Toronto ladies, you make me laugh. Your taste in clothes is hilariously strange, as if solely inspired by Sienna Miller, who is not a style icon. Even if she is - supported by the unerring eye of Nuclear Wintour - a presence in the fashion pages, she's spawned several consecutive summer's worth of Bad Idea Accessories. I'll allow that she has wonderful skin and a trim figure, but when she plops a straw fedora on her noggin and calls it a day, I'm not impressed.
If you're going to take sartorial cues from someone, may I suggest Sheena Matheiken? She's the brains behind The Uniform Project, a very cool endeavor to raise cash for schools in India, and she's been wearing the same dress every single day since the first of May. Well, sort of - she had seven identical dresses made, and she's been rotating through. Still, the smock, with pleats in the front and buttons in the back, is worn with consistent élan and style. In addition to layering the hell out of it, Matheiken loads up on the accessories: belts, socks, shoes, tights, hats, gloves, and jewelery of all shapes and sizes. Here's the kicker: she looks great. Every day. Even though there's a challenge element to her project, her "impediment" to style has produced some great outfits.
So, city women, it's possible. I'm not proposing that we all run out and acquire our very own dress-smocks (although it's damn cute), but that we start blazing a trail. I'm so tired of the slouchy boho-chic that's running all over the 416. First of all, that's so ancient. I get it: the flat boots, floaty tops and skinny jeans are easy. They're easy to purchase, they're easy to throw together, and they're easy to spy on others. Still. Even less charming is the neon hipster, who tends to wear annoying sunglasses and spends social gatherings ruthlessly posing for Facebook pictures.
There are so many tribes of fashionistas out there. You have your colourful peeps, and those who traffic in less cheerfully hued garb. Like your clothes to be a little more structured? Fine. Want to wear duds that reflect your desire to live in 1926? Okay. Or the future? No problem.
So why, in a sea of possible looks, do I keep running into these little fashion clones? It's not just women - take a stroll through a university campus and count how many polo-shirted, flip-flop-sporting dudes you see. It's like there are only two stores in Toronto (Urban Outfitters and American Apparel, specifically), and it's a total coup when someone in a "vintage"store in Kensington manages to find something like this moldy-looking jumpsuit.
I know fashion isn't comparable to, like, curing diabetes or something, but it's nice when people think critically about their styles. Who influences how you look? I like to imagine myself as a post-apocalyptic farmgirl, which leads to long black dresses worn with gigantic necklines and bike caps. I love structure, I rarely wear colour, and I weirdly hate clothes that touch my wrists, ankles, or neck. I have a large collection of wide-legged pants for that very reason, and it's more than a small part of my disdain for skinny jeans. I manage to find clothes that allow me to pretend I'm tending a vegetable garden in the burned-out Skydome, and it brings me great pleasure.
The fashion industry rakes in about 300 billion dollars a year, and while I'm sure some of it is reflected in the most expensive dress in the world, which is shockingly ugly, some of it has to come from the coffers of the identically-dressed women roaming the Toronto streets. It needs to stop: winter usually hides our light under a bushel made of parkas and hats, but summer shows off our leggier, bandeau-wearing side. Thank god my own fashion preferences has already taken zombies into the equation. It's like Night of Living Dead, but with leggings and stupid hats.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Tip-Top Gear
"If you told someone that you had a dream that you were going to race a supercar against a jet-powered man on rollerskates, they'd tell you to lay off the strong cheese at night."
- Richard Hammond
Top Gear is...what is that word?...amazing. No, seriously. Yes, it's a car show, and a British car show at that, which is a bit poncey and ridiculous when you consider that the Americans invented car culture and the Japanese perfected the drive. But Top Gear is the only place on television that features races between the Bugatti Veyron and an RAF fighter jet, so it's worth watching. It's funny, and very, very loud.
The show is a blend of news, reviews, interviews and (no finishing rhyme? Damn) challenges. "News" takes the form of the three hosts sitting around discussing emerging car information - redesigns, new models, and cracking wise at each other's expense. "Reviews" finds our engaging guides testing new cars - and they're the fastest, loudest, shiniest and priciest models money can buy. Richard, Jeremy or James usually tools around the splendid European countryside or some apocalyptic-looking track, pointing out flaws and features in cars like the Rolls Royce Phantom Drophead Coupé, or the Aston Martin DBS. It's terrific fantasy, especially for non-drivers or the urban poor (ahem). "Interviews" is the segment "Star in a Resonably Priced Car," which places some Brit in a Daewoo Lacetti (a Chevy Optra for us Canucks), and times a lap. The car is, admittedly, a total box of crap, but folks as diverse as Ewan McGregor, Simon Cowell (who came off as a little bit gay in his interview), Ronnie "Rolling Stones" Wood and, um, Dame Helen Mirren have all taken 'er for a spin. Some of them are fascinating: did you know that wiener James Blunt knows how to drive a tank?
