Hello, Trash Pandas! Welcome to another Trash Report. I’m your girl Elinor Jones, coming to you with this extra ~musical~ edition of steaming hot gossip. So like, pretend I’m singing to you. For context, I’m not a very good singer, but I do care a lot, which is very similar to what you’ll get with this column: the information won’t be good, but I will yell it passionately at you. Let’s go.
The Trashional Anthem
This first part doesn’t have anything to do with music, but I have to talk about it: Trump had yet another attempt on his life last month at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner, and after a couple days pretty much no one cared, not even him. When asked if this would make him want to wear a bullet proof vest, Trump said no, because he didn’t want to look any fatter—which is a real missed opportunity. If he felt bad about his waistline he should have said he’s been wearing one the entire time and that’s the reason he has such weird posture and an inexplicable body shape. But it wasn’t only Trump who shrugged off the attack; from videos taken during the shooting, people at the event barely even seemed phased. I’m guessing most of them just assumed that the “pop pop” sounds were Kristi Noem’s husband’s tits popping somewhere in the back of the ballroom.
On the opposite side of the presidency decency meter, the late president Jimmy Carter made a special appearance at a recent Cardi B concert in Atlanta. No, it wasn’t a hologram (remember in like 2010 when suddenly everybody was super into holograms? What was up with that?), but rather in a book: Carter’s daughter Amy attended the concert, and presented noted history-lover Cardi B with a copy of the president’s diaries that he signed before he passed. Cardi B was thrilled, not just because she loves presidents, but because she loves cool presidents. In fact, her favorite president is FDR, whose wife Eleanor was (probably) gay, and Cardi herself is bisexual, which means that if their timelines had aligned she could have been their third.
Upcoming AdapTrashions
Because good things can still happen in this dark, dark world, Neko Case has written the songs to an upcoming stage adaptation of a Thelma & Louise musical that will debut this fall in London. Hey, do you guys think that if we get enough speed, we can drive the convertible off the edge of the East Coast and make it to England? I am willing to get some vintage kerchiefs and give it a shot. Can you imagine the audience of those performances? I feel like everyone’s periods will immediately sync. Similarly, I learned on a recent episode of Las Culturistas that Brandi Carlisle was once tapped to write the songs for a stage adaptation of Fried Green Tomatoes (which sadly never got off the ground). And now I feel like we are being fucked with. Are producers just throwing darts at a wall of iconic feminist musicians and properties? Next thing I know they’re going to tell me Phoebe Bridgers is in talks to pen the music for a Broadway production of, like, Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken. (God, that’s actually such a good idea. Oh wow, it would be so good.)
Trash Hurts
Lizzo is releasing a new album this year called Bitch. This is an interesting choice for a woman who’s been a bit of a lightning rod over the past couple of years, but good for her. But also, good luck, because “Bitch” in music is strongly tied to the Meredith Brooks’ ’90s banger of the same name, and it will have to be one hell of an album to knock that ear worm out of the top spot for pieces of music we associate with that word. (Did you know that Meredith Brooks is from Oregon? It’s true! She should have put that in her song so we’d all know. “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother, I’m a sinner, I’m from Oregon, I do not feel ashamed.” It works, right?)
Olivia Rodrigo also has a new album coming out soon and she just released her tour dates for later this year. I want to go, but I worry it would be weird, due to my age. I know that Liz Phair and Sleater Kinney are also touring this year, and I feel like that would be a more age-appropriate place for me to wear ripped tights and scream-sing—but I want both, damnit! Aging is impossible. I kind of understand why baby boomers keep all the good jobs and houses for themselves: ‘cuz if I do go to Olivia Rodrigo, I’m definitely buying the best tickets for myself and my 1900s-era friends.
And finally, the music and gossip worlds were equally shook by news that Megan Thee Stallion’s boyfriend Klay Thompson was allegedly cheating on her, which she announced on Instagram. Then the day after she broke down in tears at her job in the Moulin Rouge play. I have cried plenty of times at work and it’s always embarrassing, and that’s without an audience. The nerve to cheat on a woman as stunning as Megan Thee Stallion! This woman needs to be set up by an auntie. Or does anybody have a cute accountant?
Trash of a Spider Woman
Brett Goldstein and Jennifer Lopez have a rom-com called Office Romance coming out soon that looks excellent, and is also supposed to be raunchy. Hell yeah. Goldstein said that he’d always had a crush on J. Lo, so he wrote the movie so that the two of them could star in it together. I didn’t know it was as easy as just writing a movie? I guess I’m going to write a raunchy movie starring me and Brett Goldstein?
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences said that only people can win Oscars from here on out. Scripts have to be written by humans, and actors cannot be AI, to be in contention. This is good. Lying about using AI to write a script will provide great acting examples for the humanoid models to study.
A Near Trashterpiece
I saw a headline the other day that said “Anna Nicole Smith and Larry Birkhead’s Daughter’s Kentucky Derby Look Is All About Her ‘Coming Into Her Own,’ Dad Says.” And I didn’t see the apostrophe after “daughter” so it looked like it said that the name Anna Nicole Smith’s daughter was Kentucky Derby, and I found myself smiling at what a charming name Kentucky Derby is for a girl, and how lucky we were to have had a woman as kind and whimsical as Anna Nicole Smith exist on this earthly plane. Alas, I misread. (The daughter is named Danielynn. Basement-level whimsy.)
Trash on My Parade
Portland’s annual Rose Festival is just around the corner, which includes the Rose Parade and its marching bands. Imagine the first king who demanded music as he traversed the countryside, which definitely would have been way before iPods, or even Walkmen. And all of the kingsmen were like, “sir, the instruments are very heavy, and there are so many,” and the king said “ask me if I care?” Then the musicians who were used to playing sitting down had to learn how to play their instruments walking, and not only that, stomping in lines, and in unison. I would have quit right then. But people did it, even after the invention of speakers and motorized forms of transportation. Even though it must be so hard to carry those instruments around all day while playing them, they do it because it makes people happy. That’s so nice. Anyway, that’s what I’ll be thinking about when I go to the Rose Parade.
If you see me there, please tell me a secret. If you don’t see me there, please blow bubbles in the face of a small child. It may feel mean, but they actually really love it. Thanks for reading, and (remember, I’m singing this all) thank you for being a friend.
Goldenly,
