Once again proving my eerie prescience in the world of television criticism, the term I coined just a week ago--"Post-LOST America"--makes an appearance (more or less; they say "post-LOST world." I guess journalism at large is just that much more global than I am) in an actual, genuine, real-internet-world article.
I haven't seen The River. I don't expect I will ever see The River, because I imagine it will get canceled before I even have a chance to see it. That's the state of the world we live in: Every new pilot comes with a death sentence. If not after a few episodes, then most likely after the first season. Not that this is new or anything, mind you. Series that survive beyond a year are, and always have been, rarities, but it's at least a credit to the powers that be that more and more of them are getting at least a year to try something outside of the box.
Good luck, The River, and godspeed.
2.08.2012
1.24.2012
Post-LOST America
New Year's resolutions are doomed to fail. But, like any bad decision, we make them anyway only to regret it later when our head is in the toilet/gutter/slammer. I regret letting this blog go to seed almost as much as I regret starting it. Put your name on something, "hype" it (to the extent that linking to it on a by-no-means-web-celeb-status facebook and twitter feed entails "hype") and all of sudden you have to follow up. People are depending on you. Or at least hoping to hear what you have to say about the latest episode of The Real World, or that maybe if you finally write a crappy blog post about the stupid fucking LOST finale you'll stop drunkenly ranting about/crying over/apologizing for the stupid fucking LOST finale out in the real, physical world. I got fewer comments on this blog than I have digits, but those few comments matter, dammit, and I still love TV even if writing about it on a consistent basis is actually impossible now that I live abroad where their idea of quality television is about equal to that of Mexican telenovela.
I think it's fair to say that I, like many Americans with regard to 9/11, never really "processed" the finale of LOST. I haven't read about it, revisited it, or thought about it too hard since it aired, partially out of fear that it wasn't as great as I had hoped and partially because eh, it was alright, why spend too much time thinking on it. But if I did go back to it, I can imagine that I would feel that familiar surge of potential intellectualism that used to burn within me. After that show went dark, so did my passion, for a time. I still consumed TV like a fiend, but it was somehow soulless--searching for a substitute to fill the smoke-monster shaped hole in my brain/heart/ever-lovin'-soul. I haven't found it. But that doesn't mean I'm not healing.
There were a few reasons my blog thrived for a short period of time. First, and most importantly was time. I had time to watch TV, and additionally had time to write about TV, which if you didn't know is surprisingly time consuming, what with all that mental effort spent on something rather silly if you think about it. But I soon succumbed to the darker side of the tube, the side that sucks you in, drains your life-force, and leaves you husked and searching for a fix. Consuming for the sake of consumption was the norm, and eventually you get to a point where you spend so much time watching TV you run out of time to think about what you're watching. And look at the name of this thing. You're here, conceivably, to hear me think about the crap we shove into our eyeballs and earholes. So not thinking is not an option. A second reason for said thriving is the aforementioned LOST/passion factor. Television was clipping along at a fever pitch, with (refer to my very first post here, over 2 years ago) countless masterpieces of the form airing all at the same time, live and uncut so to speak. It was enough to send me spiraling out of control, unable to tell which way was up in a tide of entertainment. For a time, the same tidal wave sustained me, but I've never been a great surfer.
So here I am, two years later, sober (metaphorically, anyway) and sorry--ready for another reboot. I'm all the way in Thailand, and there's a surprising amount of free time to be had over here. And in the spirit of the New Year, I've convinced myself of what a piece of shit I am, why don't you write more you lazy asshole, and do some push-ups while you're at it! I'm watching Carnivale again, slowly and with more careful steps than my past junkie-self, and with a little luck and determination and help from that 12-Step Higher Power I might be able to... think. But first, if you'll excuse me, I should go do some push-ups.