That's all well and good, but the real fun starts with the challenges. Going above and beyond the usual drag racing, the Top Gear production team has dreamed up some devilish tasks for J, J and R. They've been asked to turn automobiles into amphibious cars and then pilot them across the English Channel - for the uninformed, that's the busiest shipping lane in the world. They've driven across Botswana in cars from the 1980s, threatened with death if their cars broke down on the Makgadikgadi Salt Plains. They've raced against every mode of transportation, including bikes, dogs, trains, jets, bulls, runners, and some guy who strapped on high-waders and walked across a river. Oh - they've also sent a Reliant Robin into space. Sort of.
The show is brilliant. Taking power and speed seriously, without turning into the droning, hair-gelled morons that car enthusiasts often are, the hosts managed to make cars fun for people who get glazed of eye when RPMs and spoilers are brought up. James May, one of the alleged car experts, drives a Fiat Panda, for God's sake. Jeremy Clarkson is hilarious; in telling his audience that the Honda Civic Type R has a less that smooth ride, he quips, "Even if you're a teenager, even if you're used to sleeping on the floor and getting stabbed, this is intolerable." And Richard Hammond, the pixie-like third host, is just flat-out adorable.
The show succeeds because the passion these guys feel for cars doesn't sap them of a sense of humour or the ability to live in the real world. For non-car people, the hour is still enjoyable, due largely to the three hosts and their inability to interact without making fun of each other. Dude energy? These men have it coming out their ears. They act unabashedly like little boys, and both the shouty cars and the asinine challenges are designed for little boys and the men they grew into. Sure, some of the technical specs get a little dull, and endless out-of-focus shots of shiny cars can get a bit tedious, but it's a small price to pay when the whole thing is just so much fun. The show is fun the way a car should be fun: full of testosterone and loud noises, and always getting you to somewhere exciting.
- Richard Hammond
Top Gear is...what is that word?...amazing. No, seriously. Yes, it's a car show, and a British car show at that, which is a bit poncey and ridiculous when you consider that the Americans invented car culture and the Japanese perfected the drive. But Top Gear is the only place on television that features races between the Bugatti Veyron and an RAF fighter jet, so it's worth watching. It's funny, and very, very loud.
The show is a blend of news, reviews, interviews and (no finishing rhyme? Damn) challenges. "News" takes the form of the three hosts sitting around discussing emerging car information - redesigns, new models, and cracking wise at each other's expense. "Reviews" finds our engaging guides testing new cars - and they're the fastest, loudest, shiniest and priciest models money can buy. Richard, Jeremy or James usually tools around the splendid European countryside or some apocalyptic-looking track, pointing out flaws and features in cars like the Rolls Royce Phantom Drophead Coupé, or the Aston Martin DBS. It's terrific fantasy, especially for non-drivers or the urban poor (ahem). "Interviews" is the segment "Star in a Resonably Priced Car," which places some Brit in a Daewoo Lacetti (a Chevy Optra for us Canucks), and times a lap. The car is, admittedly, a total box of crap, but folks as diverse as Ewan McGregor, Simon Cowell (who came off as a little bit gay in his interview), Ronnie "Rolling Stones" Wood and, um, Dame Helen Mirren have all taken 'er for a spin. Some of them are fascinating: did you know that wiener James Blunt knows how to drive a tank?
That's all well and good, but the real fun starts with the challenges. Going above and beyond the usual drag racing, the Top Gear production team has dreamed up some devilish tasks for J, J and R. They've been asked to turn automobiles into amphibious cars and then pilot them across the English Channel - for the uninformed, that's the busiest shipping lane in the world. They've driven across Botswana in cars from the 1980s, threatened with death if their cars broke down on the Makgadikgadi Salt Plains. They've raced against every mode of transportation, including bikes, dogs, trains, jets, bulls, runners, and some guy who strapped on high-waders and walked across a river. Oh - they've also sent a Reliant Robin into space. Sort of.
The show is brilliant. Taking power and speed seriously, without turning into the droning, hair-gelled morons that car enthusiasts often are, the hosts managed to make cars fun for people who get glazed of eye when RPMs and spoilers are brought up. James May, one of the alleged car experts, drives a Fiat Panda, for God's sake. Jeremy Clarkson is hilarious; in telling his audience that the Honda Civic Type R has a less that smooth ride, he quips, "Even if you're a teenager, even if you're used to sleeping on the floor and getting stabbed, this is intolerable." And Richard Hammond, the pixie-like third host, is just flat-out adorable.
The show succeeds because the passion these guys feel for cars doesn't sap them of a sense of humour or the ability to live in the real world. For non-car people, the hour is still enjoyable, due largely to the three hosts and their inability to interact without making fun of each other. Dude energy? These men have it coming out their ears. They act unabashedly like little boys, and both the shouty cars and the asinine challenges are designed for little boys and the men they grew into. Sure, some of the technical specs get a little dull, and endless out-of-focus shots of shiny cars can get a bit tedious, but it's a small price to pay when the whole thing is just so much fun. The show is fun the way a car should be fun: full of testosterone and loud noises, and always getting you to somewhere exciting.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
House of Stone and Light
Raise your hand if you agree with this statement: When I was kid, I was terrifically, catatonically bored by church.
