-school-special type show or a farce or a musical or whatever.  The routines the kids do would get their director fired.  Sue Sylvester is either straight up an ass or straight up the best woman ever.  Don't get me started on Quinn in a wheelchair.  (I said I have problems with it.  I didn't say my DVR isn't set to record that mess every week.)  And, to be honest, Blaine and the hot guy who played his brother's duet of Gotye's song (FINE.  I looked it up.  "Somebody That I Used to Know."  Mkay?) was a little overwrought and spitty for me.  BUT.  You know, it's a musical television show, y'all.  I wasn't expecting a Super Bowl performance, nor was I expecting La Boheme.  It was fine.  Well, apparently, Gotye REALLY wasn't down with the version of his song and he made mention of it in a magazine and the entire world fricking exploded in his face and now he's spending a lot of time alternately apologizing or being jauntily sardonic about the whole thing. I don't feel sorry for the dude.  Seriously, if you go into entertainment these days with such lack of savvy in the face of the giant, grinding, soul-eating machine that is the American press and social media, you deserve to have teenage boys crying out for your removal from all of the cool dance club tracks.  Actually, it wasn't his critique of the song that bugged me.  It was when he said, of the cover, "the rock has no real sense."  A:  what does that mean, dude?  And B:  have you heard your song, Walterr?  Because, um, it isn't rock.  It wasn't rock on Glee and it wasn't rock on SNL and though I've never heard any other version of it, I can pretty much guarantee it wasn't rock anywhere.  It isn't because of the "dinky" xylophone, either.  Radiohead has been known to throw a xylophone around from time to time.  It's because that song...it isn't rock.  At all.  Period.   Catchy pop?  Yes.  Rock?  No.  Performance murmuring?  Yes.  Rock?  No.  I don't know why that particular scrap of a sentence bugs me so much, but it just crawls up my SPINE and gnaws on it.  

Blink.

Blink, blink.

Sigh.

I wrote this bit of inanity in an effort to haul myself out of a grimly black mood brought on by a new and particularly vicious version of PMS brought on by my ever-closer proximity to middle age.  I don't know why, but lately, every time it gets to be close to "that time," I want to yell at people.  Loudly.  It's getting so bad that I spend a week out of every month pretty much making my husband contemplate divorce as my children weep at my nastiness.  And I'm only half kidding.  It might be time to go to the doctor and say, "Hey, why are my ovaries turning me into a giant asshat every month?  It Teh Sucks."

In any case, I'm still in a grimly black mood.  And now I've got that song stuck in my head. 

Awesome.