I think it's fair to say that I, like many Americans with regard to 9/11, never really "processed" the finale of LOST. I haven't read about it, revisited it, or thought about it too hard since it aired, partially out of fear that it wasn't as great as I had hoped and partially because eh, it was alright, why spend too much time thinking on it. But if I did go back to it, I can imagine that I would feel that familiar surge of potential intellectualism that used to burn within me. After that show went dark, so did my passion, for a time. I still consumed TV like a fiend, but it was somehow soulless--searching for a substitute to fill the smoke-monster shaped hole in my brain/heart/ever-lovin'-soul. I haven't found it. But that doesn't mean I'm not healing.
There were a few reasons my blog thrived for a short period of time. First, and most importantly was time. I had time to watch TV, and additionally had time to write about TV, which if you didn't know is surprisingly time consuming, what with all that mental effort spent on something rather silly if you think about it. But I soon succumbed to the darker side of the tube, the side that sucks you in, drains your life-force, and leaves you husked and searching for a fix. Consuming for the sake of consumption was the norm, and eventually you get to a point where you spend so much time watching TV you run out of time to think about what you're watching. And look at the name of this thing. You're here, conceivably, to hear me think about the crap we shove into our eyeballs and earholes. So not thinking is not an option. A second reason for said thriving is the aforementioned LOST/passion factor. Television was clipping along at a fever pitch, with (refer to my very first post here, over 2 years ago) countless masterpieces of the form airing all at the same time, live and uncut so to speak. It was enough to send me spiraling out of control, unable to tell which way was up in a tide of entertainment. For a time, the same tidal wave sustained me, but I've never been a great surfer.
So here I am, two years later, sober (metaphorically, anyway) and sorry--ready for another reboot. I'm all the way in Thailand, and there's a surprising amount of free time to be had over here. And in the spirit of the New Year, I've convinced myself of what a piece of shit I am, why don't you write more you lazy asshole, and do some push-ups while you're at it! I'm watching Carnivale again, slowly and with more careful steps than my past junkie-self, and with a little luck and determination and help from that 12-Step Higher Power I might be able to... think. But first, if you'll excuse me, I should go do some push-ups.
3.16.2011
The Real World Las Vegas: Life Ain't A Game, Son
But in fact, the game is inescapable, the pieces are in place, and the board is set. Let's review our game pieces:
Dustin as The White Queen and Heather as The Black Queen--These two game pieces are destined to circle each other as rams in the wild, vying for the high ground until the opportune moment to collide. Their tête à-tête is not quite adversarial, but rather one of mutual admiration--a game in the truest sense of the word. The Queens feel each other out, observe patterns of behavior, and use their unmatched mobility to test all avenues of approach as well as avoid a premature engagement. As The Black Queen said: "Dustin's got swagger for a white boy." These two will sweep across the board, ignoring all other pieces (that is, unless one stands in the way of their final showdown; see Mike Mike the Knight Knight) in a graceful dance of deception and intrigue, until finally they will ram their parts against each other, sexually.
Nany as The Black Bishop--Her zig-zagging motion between relationship and singlehood is both limiting and liberating as the indecision she's caught in enables her to blindside those around her. Sadly though, her shifting course makes her an easy target for the more transitive pieces, namely...
Adam as The Faux Pawn--Adam is the all-seeing Player posing as pawn. His game might seem obvious, but there are larger machinations at work in his scheme. In a brilliant defensive move, he yet again deceives his fellow (but really, inferior) gamepieces by stripping himself of mystique and revealing a supposed vulnerability. His prey falls for the feint of the sad story of loserdom and his cover is yet again saved. He even convinces the gameboard itself (in the form of the security officer of the Hard Rock Casino) that his actions are innocent, his playing style on the up and up, when in fact he's cheating them all. He is controlling both sides of the board, playing against himself.
Leroy and Naomi as The Rooks--Their paths, as of now, are straight lines, bouncing blindly off of borders unseen to them, as they are as yet unaware that they are playing the game. Enlightenment may eventually broaden the scope of their movement, but for now they are simply lateral. Yes, toe-sucking in a game of truth or dare is considered "lateral movement," that's just how messed up this game is.