I think most people were - I've yet to stumble across anyone who was a huge fan of the Holy Day when they were in elementary school. My priorities when I was eight didn't include The Word; they ran more along the lines of Full House, Oreo cookies, and avoiding my siblings. Sunday school was a total nightmare: as a shy child, I had a hard enough time integrating into my weekday school. Trying to fit myself into a sporadically-attended class, especially one that revolved around beliefs instead of multiplication tables, made taffy of me. My memories of church aren't great. It's not like I was, like, molested or anything (we're United, not Catholic, for Christ's sake). Church, instead of being a sanctuary, gave me hives.
Like most people I know, church was a Christmas-and-Easter kind of deal; we had to put up with a boring lecture in order to receive treats, eventually. Our years in Calgary were a little different, since my parents found a minister with whom they connected, but for the most part, it's been a lot of heel-dragging through the snow. There was one memorable year when my mother decreed that we'd be going to church for the Advent. We encountered the recently-fired priest who preached a fire-and-brimstone sermon two weeks before the birth of Christ, along with the exhausted minister who informed his half-asleep congregation that Jesus came to "destroy the Earth" before catching himself and correcting it to "destroy death." The edit came too late, however; my sister and I, never the most reverent of human being, were laughing so hard we had to leave.
My parents were raised with faith, but only a little. My dad went to Catholic school, which apparently scared the crap out him, since he now refuses to go into any building with a flying buttress. My mother had a more positive experience, or at least feels a little guilty about not pushing the church issue harder, because she's the parent who prompted the church-going when I was kid. But, like Full House, church sort of fell by the wayside as our family got older.
Religion and church aren't always the same thing, though. The drive for one doesn't have much to do with the other. When I was in high school, I read a little on Buddhism; university brought a lot of Jew-interest. I think what I was really looking for was community.
Two or three generations ago, church was a major social and religious force. These days, it's mostly seen by people of my bracket as either terribly backward and boring, or as the place that hosts all the AA meetings. Canada, thankfully, has a dearth of those offensive mega-churches that seem to be infesting America - while we're not total heathens, we mostly seem to be coming up short in the "fucking crazy" category of churchiness. Thank God. But it still gets a little lonely. Religion isn't just a place of worship: it's a home for volunteers, for immigrants, for the poor, the hungry, the bereft of family, the bored, the drunk, and those who are curious about God and his/her/whatever's infinite nature.
As I get older, I become more curious about religion and the place it'll play in my life. It's a stretch to say I'm all that pious (hello, drinks on Tuesday!), and I'm in a tough spot, given that I believe in God but am a little tetchy on the whole divinity-of-Jesus thing. As far as I can tell, Christians are generally required to believe in Jesus. (Thoughts on The Jesus are strictly personal, however.) But, given that this process, whatever shape or form it takes, is a personal exploration, I can promise on thing: I'm not going to inflict it on my future partner/unborn children. Mom. Jeez.
I think most people were - I've yet to stumble across anyone who was a huge fan of the Holy Day when they were in elementary school. My priorities when I was eight didn't include The Word; they ran more along the lines of Full House, Oreo cookies, and avoiding my siblings. Sunday school was a total nightmare: as a shy child, I had a hard enough time integrating into my weekday school. Trying to fit myself into a sporadically-attended class, especially one that revolved around beliefs instead of multiplication tables, made taffy of me. My memories of church aren't great. It's not like I was, like, molested or anything (we're United, not Catholic, for Christ's sake). Church, instead of being a sanctuary, gave me hives.
Like most people I know, church was a Christmas-and-Easter kind of deal; we had to put up with a boring lecture in order to receive treats, eventually. Our years in Calgary were a little different, since my parents found a minister with whom they connected, but for the most part, it's been a lot of heel-dragging through the snow. There was one memorable year when my mother decreed that we'd be going to church for the Advent. We encountered the recently-fired priest who preached a fire-and-brimstone sermon two weeks before the birth of Christ, along with the exhausted minister who informed his half-asleep congregation that Jesus came to "destroy the Earth" before catching himself and correcting it to "destroy death." The edit came too late, however; my sister and I, never the most reverent of human being, were laughing so hard we had to leave.
My parents were raised with faith, but only a little. My dad went to Catholic school, which apparently scared the crap out him, since he now refuses to go into any building with a flying buttress. My mother had a more positive experience, or at least feels a little guilty about not pushing the church issue harder, because she's the parent who prompted the church-going when I was kid. But, like Full House, church sort of fell by the wayside as our family got older.
Religion and church aren't always the same thing, though. The drive for one doesn't have much to do with the other. When I was in high school, I read a little on Buddhism; university brought a lot of Jew-interest. I think what I was really looking for was community.
