Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, February 28, 2008 He Gives Good Head There are a few aspects to my job which can lead me to some bizarre phone calls and web searches. Consequently I sometimes discover products which defy logic or explanation. This is just too darned good to keep to myself. I wish I would have had these for President's Day.
You've heard of Lincoln Logs? I present to you: Lincoln Lollipops.
Lincoln apparently tastes like orange. He's delicious! Honest!
"Mr. Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the temporal lobe of a Lincoln Lollipop?"
You can make up your own sick jokes about his head, bullet holes and where they have to insert the stick.
In poor taste, you say? No! He's delicious! Honest!
Laugh all you want, someone, somewhere is making money on these. Somewhere there's a salesperson earning commission on them. Somewhere there are people working in a factory, punching into a time clock, earning money producing them.
You could also pass them off as a generic Amish guy so they'd be great for your next barn raising or Witness viewing party.
Should you want to order a case for your next party you can find them here.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I don’t mean to brag, but…I had awesome tickets for the sold out Foo Fighters show.
Shame I didn’t get to go to the show.
What? Why, Trill, why? You may ask imploringly wondering what’s wrong with me besides my foot and ankle.
Well, it finally happened. Not even the lure of great seats for a great sold out show is enough to persuade any of my friends to spend time with me.
Okay. To be fair two people really, really wanted to go and would have gone but had other obligations. A mother on dialysis is slightly more urgent than great seats for the Foo Fighters. And going to China for your job is kind of important and kind of more cool than great seats for the Foo Fighters. So to qualify and to be clear, I do have two friends who would spend time with me, with or without the Foo Fighters.
Okay. Still. I know a ton of people. Some of them are even friends. Most of them are of concert going and Foo liking age. I offered the ticket free, no cost and I’d pay for parking. But the reasons filed in. They didn’t want to venture out on a Monday night. They couldn’t get a sitter on a school night. Traffic would be murder on a Monday night. It would be a really loud show and they hate going home with ringing ears.
I know. Lame.
The Foo Fighters for crying out loud. Dave Grohl. Nirvana? Ringing any bells? Amazing, for the “industry,” seats. I mean, c’mon, isn’t that jump-at-the-chance worthy?
Sure. I dig music. A lot. Especially live shows. Especially good live shows.
Sure. Nirvana was the voice of my confused, disoriented and prematurely weary and jaded generation.
But c’mon, putting all of that aside, fantastic free seats to a great concert. I thought I’d feel guilty because I only had two tickets and a lot of people would want to go. I started with the friends I know to be serious Nirvana/Foo fans. The problem there? They’re married. And she didn’t want to go. The PTA fundraiser was the Saturday prior to the concert and she was busy focusing on that. Apparently she can’t handle more than one event in the span of three days. He really wanted to go. He gave me the, “OMG, you’re the coolest friend ever, this is a dream come true, it’ll be a blast! I’ll pick you up after work, we can grab dinner on the way, Foo Fighters! Foo Fighters! OMG” reaction I thought I’d receive from all of my friends. I could hear him jumping around with glee as he scampered down the hall.
Then there was silence on the other end of the phone. Then a meek and dejected little voice said, “Holly says I can’t go.” Pause on both ends of the phone. Then, “If I give you money will you buy me a t-shirt?”
I’m not stupid. I do not interfere in my friends’ marriages. And I don’t think she’s jealous of me, in fact I’m pretty sure I’m the last person she’d suspect if she thought her husband were cheating on her. (rightfully so) I don’t think she was worried about what might happen when we were all pumped up at the arena banging our heads to the tunes of Foo. I think she just did not want to be involved with concerts “like that” and didn’t want him to be “involved” either. She’s been on this whole, “we’re grown-ups for crying out loud” kick lately. She's become very quick to dismiss and scoff at people who don’t “act their age.” Every time she hears about someone doing something she deems inappropriate she rolls her eyes and says, “we’re grown-ups for crying out loud.” She doesn’t out and out call them childish, or immature, and in fact I’m not entirely what the exact implication is other than she’s disdainful of a lot of rudimentary activities. I’m starting to compile a list of things she deems inappropriate for grown-ups. So far it includes: Renting, snowboarding, fast food, cars older than two years, paying (for anything) with cash, inexpensive purses and shoes, painting/working on your home yourself, Pez, buying clothes on sale at the end of the season, and apparently now I can add going to concerts, even the Foo Fighters, to the list. And by the way, she used to be (and I thought still was) a huge Nirvana fan, but maybe not. Maybe she’s left that behind now that she’s magically transformed into a grown-up.