Which brings us to Mike Mike the Knight Knight. He's physically incapable of making a straightforward move on this board. For every line he tries to make, something blocks his path and forces a jarring "L." Case in point, the game within the game, wherein the pieces gather on the battleground of Rows 3 through 6 to commence a game of chance and will, that ever-fearsome equalizer, Truth or Dare. And here is where our valiant knight makes a crucial misstep. Like stepping between a mother bear and her cub, MM the KK inadvertently puts The Black Queen into a threatened position (with his lips). The Black Queen could squash this lowly knight, easily, and both pieces know it, but The White Queen (still resting peacefully at D1, also known as the couch next to the phone) learns of the aggressive check from a passing rook (Leroy and his big mouth). The possibility of another capturing his counterpart sends him into an 8-directional rage, zagging, zigging, streaking across the board, puffing out his chest and generally acting like a silverback gorilla being challenged for the rights of the troop. Yet his perception of "disrespect" entirely negates the purpose of the game. In his own obsession The Black Queen's words, "It's a game, we're all playing, and we're all playing a little dirty." The game is meant to be played, and this perceived threat to his dominance of the board (and supposed right to the capturing of the opposing Queen) is nonexistent at best. The Black Queen takes the advantage, and moves into attack position, no longer toying around, but ready to kill (emotionally) her adversary. It'll take a lot of retracing of the game log for The White Queen Dustin to regain even footing. At this moment, he faces certain doom and potential removal from the gameboard entirely, through sheer ego-destruction.
But all pales in comparison to the string-pulling of the Player-Pawn Adam. His innocuous position as a pawn is betrayed to us, the observers, but the pieces themselves remain oblivious. Their eyes firmly affixed on the gameboard, they cannot raise their gaze to see the big round head of Adam grinning stupidly down at them, manipulating their every move. Nany may be Bishop in theory, but she is The White King in practice, since it is very obviously her fate that will decide the outcome of the game known as The motherfucking Real World. Adam may be playing both sides of the board, but his allegiance lies firmly in the blackness of his soul. His lies and misdirections may be directed at only one piece, but all on the board are affected by them. There are only so many spaces to occupy, after all.
Dustin as The White Queen and Heather as The Black Queen--These two game pieces are destined to circle each other as rams in the wild, vying for the high ground until the opportune moment to collide. Their tête à-tête is not quite adversarial, but rather one of mutual admiration--a game in the truest sense of the word. The Queens feel each other out, observe patterns of behavior, and use their unmatched mobility to test all avenues of approach as well as avoid a premature engagement. As The Black Queen said: "Dustin's got swagger for a white boy." These two will sweep across the board, ignoring all other pieces (that is, unless one stands in the way of their final showdown; see Mike Mike the Knight Knight) in a graceful dance of deception and intrigue, until finally they will ram their parts against each other, sexually.
Nany as The Black Bishop--Her zig-zagging motion between relationship and singlehood is both limiting and liberating as the indecision she's caught in enables her to blindside those around her. Sadly though, her shifting course makes her an easy target for the more transitive pieces, namely...
Adam as The Faux Pawn--Adam is the all-seeing Player posing as pawn. His game might seem obvious, but there are larger machinations at work in his scheme. In a brilliant defensive move, he yet again deceives his fellow (but really, inferior) gamepieces by stripping himself of mystique and revealing a supposed vulnerability. His prey falls for the feint of the sad story of loserdom and his cover is yet again saved. He even convinces the gameboard itself (in the form of the security officer of the Hard Rock Casino) that his actions are innocent, his playing style on the up and up, when in fact he's cheating them all. He is controlling both sides of the board, playing against himself.
Leroy and Naomi as The Rooks--Their paths, as of now, are straight lines, bouncing blindly off of borders unseen to them, as they are as yet unaware that they are playing the game. Enlightenment may eventually broaden the scope of their movement, but for now they are simply lateral. Yes, toe-sucking in a game of truth or dare is considered "lateral movement," that's just how messed up this game is.