Two or three generations ago, church was a major social and religious force. These days, it's mostly seen by people of my bracket as either terribly backward and boring, or as the place that hosts all the AA meetings. Canada, thankfully, has a dearth of those offensive mega-churches that seem to be infesting America - while we're not total heathens, we mostly seem to be coming up short in the "fucking crazy" category of churchiness. Thank God. But it still gets a little lonely. Religion isn't just a place of worship: it's a home for volunteers, for immigrants, for the poor, the hungry, the bereft of family, the bored, the drunk, and those who are curious about God and his/her/whatever's infinite nature.
As I get older, I become more curious about religion and the place it'll play in my life. It's a stretch to say I'm all that pious (hello, drinks on Tuesday!), and I'm in a tough spot, given that I believe in God but am a little tetchy on the whole divinity-of-Jesus thing. As far as I can tell, Christians are generally required to believe in Jesus. (Thoughts on The Jesus are strictly personal, however.) But, given that this process, whatever shape or form it takes, is a personal exploration, I can promise on thing: I'm not going to inflict it on my future partner/unborn children. Mom. Jeez.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
You Can't Stop The Music
I secretly love electronic music. I mean, not that trendy stuff. I'm talking about shitty house music, old Chemical Brothers, and the kind of remixed top-40 that gets played at the end of the night at really pedestrian "clubs." I went out with a little girl squad recently, and in between 8-dollar drinks and filthy tables, there was a delightful blend of really terrible, amazing music.
The most probable reason that people would like this type of music is because they've been ingesting MDMA and vodka-Redbulls all night long. Since Redbull gives me dry heaves and I'm not a pill-popper, my fondness for dance music remains a mystery, even to myself. One clue might rest on the fact that it's all beats-and-bass...music designed to have sex to, in other words. On the other hand, if you call a genre "dance music" and then expect me not to love it, you'll be terrifically surprised.
The first time I really heard anything that could be classified as "electronic music" was when I was in the sixth grade, when I was way too young to be listening to Dig Your Own Hole. No matter! I'd listen to it on my Walkman, lying in bed at night, trying to figure out why the hell I was feeling jumpy and wide awake. Anyone who denies that music has powers
should be forced to repeatedly listen to what Dave Barry dubbed the worst song ever written, "MacArthur Park" by Richard Harris. We can set it up Clockwork Orange-style, and the resulting Slurpee-ization of the doubter's brain will be more than enough to create a new comic book supervillain.
My most recent electroresurgence was prompted by "What Else Is There?" the gorgeous 2005 Royskopp song, which features (total babe) Karin Dreijer Andersson. KDA then led me to find The Knife and Fever Ray, acts that both feature her spooky vocals. I'm not going to lie: I can't name-drop dance music acts like her (equally babe-onic brother) Olof Andersson, who DJs around Europe and who I would totally make out with. But I got a tiny primer in high school from friends, and can at least recognize most of the major musical waves out there.
For example, what happens when you mix indie music with dance music? Why, Chromeo, of course! One tasty recipe calls for copious amounts of irony, like when folky hipsters cover chart-toppers (see "Straight Outta Compton" as performed by Nina Gordon; Weezer's version of "(Hit Me Baby) One More Time," etc.). Also delicious is the parody, as evidenced by Lonely Island or Flight of the Concords and their goofy-ass take on thugged-out hip-hop.
Hip, funny, serious, deathly, sexy...none of those mean much if I can't dance. Because the most important thing about dance music isn't if it's, like, performing CPR on its audience. Will it make me shake my ass? Will I sing along? Will I get an endorphin high from three hours of sustained joy? Then, and only then, has dance music done its job.
The most probable reason that people would like this type of music is because they've been ingesting MDMA and vodka-Redbulls all night long. Since Redbull gives me dry heaves and I'm not a pill-popper, my fondness for dance music remains a mystery, even to myself. One clue might rest on the fact that it's all beats-and-bass...music designed to have sex to, in other words. On the other hand, if you call a genre "dance music" and then expect me not to love it, you'll be terrifically surprised.
The first time I really heard anything that could be classified as "electronic music" was when I was in the sixth grade, when I was way too young to be listening to Dig Your Own Hole. No matter! I'd listen to it on my Walkman, lying in bed at night, trying to figure out why the hell I was feeling jumpy and wide awake. Anyone who denies that music has powers
should be forced to repeatedly listen to what Dave Barry dubbed the worst song ever written, "MacArthur Park" by Richard Harris. We can set it up Clockwork Orange-style, and the resulting Slurpee-ization of the doubter's brain will be more than enough to create a new comic book supervillain.
My most recent electroresurgence was prompted by "What Else Is There?" the gorgeous 2005 Royskopp song, which features (total babe) Karin Dreijer Andersson. KDA then led me to find The Knife and Fever Ray, acts that both feature her spooky vocals. I'm not going to lie: I can't name-drop dance music acts like her (equally babe-onic brother) Olof Andersson, who DJs around Europe and who I would totally make out with. But I got a tiny primer in high school from friends, and can at least recognize most of the major musical waves out there.