And she’s dragging her husband into being a grown-up, too. Therefore he was not allowed to attend the concert with me. I’m apparently a threat. Not to her marriage or her husband’s fidelity, but to his maturity.
So I made more phone calls, sent more emails, and came up with: Nothing.
So I thought, “well, Trill old girl, it’s a sad day when you can’t find anyone to go with you to a concert, but here it is. Might as well give both tickets to people who would like them.” So I called my grown-up friend again and told her I couldn’t find anyone to go with me and she and her husband could have both the tickets and I even offered to babysit. I know! I know! What am I, a saint or something? How could anyone refuse, right?
Wrong.
She reiterated that the PTA fundraiser was the Saturday night prior to the concert (on Monday night) and she couldn’t go. And then listed the traffic, loud noise and school night excuses. Yes. This from a woman who used to go to live punk shows, hit the after hours bars, go home, take a shower and go to work. Okay, sure, we’re all more grown-up than that, now. Those days are over. Happily. But. There is a happy medium, right?
Apparently not.
Yes. I couldn’t give the tickets away.
Well. That’s not entirely true. I know a few people at work would have jumped at the tickets, but I’d sooner sit chained to a chair with tubes venting Giorgio perfume in my nose while wearing a twine thong-backed scratchy polyester lace teddy in a locked room with Celine Dion piped in on loud but tinny speakers while images of animal torture are projected on the walls than give the tickets to anyone at work. (and yes, that’s one of my versions of Hell)
I toyed with going to the show alone. I do go to shows alone. But to smaller, in-town shows. Glorified bars with no chairs, so overcrowded it's almost pointless to go with anyone anyway. It's hot, loud and crowded. If you're alone no one really notices. And people do go alone to those kinds of shows. I'm not alone in going alone to those kinds of shows. A lot of people go to check out a band on their own. Well. Okay, maybe not a lot, but people do it. But people don't generally go to arena shows alone, and they certainly don't go to special fantastic industry only seats at arena shows alone. Much as I wanted to go to this show, I didn't want to go alone. I go to movies alone. I go out to eat alone. I go to galleries alone. I go to museums alone. I take moonlit walks on the beach alone. (Anyone catch the eclipse the other night? Wowee, that was really cool.) I travel alone. So what's the big deal about going to an arena show alone? I dunno. I guess I have to draw the line somewhere and apparently I draw my out-there-on-my-own line at going to a sold out Foo Fighters concert.
In the end I gave the tickets, both of them, to the brother of a of a friend of a friend. He took his girlfriend and they had a great time. Woo hoo for them. I’m glad someone was able to use them and enjoy the show. It would have been a shame to let them go to waste.
Apparently I earned some karma points for that.
I’m not sure how karma works, it’s open for debate whether or not I scored good or bad karma.
Because I'm going to see Grand Funk Railroad next weekend.
Yes, “We’re comin’ to your town, we’ll help you party down” Grand Funk Railroad.
And again you ask, imploringly, more urgently, more concerned, What? Why, Trill, why?
Because I’m a really, really, really good sister.
Here’s the lesson I learned and here’s why I think I’m a grown-up, even more-so than my disdaining friend.
My sister is several years older than me. Putting the huge age gap aside, we’re also as different as two people could be. I find it difficult to explain or believe that we share any common DNA. But such is often the case with sisters, regardless of the age difference.
One of her favorite bands is Grand Funk Railroad. I have no idea why. Why doesn’t matter. She likes them and that’s that. I happen to be visiting the weekend GFR is playing a gig near her. Yes. They’re going to her town, they’ll help her party down.