Which brings us to Mike Mike the Knight Knight. He's physically incapable of making a straightforward move on this board. For every line he tries to make, something blocks his path and forces a jarring "L." Case in point, the game within the game, wherein the pieces gather on the battleground of Rows 3 through 6 to commence a game of chance and will, that ever-fearsome equalizer, Truth or Dare. And here is where our valiant knight makes a crucial misstep. Like stepping between a mother bear and her cub, MM the KK inadvertently puts The Black Queen into a threatened position (with his lips). The Black Queen could squash this lowly knight, easily, and both pieces know it, but The White Queen (still resting peacefully at D1, also known as the couch next to the phone) learns of the aggressive check from a passing rook (Leroy and his big mouth). The possibility of another capturing his counterpart sends him into an 8-directional rage, zagging, zigging, streaking across the board, puffing out his chest and generally acting like a silverback gorilla being challenged for the rights of the troop. Yet his perception of "disrespect" entirely negates the purpose of the game. In his own obsession The Black Queen's words, "It's a game, we're all playing, and we're all playing a little dirty." The game is meant to be played, and this perceived threat to his dominance of the board (and supposed right to the capturing of the opposing Queen) is nonexistent at best. The Black Queen takes the advantage, and moves into attack position, no longer toying around, but ready to kill (emotionally) her adversary. It'll take a lot of retracing of the game log for The White Queen Dustin to regain even footing. At this moment, he faces certain doom and potential removal from the gameboard entirely, through sheer ego-destruction.
But all pales in comparison to the string-pulling of the Player-Pawn Adam. His innocuous position as a pawn is betrayed to us, the observers, but the pieces themselves remain oblivious. Their eyes firmly affixed on the gameboard, they cannot raise their gaze to see the big round head of Adam grinning stupidly down at them, manipulating their every move. Nany may be Bishop in theory, but she is The White King in practice, since it is very obviously her fate that will decide the outcome of the game known as The motherfucking Real World. Adam may be playing both sides of the board, but his allegiance lies firmly in the blackness of his soul. His lies and misdirections may be directed at only one piece, but all on the board are affected by them. There are only so many spaces to occupy, after all.
3.09.2011
The Real World Las Vegas: The Dirty Boy Rules
Damn near a year since all TV across the nation went dark, plunging American denizens into a pop culture black hole that nearly sucked our blogging creativity beyond the event horizon, but thank GOD the MOTHERFUCKING REAL WORLD is back! Okay, so maybe I slacked off, maybe the loss of Lost cracked my crusty shell of television thoughts, maybe I just got a job--any of these might be a real reason that I've been absent, but here I am, hopefully permanently, or at least while The Real World Las Vegas is airing. But in the tradition of promising things that never come to fruition, I've recently watched the entirety of Dexter, of which I may have some thoughts on eventually, as well as delving into some rather good televised nature documentaries, and the place of documentary television in the cultural landscape in general (outside the rather repugnant realm of regular old "reality" TV, which is the methadone equivalent to the nice black tar heroin of actual documentary). Anyway, here we are, in Las Vegas, let's take some bets on how long my reinvigorated blogging continues.
--
The Real World of Plato consists of seven archetypes. Seven archangels if you will. At the end of all things, these Seven will persist, planting the seeds of disparity and redemption, conflict and resolution, chaos and society that feed the entire human race and build our world anew. So says Plato. These seven archetypes were once intruded upon by an eighth, an expendable--a sacrificial lamb maybe--that while adding to the overall equation, created a mathematical anomaly known as "Not Everyone Can Hook Up With Everyone." The oddity of seven is a necessity to the evolution of humanity in that the group is forced to choose uneven sides. This will become apparent. But first, The Seven, in their current incarnation:
Cool Dad--Of The Seven, one might be tempted to choose the Cool Dad as the one that will stand out from the pack, the one that will never find peace and thus spur the others to change, but one might be wrong. The one thing about this equation is that somehow it never turns out quite the same. The Cool Dad often wears khaki shorts, reads prayers aloud to the discomfort of others, and thinks always of the Grandmother of us all: Fate. Or just Grandma. Either one. The tortured psyche of the Cool Dad lies dormant, flashing only in moments of deep contemplation, severe drunkenness, or in a crucial moment of decision with a lady. His guilt is deep, catholic (in the lower-case "c" sense, i.e. universal, and also in the upper-case "c" sense, i.e. Catholic), and persistent. Grandma is the Pope!