For example, what happens when you mix indie music with dance music? Why, Chromeo, of course! One tasty recipe calls for copious amounts of irony, like when folky hipsters cover chart-toppers (see "Straight Outta Compton" as performed by Nina Gordon; Weezer's version of "(Hit Me Baby) One More Time," etc.). Also delicious is the parody, as evidenced by Lonely Island or Flight of the Concords and their goofy-ass take on thugged-out hip-hop.
Hip, funny, serious, deathly, sexy...none of those mean much if I can't dance. Because the most important thing about dance music isn't if it's, like, performing CPR on its audience. Will it make me shake my ass? Will I sing along? Will I get an endorphin high from three hours of sustained joy? Then, and only then, has dance music done its job.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Dude Energy
If science ever gets bored with playing with atoms or screwing over the environment, they can always turn to harnessing one of the more potent sources of energy in the universe. I'm talking, of course, about Dude Energy.
As we leave behind our teens and enter the world of adulthood (and its corresponding adult magazines), we also leave behind a time when smacking each other in the bag was like, a huge source of entertainment and pleasure for guys. I'm not even mentioning that whaling on each other for no good reason made up roughly 40% of teen-boy social life. Plus, when else are you going to get really, really good at the Halo franchise without putting a marriage/career on the line? Or be powered solely by Mountain Dew and "that's what she said" jokes? It's glorious, glorious I tell you.
Women don't do that. Girls didn't do that either. We don't usually go around growing funny mustaches or debating which episode of The Simpsons was the very finest. Oh, sure, sometimes there are exceptions - remember when Cameron Diaz was first on the scene, and every interview she did was how much she liked burping/farting? - but for the most part, girls are delicate flowers when it comes to stuff like that. Which is a shame, really. I think we'd have a lot more fun if it occurred to us just to slug it out when we get mad at each other. Instead , we use all that fakery, peaking in high school, but lingering through a huge part of female-on-female social interactions.
Dudes have an easy physicality, a way of takin' 'er easy that's hard not to admire. It's this kind of mindset that allows a dude to play Frisbee on a Thursday afternoon, or have the mental capacity to store 800,000 songs in his brain, but forget his best friend's birthday. It's the easy jokester, the guy who can hit on a woman while sporting a ripped tee-shirt, the dude who can wear that same ripped tee-shirt four days in a row. Dudes are champs at cooking meat and terrible at making the bed. What's not to admire about that?
As we leave behind our teens and enter the world of adulthood (and its corresponding adult magazines), we also leave behind a time when smacking each other in the bag was like, a huge source of entertainment and pleasure for guys. I'm not even mentioning that whaling on each other for no good reason made up roughly 40% of teen-boy social life. Plus, when else are you going to get really, really good at the Halo franchise without putting a marriage/career on the line? Or be powered solely by Mountain Dew and "that's what she said" jokes? It's glorious, glorious I tell you.
Women don't do that. Girls didn't do that either. We don't usually go around growing funny mustaches or debating which episode of The Simpsons was the very finest. Oh, sure, sometimes there are exceptions - remember when Cameron Diaz was first on the scene, and every interview she did was how much she liked burping/farting? - but for the most part, girls are delicate flowers when it comes to stuff like that. Which is a shame, really. I think we'd have a lot more fun if it occurred to us just to slug it out when we get mad at each other. Instead , we use all that fakery, peaking in high school, but lingering through a huge part of female-on-female social interactions.
Dudes have an easy physicality, a way of takin' 'er easy that's hard not to admire. It's this kind of mindset that allows a dude to play Frisbee on a Thursday afternoon, or have the mental capacity to store 800,000 songs in his brain, but forget his best friend's birthday. It's the easy jokester, the guy who can hit on a woman while sporting a ripped tee-shirt, the dude who can wear that same ripped tee-shirt four days in a row. Dudes are champs at cooking meat and terrible at making the bed. What's not to admire about that?
Monday, June 29, 2009
King of Pop Rocks
As 95% of the world has facebook-status-updated, twittered or read about at this point, Michael Jackson is dead. Lynn Crosbie, naturally, is feeling pretty blue.
I've previously called out Leah McLaren, another Globe columnist, for being a boring narcissist, but I've never had any actual contact with her. Lynn and I, on the other hand, have had an email spat. It involved the proper definition of the wifebeater tank top and culminated in her accusing me of being "old." Since she's, oh, twenty years older than me, it naturally got my back up.
In any case, I take umbrage with Crosbie because her favorite game is comparing Hollywood celebrities to Greek tragedies, which is a metaphor that was old when Elizabeth Taylor made Cleopatra - coincidentally, a product also created in 1963, much like Lynn. It just seems so trite, and obvious, and annoying. She also has a major hate-on for OJ Simpson, which makes her whole MJ thing so bizarre.
See, in Lynn's final words to Wacko Jacko, she mentioned his childhood, his tragic relationship with fame, his crazy adult life, and his metaphorical relationship with fame, especially his marriage with Lisa Marie Presley. You know? King of Rock 'n' Roll, King of Pop? Yeah. Throw a little King of The World in there, and you've got the whole she-bang. But nowhere in her flouncy little piece does she mention the fact that Michael Jackson turned from a black child into...well, certainly not a black man. Lynn's piece never mentions race.
