Ensconced within the belly of the metal bird flying over the Atlantic, your columnist is watching John Turturro as the fading gigolo on screen. His, ahem, ‘agent’ is Woody Allen, presenting what is arguably the most refreshing take on bawds and their business since Irma la Douce. In the term’s original conception, gigolette was a hired dancing partner. Suffice it to say forms of dance have morphed since then.
Still, Turturro retains a monk-like detachment and a propensity to scatter pearls of wisdom: one of his clients is a disheartened Hasidic widow who’s brought to him under the claim that he is a ‘healer’. What ensues between them is enlightened intimacy leading the transformed widow to exclaim, “You bring magic to the lonely.” The taciturn healer’s response is a Latin aphorism, “Ubi amor, ibi dolore.(Where there is love, there is sorrow.)”
Doesn’t that contravene conventional wisdom? The pursuit of love as rapture supposedly removes sorrow of separation and results in existential bliss. So what is sorrow doing in the house of bliss? Theologians in the West and the East have answered that.
Where the focus is primarily on the self and fulfilment of its own pleasures, love as Eros is supposed to be severely constrained. Conversely, where the focus is on the other and giving more than on taking or grabbing, love as agape or the ultimate grows exponentially.
Likewise, Sant Tukaram says, “Sorrow clings to those who seek love (Snehavad dukkha jadalesi anga); Heartless in the world is the high produced by bliss.” One has to be detached to be delivered!
The Kardashian girls have been at the front of the rear-end movement for quite some time now. Particularly Kim, who has been slowly but steadily flashing us over a decade till the day her butt went psycho. Her oiled and oversized assets, which aimed to break the internet on Thursday, did butt out most other news of the day. Instead of Kim’s lips, this time her backside pouted at the world in a way that can only be called cheeky.
After emerging fanny-first in a Paper magazine photo shoot Kim goes full-frontal and serves champagne on her tailbone. But in the quest to make a separate celebrity out of her derriere one wonders if perhaps she bent over backwards a bit too much. Neither her left profile nor her right can quite match up to what her booty can rake in as moolah and media publicity. One day the paparazzi was zooming in on her face, the next day it was only her lovely lady lumps. ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine,’ says the media, clicking furiously.
Kim moons us in so many mags that we are in danger of soon forgetting what her face looks like! But that won’t matter because we can recognise her anywhere by her rump. She’s all about that bass.
You may wonder, how does she walk? Where does the balance come from? As far as Kim’s concerned it is not just the booty that’s large, her heels are usually taller than some really short people. So how does she do it – motherhood, celebrity, a couple of divorces, a reality show and running a business, plus personally carting around such a high-maintenance backside?
While you ponder this and admire keenly, kindly step in queue at the cosmetic surgeon’s, where Kim’s rear is all the rage. More and more women – and perhaps some men – are pointing to those Kimmy Choo’s, saying same, please. And those few deluded women wanting a calm and flat behind, asking Kim to keep it in her pants, that’s just sour grapes.
The wife of Kanye West, the daughter of Kris Jenner, the sister of Kourtney and Khloe, half-sis of Kylie ’n’ Kendall and the mother of little North West she may be, but first Kim is the proprietor of that posterior. I’ve got your back, she tells it at night.
For this is one booty that’s going to get its own identity card, public listing, film roles and an Oscar award, and if it cannot find underwear its size, that’s a small price to pay. The question ‘Is she making an ass out of us?’ is irrelevant in these asinine times.
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