Dustard--Dustin + Mustard = Dustard. Just to clarify that there is no slag to any mental acuity here. Though I admit, that may come to light soon enough. The Dustard is the rhythmic bouncing of arms and chest, the generic ideal of a certain type of male, identifiable only by the constant fact of toned flesh, stubble, and a Southern accent. Dustard is monogamy personified, though never initially identified as such. But where there is monogamy, there are secrets, and Dustard more likely than not will have a bomb to drop at about the half-life of The Real World (The Real World being a rapidly disintegrating element by its very nature). This particular incarnation contains a rare and unique isotope of secrecy in that deep down he betrays his mold of the male ideal by partaking in a ritual of virile nudity, disseminated to the masses. Yeah, he was naked on the Internet. Big whoop. But Dustard's secret must be kept, because the revelation will trigger the leap to next plateau of human relation for the group. But seriously, he put an ASSLOAD of mustard on that sandwich he was making. Am I the only one concerned here?
Ree Loy--Ree Loy plays an important but isolated role in The Seven known as the Single-Minded. He is obsessed with the opposite sex, and ONLY the opposite sex, for if swords were crossed, then that X would be stamped on the base of his soul, marking him for eternity. His single-mindedness will prevent him from accepting the others as his kindred, and his judgmentality will only serve to splinter the group closer to the point of no return, only to realize his misgivings and reel The Seven in more tightly than ever before. In astrological terms, he is the Aries and will identify most with the most masculine of The Seven, namely Dustard and Shy Guy, though an uncommon and unlikely relationship may form between Ree Loy and the Cool Dad, depending on the Las Vegasian circumstances.
Shy Guy--Loki. The Trickster. Even his name is a pawn on his board. The misnomer is intentional, as Shy Guy will defend to his last breath that his intentions are innocent, when in fact they are the most dastardly of the group. He seeks to bend, break, destroy what is already built. He is Mars, the God of War, the Shiva that will always be looked upon unfavorably at the end of all things despite the fact that from all destruction comes creation. He is the last wall between The Seven and their true selves. Once he is revealed for what he truly is, the others will be free to transform, transcend to their idealized selves. In his Platonic state, he finds it ironic that his current manifestation is named Adam. The Biblical irony is not lost on the Morning Star.
Julia Roberts--Sadly, Julia Roberts must be the first to be destroyed. From there all walls will crumble. She is inextricable from Shy Guy, as they were the first and only to meet, travel, and arrive together. The streets of Las Vegas have bound them. Julia Roberts hides behind a wall of exotic skin and porcelain white teeth, and what a brittle shell it will prove to be. But in reality, in The Real World, the shell was already cracked to begin with. The painful transformation in front of her was already in progress before The Seven were brought together, and her journey will be the most difficult to experience. Her aggressive significant other will prove no match for these archetypes of humanity, nor for the powers of those almighty Powers That Be, the producers.
Ri-Ri--The wild card of the group, the Joker. Her otherworldly qualities will be irresistible to many outside of The Seven, although her charms won't quite penetrate within the circle. This archangel has nothing to offer but the wonders of variance, of the happenstance of life that can be found beyond The Seven, beyond the chains of the paradigm. After the fire of Shy Guy, she will show us what it means to be truly human.