When she discovered the coincidence of my visit and the GFR show she asked me to go with her.
My immediate reaction would be to laugh and recite the above Celine Dion scenario.
But in light of my recent trouble trying to find someone to go with me to the Foo Fighters, I caught myself before I verbalized my disdain for the band and aging rockers trying to cash in on their former glory. This is important to her. It means something to her. I have no idea why, but it matters to her and she wants to go. I’m sure she feels the same way about me wanting to see the Foo Fighters. Though to be fair to me, Dave Grohl doesn’t try to cash in by touring under the name Nirvana and he writes and performs new songs. He's evolved and evolving. There are some young Foo Fighers newbies who don’t even realize Dave Grohl was in Nirvana. (I know, I found that difficult to believe, too, but I work with two of them. Young little whipper snappers didn’t have a clue.)
Do I want to spend an evening with a bunch of aging hippie stoners listening to some of the original members of Grand Funk Railroad regurgitate the same songs they've been playing since 1973? Of course not. (See above, ghastly perfume, scratchy thong teddy, chains, locked room, animal torture, Celine Dion) But. I would have really liked for someone to make the “sacrifice” and go with me to see Foo Fighters. I don’t have a lot to look forward to, at the moment and in life in general. I’m either doing something at work or for work, volunteering to help other people/animals, or home alone. My friends are married, most with children, and they’re busy. They have lives and friends which include and revolve around being married and having children. So the little treats, a concert here and there, a night out with friends, is a big deal to me. Sure, the music (hopefully) is good, but the socializing and camaraderie aspects have become equally important. I don’t take those aspects for granted anymore. Other than work and volunteering, I spend a lot of time alone. I am lonely. I fill as many hours of the days as I can with work and helping other people, and I “get” a lot out of that, but, I go home: Alone. I’m sharing and giving of myself, but I’m not sharing my life with anyone, and that can get really lonely sometimes. The few opportunities I have to connect with friends are becoming ever more elusive, and at the same time ever more crucial.
My sister’s situation is a little different. She has friends, friends who have children, friends who are divorced, like her. She’s not alone and (I don’t think) as lonely. But. Since I’m going to be in town anyway, she wants me to go with her. She knows, as converse as the logic seems, that I’ll look after her. That if she has too much to drink (or smoke) I won’t let anyone take advantage of her. She knows I’ll be the designated driver. She knows I’m the responsible one who will look out for her so she can cut loose and have a good time at her concert.
I know, I know. Given all that kettle of sibling fish I should say no and refuse to go with her. But. Fresh on the heels of my concert going disappointment I couldn’t make myself say no. Yes, I’m being charitable. No, she’s not taking advantage of me. She hit me up for this at exactly the right time. A week sooner or later and I wouldn’t have agreed to go with her. But I’m a grown-up and I do things I don’t want to do for the sake of others. Unlike my friends who, in spite of their admonishments other people, haven't learned this lesson about being a grown-up. And yes, it's a night out and one Saturday I don't have to spend alone. It's not the Foo Fighters, but s'all good.
And who knows? I might have a good time. It’ll be good for a laugh. A room full of aging stoners tripping out to that dreadful and way too long I’m your captain song. I'll take a crossword to work on during that song. (Seriously, what is the point of that song? Why is it so long? Is it a metaphor for an LSD trip?)
Maybe I'll even make a shirt to wear to the show with the Homer quote emblazoned across my boobs: “Mark Farner’s wild, shirtless lyrics. The bong-rattling bass of Mel Schacher. The competent drumwork of Don Brewer.” I'm a grown-up, but I'm not above being irreverent and ironic.
1:52 PM
Monday, February 25, 2008
There's a ton of existentialism in The Simpsons. And that is the beauty of a good episode. When the writers nail it, they really, really nail it brilliantly. They lampoon it, but to do so they clearly have to know it, have experienced it, and therefore also sympathize with it while lampooning. They make fun of Homer, but, they take him just to the brink and then make us realize in many core ways we're no different than Homer.
You’re sitting there thinking, “Whoa, Trillian, I beg to differ with you on that. I am in no way like Homer Simpson.”
