“You wouldn’t think we had stuff to talk about,” Ke$ha, the 25-year-old diva of gritty dance-pop, said on a recent spring Saturday at the Bowery Hotel. “There’s like, so much stuff, it’s hard not to talk about stuff,” she said, laughing. “He loves to talk!”
If the “We R Who We R” singer seems uncharacteristically defensive—everyone from her yoga instructor to her mediation coach has described her as friendly and warm—it’s only because a new high-profile friendship (and maybe more!) is the subject of spurious gossip within tabloids and academic quarterlies. Three weeks ago, at Ashley Tisdale’s Hamptons bash celebrating the success of Ashley Tisdale’s West Hollywood party from the week prior, Ke$ha arrived with a YSL carryall on one arm and postmodernist Fredric Jameson on the other.
“F is amazing,” she gushed. “I’ll be, like, complaining about my music-video director, and he’ll just put everything in perspective by being like, ‘The end of the bourgeois ego, or monad, no doubt brings with it the end of the psychopathologies of that ego—what I have been calling the waning of affect. But it means the end of much more—the end, for example, of style, in the sense of the unique and the personal, the end of the distinctive individual brush stroke (as symbolized by the emergent primacy of mechanical reproduction),’ or something, and he’s right.”
She continued, pointing to her ripped Blue Devils sweatshirt. “He teaches at Duke, so the long-distance thing is tough. And that rumor in the New York Review of Books is …” she trailed off, picking at a glittery bead in her hair.
If the “We R Who We R” singer seems uncharacteristically defensive—everyone from her yoga instructor to her mediation coach has described her as friendly and warm—it’s only because a new high-profile friendship (and maybe more!) is the subject of spurious gossip within tabloids and academic quarterlies. Three weeks ago, at Ashley Tisdale’s Hamptons bash celebrating the success of Ashley Tisdale’s West Hollywood party from the week prior, Ke$ha arrived with a YSL carryall on one arm and postmodernist Fredric Jameson on the other.
“F is amazing,” she gushed. “I’ll be, like, complaining about my music-video director, and he’ll just put everything in perspective by being like, ‘The end of the bourgeois ego, or monad, no doubt brings with it the end of the psychopathologies of that ego—what I have been calling the waning of affect. But it means the end of much more—the end, for example, of style, in the sense of the unique and the personal, the end of the distinctive individual brush stroke (as symbolized by the emergent primacy of mechanical reproduction),’ or something, and he’s right.”
She continued, pointing to her ripped Blue Devils sweatshirt. “He teaches at Duke, so the long-distance thing is tough. And that rumor in the New York Review of Books is …” she trailed off, picking at a glittery bead in her hair.
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