Blonde--While her role may seem simplistic, it is in fact what drives the society of mankind in every meaningful form of literature, politics, or adventure: she is The Woman. Seemingly passive, she can bend Dustard (the ideal of masculinity)'s will with a wink of an eye or bend of a knee. She is a newly awoken Sleeping Beauty, attempting to be the free spirit she so desperately wants to be, only to find that her fate has already been written. She may stray from her path at times, but there will always be something to bring her back to the fold of Seven. The generic ideal of woman, Blonde will both fulfill and surpass her epithet by showing the power of true love, the power of sheer will to survive and grow in a new world unfamiliar, and her subsequent ruination and rebirth will be glorious.
And so, welcome to the motherfucking real world. This is how it is, this is how it will always be, even long after we are gone. The plight and triumph of humanity is right in front of us.
--
So I hope that some of that either made sense up front or will make more sense as this season of The Real World forges on. The setting of which is not coincidental. The City of Sin is a perfect backdrop for these archangels to battle both outside forces and their own demons, to test themselves against themselves and stand tall as The Seven, reformed and resplendent, yet another form of the same old shit we've seen twenty-four times before. It never changes, but somehow it's always interesting. It really is the apex of humanity, now premiering on MTV!
--
The Real World of Plato consists of seven archetypes. Seven archangels if you will. At the end of all things, these Seven will persist, planting the seeds of disparity and redemption, conflict and resolution, chaos and society that feed the entire human race and build our world anew. So says Plato. These seven archetypes were once intruded upon by an eighth, an expendable--a sacrificial lamb maybe--that while adding to the overall equation, created a mathematical anomaly known as "Not Everyone Can Hook Up With Everyone." The oddity of seven is a necessity to the evolution of humanity in that the group is forced to choose uneven sides. This will become apparent. But first, The Seven, in their current incarnation:
Cool Dad--Of The Seven, one might be tempted to choose the Cool Dad as the one that will stand out from the pack, the one that will never find peace and thus spur the others to change, but one might be wrong. The one thing about this equation is that somehow it never turns out quite the same. The Cool Dad often wears khaki shorts, reads prayers aloud to the discomfort of others, and thinks always of the Grandmother of us all: Fate. Or just Grandma. Either one. The tortured psyche of the Cool Dad lies dormant, flashing only in moments of deep contemplation, severe drunkenness, or in a crucial moment of decision with a lady. His guilt is deep, catholic (in the lower-case "c" sense, i.e. universal, and also in the upper-case "c" sense, i.e. Catholic), and persistent. Grandma is the Pope!
Dustard--Dustin + Mustard = Dustard. Just to clarify that there is no slag to any mental acuity here. Though I admit, that may come to light soon enough. The Dustard is the rhythmic bouncing of arms and chest, the generic ideal of a certain type of male, identifiable only by the constant fact of toned flesh, stubble, and a Southern accent. Dustard is monogamy personified, though never initially identified as such. But where there is monogamy, there are secrets, and Dustard more likely than not will have a bomb to drop at about the half-life of The Real World (The Real World being a rapidly disintegrating element by its very nature). This particular incarnation contains a rare and unique isotope of secrecy in that deep down he betrays his mold of the male ideal by partaking in a ritual of virile nudity, disseminated to the masses. Yeah, he was naked on the Internet. Big whoop. But Dustard's secret must be kept, because the revelation will trigger the leap to next plateau of human relation for the group. But seriously, he put an ASSLOAD of mustard on that sandwich he was making. Am I the only one concerned here?
Ree Loy--Ree Loy plays an important but isolated role in The Seven known as the Single-Minded. He is obsessed with the opposite sex, and ONLY the opposite sex, for if swords were crossed, then that X would be stamped on the base of his soul, marking him for eternity. His single-mindedness will prevent him from accepting the others as his kindred, and his judgmentality will only serve to splinter the group closer to the point of no return, only to realize his misgivings and reel The Seven in more tightly than ever before. In astrological terms, he is the Aries and will identify most with the most masculine of The Seven, namely Dustard and Shy Guy, though an uncommon and unlikely relationship may form between Ree Loy and the Cool Dad, depending on the Las Vegasian circumstances.
