Look around. Go ahead. Scroll, drive, walk through a store, or even—as I recently did—wade into the ocean to swim with stingrays.
Wherever we look, things feel… amplified. Amplified to the point of distortion.
Genders, politicians, singers, non-talented celebrities, wildly talented artists, business gurus, advertisements, comment sections, fashion, fingernails, eyelashes, makeup, hairdos, events, personalities, journalists, newspapers, television, the economy, social services, and—of course—social media.
Everything is turned up to eleven. And honestly? I’m exhausted by it.
Let me give you a very specific, very recent example.
The Stingray Excursion
I joined a group to swim with stingrays. Beautiful, serene, peaceful creatures. And among our group was a young Brazilian-American woman who had applied triple false eyelashes for the adventure.
Triple. To go snorkeling.
She wore sunglasses most of the time anyway.
I don’t say this to mock her. I genuinely don’t get it. False eyelashes have been around for decades. In entertainment, they were used to enhance—subtly. The goal was often to make you not notice them. Today, many wear them the way a drag queen wears them.
And let me be crystal clear: I love and deeply respect drag queens. The artistry, the courage, the joy. That’s not what this is about.
But wearing drag-level lashes to swim with stingrays? Come on. You see it everywhere now. The most action-packed movie—explosions, deep wounds, life-or-death stakes—and the lead actress’s eyelashes are so fake you could see them from a mile away.
What happened to appropriateness? To context?
The Question No One Wants to Ask
What’s wrong with this world that we mistake more for better?
I want to tread carefully here, especially when speaking about the LGBTQ+ community, because I have close friends who live this reality every day. One of the most powerful, grounded, and inspiring performances I’ve ever seen was Dominique Jackson in Pose. Her character was unapologetically herself. She fought for her rights. She was fierce. But nothing about her was “over the top” in the cheap, performative sense. She was real. And that reality was more powerful than any costume.
Then there’s Conchita Wurst. (I’ll say it: that might be the most unfortunate artist name in modern history.) An extraordinarily talented singer. Won Eurovision. Became famous largely for appearance and shock value. And then? A dwindling career, reduced to being treated as a “freak” by the very culture that consumed her.
How cruel is that? And yet—it’s also logical. We’ve built a world where only the over-the-top gets those 15 minutes of Warholian attention. Everyone is chasing the spike, the viral moment, the gasp. No one is cultivating a life.
A Special Chapter: The Vocal Athletes
I need to say something that might get me in trouble.
Female singers: Mariah, Whitney, Rachelle, Celine, Patti Labelle. Technically? Masters. Absolute geniuses of vocal control. I bow to their skill.
But must we hear the vocal acrobatics in every single song?
Every trip to the grocery store becomes a pentatonic obstacle course. Up and down. Run and riff. Whistle register. Every phrase a competition. At a certain point, it stops being art and starts being a sport.
Please. Do yourselves a favor. Listen to Shirley Horn. Miles Davis reportedly called her his favorite singer. She could break your heart with a whisper. She understood that the note you don’t sing is just as important as the one you do. Restraint. Space. Class.
That’s not a lack of creativity. That is creativity matured.
The Hard Truth
There are so many fields where “over the top” is now the default. And honestly? It’s a horror show.
We’ve confused volume with value. We’ve confused spectacle with substance.
If the only way you can express yourself is by screaming—in vocals, in fashion, in politics, in social media—then I have to ask: do you actually have anything to say?
Because here’s the thing I keep coming back to:
If the sense of class limits your creativity, you were never truly creative in the first place.
True creativity knows when to bloom and when to rest. It knows the power of a small gesture. It trusts the audience enough not to club them over the head.
So this is my respectful plea: Let’s bring back restraint. Not as a rule, but as an option. Let’s make room for the quiet, the subtle, the real. Let’s admire the singer who holds a single note instead of turning it into a ladder.
And for the love of all that is good—if you’re going swimming with stingrays, leave the triple lashes on the shore.