Okay. Great! Good for you! Congratulations. You apparently have a rewarding and fulfilling job you love, working for bosses who are kind and truly care more about their employees than the company bottom line. Apparently there aren’t any sycophantic yes people following senior management around like drooling puppies at your workplace. Apparently you don’t struggle to make financial ends meet. And when some wind-fall does come your way, you don’t struggle between paying off your credit cards/putting money away for the kids’ college/replacing the car that’s nearing the 150,000 mile mark and gasping for repairs. You must have great neighbors you love having next door. So you don’t know what it’s like to have obnoxious neighbors who bug the crap out of you, but are basically good people so you feel guilty about finding them obnoxious and you’re stuck living next door to them anyway so there’s nothing you can do but deal with them. You never feel the desire to get away from your life and the pressure at work and home by doing something you know you shouldn’t do. You never want to avoid going home or responsibilities at home or work. Wow. Lucky you. Can we do a life swap for a few weeks?
The rest of us will just be over there living our less than perfect lives beating our head against walls and feeling despondant over the zeitgeist around us.
There are classes in The Simpsons - mostly cultural studies classes. What someone, perhaps me, needs to do is create a course on existentialism found in modern life and compare and contrast the duality and conflict and struggle of the American people as evidenced by the FOX network airing complete opposite programming, both long time American favorites The Simpsons and American Idol.
As a people we're depressed, confused, bored and most of us know this ship is sinking. We've been tuning into The Simpsons for almost 20 years (depending on when you count the debut – on Tracy Ullman or when they got their own show) to get our schadenfreudistic pleasure from laughing at The Simpsons. All the while (most of us) knowing full well the reason we find it funny is because we're one or two steps away from that life ourselves. They’re taken to an extreme, but the themes ring true. We laugh, but most of the time deep down, much as it might pain us to admit, we're laughing with them, not at them. And that's a key element. Crazy as they are, we understand, we sympathize. We, well, we care. It’s a kind of self effacing schadenfreude.
But then "we" turn around and tune in to American Idol. Mind numbingly stupid, offensive, formulaic, ridiculously self absorbed recording industry vehicle and swindle on the American public. "We" love to sit and laugh at the bad contestants. We sit there waiting for last week's favorite to stumble on a difficult tune, turn in a "pitchy" performance or wear an unflattering outfit or hair style. It’s schadenfreudistic pleasure without the self awareness and sympathy that’s behind the schadenfreudistic comedy of the Simpsons.
The duality and conflict of the popularity of these two shows with overlapping viewership is interesting on a sociological level.
Is it marketing baby, marketing?
In the case of The Simpsons, no. The Simpsons defies all television marketing and demographic logic. Pop culture phenomenon? Maybe at first. But really they’ve always been more of a noumenon. Sure, there are sight gags and low brow jokes which don’t require a lot of gray matter. But the sight gags, low brow jokes and “eat my shorts” bit would have only given The Simpsons a couple of seasons. Even on FOX. But, as their 20th year approaches (or is here, depending on your opinion of anniversary date) it’s time to give them (the writers) credit for brilliance unrivaled. They’ve gone beyond phenomenon. Those days are over. The phenomenon ended when the last Eat My Shorts t-shirt was sold in the mall.
It’s time to give them credit for being something more than a pop culture phenomenon. Something more than a noumenon. In the Bartman/Eat My Shorts t-shirt heyday, yes, it was marketing, baby, marketing. People were wary of this new network, FOX (rightfully so). Mainstream dolts thought it was a cartoon with a bratty kid. Kids didn’t really understand a lot of the humor, and it was on Sunday night and they had to get ready for school the next day. Were it not for the interest in, and success of Married with Children, another early FOX success story, The Simpsons may not have ever hit their stride and found their niche. Married… aired on Sunday nights and quickly found an audience. That all important 22 – 36 year old demograph. If you write it smart, funny and hip enough, they will come. And oh, sure, the few people who knew who Tracy Ullman were at the time eagerly tuned into her show and saw the original segue bits which were The Simpsons. And oh, sure, a few of those people liked The Simpsons and were interested to see if it could flesh out into a full ½ hour show on its own. Poor Tracy Ullman. Brilliantly funny, but her show was axed and the little yellow cartoon family still airs on FOX Sunday night 20 years later. So yes. In those days it was marketing, baby, marketing. The Married… crowd and few Tracy Ullman fans got hooked on the Simpsons, word spread, and voila, marketing, baby, marketing. Phenomenon, baby, phenomenon.