Shy Guy--Loki. The Trickster. Even his name is a pawn on his board. The misnomer is intentional, as Shy Guy will defend to his last breath that his intentions are innocent, when in fact they are the most dastardly of the group. He seeks to bend, break, destroy what is already built. He is Mars, the God of War, the Shiva that will always be looked upon unfavorably at the end of all things despite the fact that from all destruction comes creation. He is the last wall between The Seven and their true selves. Once he is revealed for what he truly is, the others will be free to transform, transcend to their idealized selves. In his Platonic state, he finds it ironic that his current manifestation is named Adam. The Biblical irony is not lost on the Morning Star.
Julia Roberts--Sadly, Julia Roberts must be the first to be destroyed. From there all walls will crumble. She is inextricable from Shy Guy, as they were the first and only to meet, travel, and arrive together. The streets of Las Vegas have bound them. Julia Roberts hides behind a wall of exotic skin and porcelain white teeth, and what a brittle shell it will prove to be. But in reality, in The Real World, the shell was already cracked to begin with. The painful transformation in front of her was already in progress before The Seven were brought together, and her journey will be the most difficult to experience. Her aggressive significant other will prove no match for these archetypes of humanity, nor for the powers of those almighty Powers That Be, the producers.
Ri-Ri--The wild card of the group, the Joker. Her otherworldly qualities will be irresistible to many outside of The Seven, although her charms won't quite penetrate within the circle. This archangel has nothing to offer but the wonders of variance, of the happenstance of life that can be found beyond The Seven, beyond the chains of the paradigm. After the fire of Shy Guy, she will show us what it means to be truly human.
Blonde--While her role may seem simplistic, it is in fact what drives the society of mankind in every meaningful form of literature, politics, or adventure: she is The Woman. Seemingly passive, she can bend Dustard (the ideal of masculinity)'s will with a wink of an eye or bend of a knee. She is a newly awoken Sleeping Beauty, attempting to be the free spirit she so desperately wants to be, only to find that her fate has already been written. She may stray from her path at times, but there will always be something to bring her back to the fold of Seven. The generic ideal of woman, Blonde will both fulfill and surpass her epithet by showing the power of true love, the power of sheer will to survive and grow in a new world unfamiliar, and her subsequent ruination and rebirth will be glorious.
And so, welcome to the motherfucking real world. This is how it is, this is how it will always be, even long after we are gone. The plight and triumph of humanity is right in front of us.
--
So I hope that some of that either made sense up front or will make more sense as this season of The Real World forges on. The setting of which is not coincidental. The City of Sin is a perfect backdrop for these archangels to battle both outside forces and their own demons, to test themselves against themselves and stand tall as The Seven, reformed and resplendent, yet another form of the same old shit we've seen twenty-four times before. It never changes, but somehow it's always interesting. It really is the apex of humanity, now premiering on MTV!
4.21.2010
Not Just Romantically Challenged
Sitcoms have a bad rap. Yes, most of the time they're hoary, glacially unfunny mastodons of television, but that's no reason to declare the subcategory dead. If there's one positive thing to come out of postmodernism, it's that nothing is ever too old or antediluvian to dig up, brush off and make relevant again. The sitcom will never really die. It's too massive to go extinct, like algae. Having said that,1 ABC's Romantically Challenged will not be the fittest that survives.
Using a trope that has kept fiction alive since it ran out of creation stories to tell, Romantically Challenged focuses its razor-sharp commentary on el-oh-vee-ee love. As ever-so-right troubadour James Murphy has recently said, love is a murderer, though if that was the premise of this show it might be a lot more interesting. Instead love is just that elusive unicorn that we're all hoping is real enough to spot. The cast, in the sitcom-perfect 4-pronged approach, all have different ideas on catching said unicorn, whether that be naive innocence, bitter reluctance, or boisterous carnality. Alyssa Milano is bitter2 about her luck in love, particularly a barely-referenced-except-to-serve-the-plot divorce five months ago to a man already remarrying. Sitcomically said, that's the basic premise: the perils of dating.