There are "reasons" for Jackson's metamorphosis, including lupus and pancake makeup. However, there are also "reasons" like plastic surgery and skin bleaching. It's possible that the biggest reason might the fact that Jackson was a person who straight-up loathed himself. The Jackson Five released their first single when Michael was only nine years old, and Jackson admitted to Oprah in 1993 that he suffered beatings and humilations at the hands of his father from a young age. It's not a total shock that the man turned out to be freaky. As Britney proved, young fame can equal the crazy. As thousands of destroyed adults can attest, childhood abuse ain't no stroll in the greenery.
Now, keep that equation of monstrous childhood fame + insane childhood trauma in your mind as you cast yourself back to the 1970s and 1980s. There was no Obama back then. There was a film genre called blaxploitation, for christ's sake. Jackson, being a child star, was practically castrato. On the other hand, Jackson, being a black man, was "supposed" to be sexually potent. On the third hand, Jackson was an alleged anorexic, falling into a category of folks who aren't known for their self-acceptance. On the fourth hand, he has been accused of being gay (not to mention having an affinity for young boys) for the past 15 years. (On the fifth hand, I've turned into a mutation and need to stop this handsy business.) Michael Jackson was a man who just did not turn out well - mentally, physically, or emotionally.
Lynn Crosbie chooses to open her memorial by quoting Shelley's poem "Adonais," which seems a bit cruel. She follows up that stunner by moving on to the great poets of the 20th century. Any guesses? Air Supply. Yup, Crosbie can't live if living is without Michael Jackson. What is that? Look: I was never an MJ fan, since I was a ten year old girl when he started running into trouble with ten year old boys. His cultural relevance peaked the year I was born, so my memories of Jackson aren't of a musical and dance genius, but of a man who was dodging rumors and pulling publicity stunts.
However, Crosbie would have been 20 in 1983, and would have been a part of the massive take-over Jackson enacted on pop music. She would have been around for both the black and white versions of Jackson, and should have been able to toss off an analysis of his racial imbroglio without a second thought. In fact, given her writing about OJ Simpson, she should have zeroed in on that. And...she failed. Her memorial, with the Air Supply and the Adonais, with the Elvis comparisons and the Blanche Dubois shout-outs, was superficial.
Lynn: Michael Jackson was a tragedy. Not a Greek tragedy; a modern mess that is embedded in our time's obsession with race, fame, childhood, sexuality and the bizarre. Michael Jackson - the true MJ, who was successful and powerful, who fed an adoring audience amazing, world-changing music - died years ago. We've been watching his ghost for years.
I've previously called out Leah McLaren, another Globe columnist, for being a boring narcissist, but I've never had any actual contact with her. Lynn and I, on the other hand, have had an email spat. It involved the proper definition of the wifebeater tank top and culminated in her accusing me of being "old." Since she's, oh, twenty years older than me, it naturally got my back up.
In any case, I take umbrage with Crosbie because her favorite game is comparing Hollywood celebrities to Greek tragedies, which is a metaphor that was old when Elizabeth Taylor made Cleopatra - coincidentally, a product also created in 1963, much like Lynn. It just seems so trite, and obvious, and annoying. She also has a major hate-on for OJ Simpson, which makes her whole MJ thing so bizarre.
See, in Lynn's final words to Wacko Jacko, she mentioned his childhood, his tragic relationship with fame, his crazy adult life, and his metaphorical relationship with fame, especially his marriage with Lisa Marie Presley. You know? King of Rock 'n' Roll, King of Pop? Yeah. Throw a little King of The World in there, and you've got the whole she-bang. But nowhere in her flouncy little piece does she mention the fact that Michael Jackson turned from a black child into...well, certainly not a black man. Lynn's piece never mentions race.
There are "reasons" for Jackson's metamorphosis, including lupus and pancake makeup. However, there are also "reasons" like plastic surgery and skin bleaching. It's possible that the biggest reason might the fact that Jackson was a person who straight-up loathed himself. The Jackson Five released their first single when Michael was only nine years old, and Jackson admitted to Oprah in 1993 that he suffered beatings and humilations at the hands of his father from a young age. It's not a total shock that the man turned out to be freaky. As Britney proved, young fame can equal the crazy. As thousands of destroyed adults can attest, childhood abuse ain't no stroll in the greenery.
Now, keep that equation of monstrous childhood fame + insane childhood trauma in your mind as you cast yourself back to the 1970s and 1980s. There was no Obama back then. There was a film genre called blaxploitation, for christ's sake. Jackson, being a child star, was practically castrato. On the other hand, Jackson, being a black man, was "supposed" to be sexually potent. On the third hand, Jackson was an alleged anorexic, falling into a category of folks who aren't known for their self-acceptance. On the fourth hand, he has been accused of being gay (not to mention having an affinity for young boys) for the past 15 years. (On the fifth hand, I've turned into a mutation and need to stop this handsy business.) Michael Jackson was a man who just did not turn out well - mentally, physically, or emotionally.