But those days were 20 years ago. Those original Bartman and Eat My Shorts t-shirts are so old they’re considered kitschy retro, ironic vintage, and funny nod to the ‘80s. (And you have to hope Groening and clan had the foresight to nail down a hefty licensing agreement. I, for one, would love to see the original contract between Groening and FOX. How hungry was he and how desperate were they? I’m guessing it’s a far cry from the dubious FOX contract American Idol contestants are forced to sign.) Twenty years and a lot of brilliant (and admittedly, some very lame) episodes later, The Simpsons is as sharp and layered as ever. There is something for everyone. It takes us to the edge of insulting our intelligence and then soothes our synapses with profound societal and sociological insight. Basically: Just like real life.
Yes, really. Think about it. One of the standout episodes is the flashback to how baby Maggie came into being. Things were going well for the family so Homer could finally quit the drudgery and demoralization of his job at the power plant and pursue his dream career: working at a bowling alley. Okay. Maybe your dream career isn’t working at a bowling alley, but, we all have a “bowling alley” dream career. If I had a bazillion dollars and could quit the monotony, agony and demoralizing job I call my career, I would love to have a rock shop – go around collecting rocks, tumble and polish them and serve the rock hounding public. No. There is not a big rock hounding public and no one ever got rich selling rock tumblers and rock tumbling supplies. It’s debatable that anyone in the rock hounding trade has ever been able to keep a roof over their head and food on the table solely on their rock work. Logic and practicality and a need to survive keep us from our “bowling alley” dream jobs. And along came baby Maggie, more expenses and Homer had to eat humble pie, swallow his pride and dreams, deal with reality and return to work at the power plant. So much for his dream job. Did he resent Maggie? Probably. But this is Homer and he’s not capable of connecting lofty concepts like resentment and existentialism. Instead when old Burnsy gives him an office plaque reading Don’t Forget: You’re Here Forever, Homer covers it up with photos of Maggie so it reads: Do It For Her. Awwwwwwww. Homer redeems himself for a moment there.
We know about existentialism and see it so clearly and cleverly and funnily woven into the episode. Others unfamiliar with existentialism see it as a touching moment of tenderness for Homer. Either way, stupid as Homer is often portrayed, these moments of existentialism/tenderness redeem him to us. He’s human and he’s not as stupid as he usually seems. Whether or not we want to admit it, we’re Homer. Homer, rightly or wrongly, has learned to enoble the void, deal with his life, exert free will, by finding escape and camaraderie by drinking at Moe’s. Maybe you don’t drink, but you probably do something to exert your free will, a way to escape the monotony of your life and justify your diversion by counting off the ways in which your life sucks, demanding job, financial stress, unfulfilling relationships. You may not sit on a bar stool, but we all have diversions which we use to ignore our responsibilities. I swore I’d keep religion out of this but there are people (probably not reading this blog) who use religion as their escape and a way to avoid the realities, monotony, and fears of their lives. I find it ironic that they exert their “free will” by doing and believing exactly what their church tells them to do or believe. But hey, whatever gets you through the night. The rest of us drink (where everybody knows our name), or take drugs (Cymbalta? Prozac? Zoloft? Lexapro? Paxil? Elavil? Remeron? Nardil? Wellbutrin? Effexor anyone?), spend a little too much time at the gym (and insist it’s for health benefits), go shopping (credit card debt and mortgage foreclosures are at an all time high, we didn’t get there by spending quiet evenings at home with the family), spend inordinate amounts of time online (thank you, Al Gore, we love the internet), take vacations we really can’t afford (hey, we all need a break, so what if it takes five years to pay for it? Enjoy it while you’re young!), stick our noses in books (can you really read too much?!) watch television we know is bad and don’t really even like that much…
American Idol, yes, that’s a pop culture phenomenon. Well. Depending on which definition of phenomenon you want to use. If you use the “an object or aspect known through the senses rather than by thought or intuition” then yes, it’s a phenomenon. It relies solely on sensory response. What the viewers hear and see on the screen before them, and why they tune in two or three nights a week, season after season, has little to do with logic or cognitive intelligence apart from the senses. Someone sings badly or looks “funny,” the judges scoff, criticize and make fun of them, further stimulating the viewers’ ears and eyes, viewers laugh. It’s very basic, low maintenance, little effort entertainment. There isn’t a lot a gray matter involved in any aspect of American Idol. It’s a cheaply packaged, heavily marketed insult to intelligence and swindle on the music listening public. So the fact that it has endured several seasons is a phenomenon. There’s no noumenon aspect to it whatsoever. It’s cheap, formulaic, rudimentary and forgettable. (Quick! Who won third season?! If you are proud to assuredly shout out the correct response in seconds without the aid of Google you are at the wrong blog.) Oh sure, I can see the guilty pleasure aspect of it, I can see the “eh, there’s nothing else on and I had a really rough day at work” aspect to it, I can even see the “wow, he/she is really cute” aspect to it. But we’re not talking culture. We’re not talking insight. We’re not talking about anything we can relate to on any significant level. (Unless you are a future Idol hopeful, in which case I suggest you do a lot more than study the weekly episodes.) It’s throw-away entertainment, trash television. And that’s fine. Nothing wrong with that. Hey, I’ve been known to watch Gilligan’s Island. Trash television does serve a legitimate purpose. We can’t be all intelligent and insightful all the time.
What’s disturbing about American Idol is that people, many, many people, take it very seriously. And not only do they take it seriously, they think it’s real. They believe in it. They spend the money to call or text in their votes week after week. And these are not innocent children. Many adults buy into it and love it. Think it's harmless entertainment. Lemmings.
Lambs to the slaughter.
Historically a new century is a little shaky on its legs for the first few years and then big things start happening. Innovations, politics (revolts, overthrows, wars), cultural renaissances and the like get into full swing. So sure, when it debuted in the early ‘00s, Idol and all its global iterations was “typical” new century, not sure what the heck is going on here entertainment. In other words: Vaudeville.
Vaudeville had its place and laid a foundation for better things to come. (Insert dissertation on the popularity of The Three Stooges and the decline of Western civilization here) But it’s now 2008, people! C’mon! The lethargy from the hangover of the ‘80s is no longer a valid excuse. Culture is lacking. Big time. Our zeitgeist called and it wants us to do somethinig.
For the purpose of this blog we’ll call culture art, literature, music, movies, theatre, dance and food. I do firmly believe politics and religion are cultural, as well, but I’ll save that for another day or a five volume book. I included food because food has become a form of entertainment, elevated (or demoted, depending on your point of view) to something much more than nutrition to keep our bodies working.
There’s a good book on this very topic by Joe Queenan. Published in 1999, Red Lobster, White Trash and the Blue Lagoon is a good starting point for the study of the dumbing down and numbing of minds in terms of culture in “our” time. It was an apt and telling look at culture in the post-‘80s confusion and hangover.
I laughed when I read it, knowingly, sadly and sometimes guiltily. I remember thinking it was a good summarization of the end of the 20th century. I tucked it away and thought it would be funny to look back and re-read it ten years later. I remember thinking surely things would change for the better in the coming years of the new century. I predicted I would get a kick out of reading about the woeful state of zeitgeist in the '90s written by as a lament against that very zeitgeist.
I cheated. I didn’t wait for ’09. I picked it up again last weekend.
I was so, so, so wrong back in 1999. And American Idol embodies all of what’s wrong and all the ways I was wrong.
Back in '99 I gave “us” too much credit. I relied on history to salve my fears and concerns about the state of the world, culture, and life in general. I thought surely, as in the past, the new century would bring changes - exciting, maybe sometimes scary or weird, but changes.