Lynn Crosbie chooses to open her memorial by quoting Shelley's poem "Adonais," which seems a bit cruel. She follows up that stunner by moving on to the great poets of the 20th century. Any guesses? Air Supply. Yup, Crosbie can't live if living is without Michael Jackson. What is that? Look: I was never an MJ fan, since I was a ten year old girl when he started running into trouble with ten year old boys. His cultural relevance peaked the year I was born, so my memories of Jackson aren't of a musical and dance genius, but of a man who was dodging rumors and pulling publicity stunts.
However, Crosbie would have been 20 in 1983, and would have been a part of the massive take-over Jackson enacted on pop music. She would have been around for both the black and white versions of Jackson, and should have been able to toss off an analysis of his racial imbroglio without a second thought. In fact, given her writing about OJ Simpson, she should have zeroed in on that. And...she failed. Her memorial, with the Air Supply and the Adonais, with the Elvis comparisons and the Blanche Dubois shout-outs, was superficial.
Lynn: Michael Jackson was a tragedy. Not a Greek tragedy; a modern mess that is embedded in our time's obsession with race, fame, childhood, sexuality and the bizarre. Michael Jackson - the true MJ, who was successful and powerful, who fed an adoring audience amazing, world-changing music - died years ago. We've been watching his ghost for years.
Friday, June 26, 2009
How I Met Your Father
I've been watching a lot of How I Met Your Mother these days, which is totally messing with me. The show is adorable, and Jason Segel obviously needs to move to Canada to date me: both Marshall Erikson on HIMYM and Nick Andopolis from Freaks and Geeks are totally sweet, funny, tall dudes. That's the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like 'em. He just seems so genuine, you know? I know he's an actor and it's likely he's a huge turd with a gigantic ego, but I'm sold on the characters he plays. Cute, with a side of awesome.
Ahem. This wasn't supposed to turn into a love letter to Jason Segel. Apologies all around. No, the reason I mention HIMYM is because the show is totally obsessed with marriage, and it's weirding me out.
Look, I love marriage. Granted, since I'm friends mostly with broke people, I've yet to attend an actual fancy-person wedding (caterers, photographers, cake, parents, etc.), but the institution, I'm on-side with. You know how it was trendy for a while to be all snorty and derisive when the topic of marriage came up? People would say things like, "I know we're in love, man, so why do I need a piece of paper to say that?" as they walked barefoot along the dirty sidewalk, holding their dreadlocked beloved by the hand.
Those words always felt a little fake in my mouth, since I actually do believe in marriage. While it's totally square to admit an interest in nuptial ceremonies, I've been known to peruse a bridal magazine or two. I'm not going to lie - usually I'm just looking for really pretty dresses. But it's not something that I'm going to reject out of hand as being some patriarchal convention designed to subjugate women and reinforce the capitalist world, man.
You know how people are always spouting about how half of all marriages ending in divorce? Think again, chumps. Turns out, that number goes way down if you adjust for things like undergrad degrees, age, and how long you wait before getting knocked up (as a couple, of course, even though coupled guys who say "we're" pregnant need a swift kick in the babymaker). Backwater teenagers who get married in a maternity gown? Probably not going to be celebrating that tenth anniversary. Quel surprise.
Marriage, these days, is presented as some ball-and-chair setup that means the loss of youth, privacy and the slow strangulation of a healthy sex drive. Some nosy wife is always shrewing at some balding husband, while a gaggle of children - a product of boring, tired, infrequent sex - soaks up the retirement fund in the form of plastic children's toys. I'm sure some people honestly feel that way, and those folks shouldn't get married.
But for the rest of us: what's so bad about love and support? What's the problem with a friend you get to have sex with? Someone to feed you soup when you have the flu, someone to be a cheerleader, a person who will still like you even if you fuck it up? I'm not talking about l-o-v-e here. I think it's way more important that you actually like the person you end up pledging your troth to. Yeah, sure, communication and respect are important too...but isn't awesome when a couple has been married for thirty years and they can still make each other laugh so hard they cry? That goes way beyond love, man.
Getting back to television: HIMYM is lying to me. It's presenting this world where awesome, adorable, sweet dudes are totally into the idea of marriage. This is SUCH a LIE. Most of the awesome, adorable sweet dudes I know are properly girded with girlfriends, but nary a one popped the question. It seems like guys who are well into their thirties are the only ones getting down on bended knee. Ryan Reynolds married ScarJo, who is a full ten years his junior. (Sidebar: is anyone else having a hard time figuring out what those two talk about? I mean, they're both hot, but he seems funny and charming, and she seems...not.) It seems obvious that my mid-twenties brethren are still lapping at the Fountain of Youth, from which an eternal spring of take-out pizza and joints flows.