Heck, I thought my own life would bring changes. I'd met a great guy and I was falling very deeply in love. I didn't know it then but I was on the brink of being egaged and planning a life and future with the man I trusted, loved, liked and thought would always be there for me and with me. I was generally happy with the direction my life was taking.
And now here I am. My personal life story mirrors society's and culture's story: Things looked promising, it seemed like we were smart and moving forward, the future didn't look ridiculously wonderful, but it didn't look bad, either. It seemed like we were finally getting a grip on reality and were dealing with it and even having a few laughs about it. And yet, here we are. 2008. My life has changed very little for the better and a lot for the worse. Ditto society or culture.
And yes, the century is young.
Yes, it’s unfair to judge the century when we’re only eight years into it. But. Um. In case you haven’t noticed, things aren’t really “happening” out there in the world.
Obviously the biggest issue this century is 9/11 and the subsequent political weirdness. (Bush, Iraq) Yes. I’ll grant us that. 9/11 was a hard punch in our collective gut. I’ll cut us a lot of slack for ’01 and ’02. Looking back, I can suspend my personal music tastes for a minute and theorize about the advent of American Idol in 2002 and why it was so popular. It had a ‘90s kind of cultural diversity/melting pot quality. They were a nice group of diverse kids, but none of them were “too” diverse. There was something for everyone, but none of them were too much of anything. They were safe, edgeless. They played in Peoria and in East LA. They were as generic as the pop songs they were given to sing each week. They were non-threatening. The biggest threat to our fragile and sensitive hearts was Simon Cowell and his scripted, badly delivered criticisms. Which could explain why “pathetic” seemed like such harsh and shocking criticism to off-key warbling.
That was then. This is now. Bush is in his second term, Hussein is gone but the murder continues in Iraq, no one seems to be concerned about North Korea. Political life goes on and on and on. Are we so caught up in the monotony of nothing changing that we aren’t demanding more from our culture? Surely “we” are not happy with the political landscape, continued death toll and apathy toward real threats.
I know, I know. We’re just little citizens, we can’t change the world. True enough in a lot of respects. But. Not at all true in others. Believe me. If no one tuned into American Idol for just two weeks, FOX would axe it faster than you can say Greg the Bunny. We can’t change the world, but we can change the channel. We can create something new and different.
For crying out loud, Castro, Fidel swutting Castro, stepped down, willingly, from his dictatorship in Cuba. Um. Things are happening. It’s time to move on with our culture. Where are our Impressionists, Surrealists, DaDaists, Expressionists? Where is our Charlie Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino? Where are the Scot Fitzgeralds, the Gertrude Steins? The Rachmaninoffs, Debussys, Ravels? Heck, I’d settle for a Gerswhin. Maybe the century is too young to judge. It’s too soon to tell. It’s only 2008, give it a chance, right? Well, yes, right.
But. What’s emerging in culture? I don’t see much. And I’m “out there.” I go to live concerts and hear the new bands. I go to galleries and see the new artists. I read. A lot. I watch so many movies my mailman has a special place in his bag for my Netflix deliveries. I try new restaurants.
And what do I see, hear and taste? A lot of safe, edgeless corporate backed generia.
I don’t know why. But I know it bothers me. And it explains the continuing success of American Idol. Maybe it’s a new, higher breed of existentialism. Maybe we’re so apathetic and tired and in an anti-depressant stupor that we just gave up and accepted our generic corporate sponsored fate. Rent Idiocracy for this century’s answer to Orwell’s 1984. The truth is out there but very few people realize it pertains to them. American Idol seems harmless, but what it’s doing to society as a whole, in terms of disposable “culture” and the over marketed mind-numbing of society is cause for concern.
And yet, if you tune into FOX on a Sunday night when there’s not a NASCAR race or football game, you’ll find a safe oasis in the cultural desert. If the writers of The Simpsons can not only do it, but keep it on the air successfully for 20 years, there must be other people out there who can do it, too.