I'm not hating on any of the following: take-out pizza, joints, guys in their twenties, guys in their thirties, How I Met Your Mother, or Ryan Reynolds. (Scarlett? Meh.) But I am saying is that show has created this optimistic world where cute, rumply-haired architects just want to fall in love and get married. Is this the world I live in? Maybe I need to move to a different city. Because, frankly, with my smarts, wit, and breasts? I'm an excellent catch. Ryan Reynolds, I am, like, right here.
Television is fantasy. It's not supposed to be realistic, and hey, if it makes single girls feel like maybe there's an attractive sportscaster waiting just around the corner, what's the harm? This show introduced the slap bet to the world; it's not exactly reality TV. However, when television is good - and this is good TV - it feels real. Seinfeld, even though it devolved into lunacy very quickly, always felt real. Friends felt real. How I Met Your Mother also feels real; it feels like, even though the show is using actors and props and scripts and all that phony blah-blah, it still hits in a place that uses the real...which makes it successful...which makes me a little mad at it, for the he's-right-around-the-corner trip it lays on its audience.
Damn. So meta! What would Barney Stinson do?
Ahem. This wasn't supposed to turn into a love letter to Jason Segel. Apologies all around. No, the reason I mention HIMYM is because the show is totally obsessed with marriage, and it's weirding me out.
Look, I love marriage. Granted, since I'm friends mostly with broke people, I've yet to attend an actual fancy-person wedding (caterers, photographers, cake, parents, etc.), but the institution, I'm on-side with. You know how it was trendy for a while to be all snorty and derisive when the topic of marriage came up? People would say things like, "I know we're in love, man, so why do I need a piece of paper to say that?" as they walked barefoot along the dirty sidewalk, holding their dreadlocked beloved by the hand.
Those words always felt a little fake in my mouth, since I actually do believe in marriage. While it's totally square to admit an interest in nuptial ceremonies, I've been known to peruse a bridal magazine or two. I'm not going to lie - usually I'm just looking for really pretty dresses. But it's not something that I'm going to reject out of hand as being some patriarchal convention designed to subjugate women and reinforce the capitalist world, man.
You know how people are always spouting about how half of all marriages ending in divorce? Think again, chumps. Turns out, that number goes way down if you adjust for things like undergrad degrees, age, and how long you wait before getting knocked up (as a couple, of course, even though coupled guys who say "we're" pregnant need a swift kick in the babymaker). Backwater teenagers who get married in a maternity gown? Probably not going to be celebrating that tenth anniversary. Quel surprise.
Marriage, these days, is presented as some ball-and-chair setup that means the loss of youth, privacy and the slow strangulation of a healthy sex drive. Some nosy wife is always shrewing at some balding husband, while a gaggle of children - a product of boring, tired, infrequent sex - soaks up the retirement fund in the form of plastic children's toys. I'm sure some people honestly feel that way, and those folks shouldn't get married.
But for the rest of us: what's so bad about love and support? What's the problem with a friend you get to have sex with? Someone to feed you soup when you have the flu, someone to be a cheerleader, a person who will still like you even if you fuck it up? I'm not talking about l-o-v-e here. I think it's way more important that you actually like the person you end up pledging your troth to. Yeah, sure, communication and respect are important too...but isn't awesome when a couple has been married for thirty years and they can still make each other laugh so hard they cry? That goes way beyond love, man.
Getting back to television: HIMYM is lying to me. It's presenting this world where awesome, adorable, sweet dudes are totally into the idea of marriage. This is SUCH a LIE. Most of the awesome, adorable sweet dudes I know are properly girded with girlfriends, but nary a one popped the question. It seems like guys who are well into their thirties are the only ones getting down on bended knee. Ryan Reynolds married ScarJo, who is a full ten years his junior. (Sidebar: is anyone else having a hard time figuring out what those two talk about? I mean, they're both hot, but he seems funny and charming, and she seems...not.) It seems obvious that my mid-twenties brethren are still lapping at the Fountain of Youth, from which an eternal spring of take-out pizza and joints flows.
I'm not hating on any of the following: take-out pizza, joints, guys in their twenties, guys in their thirties, How I Met Your Mother, or Ryan Reynolds. (Scarlett? Meh.) But I am saying is that show has created this optimistic world where cute, rumply-haired architects just want to fall in love and get married. Is this the world I live in? Maybe I need to move to a different city. Because, frankly, with my smarts, wit, and breasts? I'm an excellent catch. Ryan Reynolds, I am, like, right here.
Television is fantasy. It's not supposed to be realistic, and hey, if it makes single girls feel like maybe there's an attractive sportscaster waiting just around the corner, what's the harm? This show introduced the slap bet to the world; it's not exactly reality TV. However, when television is good - and this is good TV - it feels real. Seinfeld, even though it devolved into lunacy very quickly, always felt real. Friends felt real. How I Met Your Mother also feels real; it feels like, even though the show is using actors and props and scripts and all that phony blah-blah, it still hits in a place that uses the real...which makes it successful...which makes me a little mad at it, for the he's-right-around-the-corner trip it lays on its audience.
Damn. So meta! What would Barney Stinson do?
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