But who…who has the insight and the ability to reach a global audience…who can get past the corporate sponsors and small minded, bottom line watching producers, agents and publicists? Who can prevail without marketing or media spin? Who? Who can do this? We are here, we are out there, but we’re not represented.
Well, not so fast with the decline of humanity.
There is one thing I forgot to mention.
Blogging, baby, blogging.
Blogging is the cultural renaissance of the 21st century. Well, at least thus-far. It’s all we have to show for ourselves. And frankly, the quality of blogging is declining. We need to inject some new life into it or it, too, will soon become an American Idol generic vehicle for corporate sponsors and marketing.
Right now, blogging is power to the people. But sadly, a lot of blogs, perhaps even some you read, are “sold out” to sponsors. I have never pimped out this blog and I never will. Sure, I could use AdSense, I could make a few pennies for click throughs, but I’m not doing it for money. I still have no idea why I do this, but, I know for certain it’s not for money. I’m in marketing for crying out loud, if I wanted to make money on a blog I could. I think. I mean, I hope I could. But. I’m not quite desperate enough to sell all my ethics, morals and principles. And words. And thoughts. The second a blogger opts to make a penny via their blog, is the second they sell out. I’m not saying it’s wrong, I mean, sometimes there’s honest public service involved. And yes, I link to books, and music, and art, and movies. And maybe some of you even buy my recommendations. So yes, just “as bad” in terms of marketing. But. I’m not making any money on it. It’s simply one friend telling another about a book or band or artist. It’s true independent press. And that’s really cool. And that’s about all we have going for us thus far this century. And that's why, even though my medical bills are staggering and at my current rate of repayment won't be paid until 2012, I won't pimp out the blog. Rest assured. There are no sponsors, agents or producers here.
But even blogging and corporate sponsored blogging has me concerned. There are official American Idol blogs on the FOX website, but all The Simpsons have is an email newsletter. D’oh.
I’m a history buff and a sociology dork. So this will come as no surprise to anyone. I like to look at vintage advertising. Sure, it’s good for a laugh, the novelty aspect of times gone by can be very humorous. When you look at turn of the 20th century advertising you’ll see a lot of dubious products which fall into the category of snake oil.
Do I think everyone was so naïve back then that everyone bought these products? No. And I hope 100 years from now people don’t think that I, and everyone else, believed what they saw and heard on infomercials and bought the products. The same was true then as it is now: If a product is good all you need is a little brand awareness to nudge a segment of the population into plunking down money for it. And under the umbrella of brand awareness and target market grew the concept of image and branding. Some of this is simple logic: You’re not going to sell hair growth tonic by using a bald spokesman. But there’s a bud of a deeper message which came into full bloom in just a few years. Image. Those lovely Coca-Cola Gibson Girls and the beguiling Maxfield Parrish beauties on GE calendars were selling a fantasy, a stylized image which suggested that these products were used by these lovelies and if you are, or want to be, lovely, too, surely you will buy into this product and be part of the fantasy.
Okay, that’s an easy concept in marketing. And it’s interesting to look back on those days and read and see what was popular, what was held up as important, socially significant. You know what you see advertised back then? A lot of highly stylized illustrations of beautiful people hawking products which will make the buyer more beautiful. Times haven’t changed that much. It’s all about image and beauty. Or so the advertising of the day would have us believe. They didn’t have television back then, so, there were no “reality” shows. And no Jerry Springer or Maury Povich to serve as an ode to the common man. Or woman. Unfortunately we are leaving that legacy to future generations. They will be able to look at more than print advertising for a peek into our life and times. And we’re leaving them American Idol. Do you want your grandchildren to think you watched and listened to that pabulum? Do you want them to assume you voted for your favorite Idol? Do you want them to think you liked Ryan Seacrest? No? Feeling helpless about this?
You’re not. Thanks to Al Gore and modern life, you have a tool. Blog. Blog to your heart’s content. Blog your brains out. Let’s look at it another way. American Idol = bourgeois. Blogging = a voice against mainstream fodder, the bourgeois. You can sit back in an existentialist funk, or a anti-depressant haze, or credit card shopping frenzy, or, you can blog.