Sadly, at least so far, there's nothing new said about these perils here. In fact, the whole thing plays like a midseason coaster of an episode in the middle of an already moderately successful sitcom's waning golden years. To put it bluntly, it's lazy. But the problem with the whole criticism is that sitcoms are always lazy, to an extent. That's the nature of the sitcom. It's a rarified genre that allows its conventions to be used and reused ad nauseum because said conventions are societal fractals, containing infinite possibilities. There will always be a new scene to be written where two people who don't particularly get along at the moment are trapped in an elevator/stairwell/mine shaft, and infinite degrees of comedy in each new configuration. It's a beautiful mold to work from, honestly (at least to some of us), like a jazz standard. So reusing old sitcom standards isn't enough to doom Romantically Challenged.
It's the jokes. The reason that situation-comedies' "sit" portions are allowable is because there is room for experimentation within the form, i.e. how can we make this funny again? Community does this by being delightfully clever and meta. Parks and Recreation leans on the strengths of its cast. How I Met Your Mother uses strong characterizations in conjunction with a wonky framing concept that gives the writers room to experiment with presentation and structure. All of the above are good. Romantically Challenged does none of these. The characterizations are weakly standard, and there's nothing particularly groundbreaking in a concept that never goes beyond, as Buckwheat sang, wookin' pa nub in all da wong paces. If your characters are stock and your premise is stock, then guess what your show is going to turn out like?
Pilots are tricky buggers though, as most of them have the burden of introducing all the characters, all the central settings, on top of actually making some sort of self-contained conflict within the episode that exemplifies the types of conflicts we might be dealing with in future episodes. It's a tough line to walk, and Romantically Challenged I suppose you could say 'succeeds' at skirting the line by not attempting to do any of the above. I honestly couldn't tell, of the four main characters, who was dating, who (if anyone) had dated whom in the past, or who was related to whom. And that made the whole thing really really dirty-feeling. Was the guy asking about spanking advice talking to his ex-girlfriend? His sister? Or just some girl he knows somehow? Shouldn't I know by now? Well, I don't. Pilot fail. Same goes for the settings; here, the obligatory way-too-nice apartment and their "hangout" spot, which appears to be some sort of restaurant. Again, things are unclear. The plot was self-serving enough, pretty middlebrow sitcom fare,3 and I admit I chuckled slightly a few times (but only because I'm pretty liberal in what I chuckle at), but overall didn't achieve what pilots should strive to. Again, tricky buggers, but also again, laziness. Oh well.
Sitcoms have been called a dying breed in some circles, but hopefully what's actually dying out are bad sitcoms. Because for every Romantically Challenged that hopes to coast through our screens by "playing the sitcom hits" as it were, there's a Modern Family that can take the oldest of tropes and make them feel fresh, new, and relevant again. Just like stereotypes, tropes are usually tropes for a reason, but at this point shows have to do a little digging to find a new way to show that reason. And at this point, the only thing Romantically Challenged is digging is its own grave. Zing!4
Addenda
Using a trope that has kept fiction alive since it ran out of creation stories to tell, Romantically Challenged focuses its razor-sharp commentary on el-oh-vee-ee love. As ever-so-right troubadour James Murphy has recently said, love is a murderer, though if that was the premise of this show it might be a lot more interesting. Instead love is just that elusive unicorn that we're all hoping is real enough to spot. The cast, in the sitcom-perfect 4-pronged approach, all have different ideas on catching said unicorn, whether that be naive innocence, bitter reluctance, or boisterous carnality. Alyssa Milano is bitter2 about her luck in love, particularly a barely-referenced-except-to-serve-the-plot divorce five months ago to a man already remarrying. Sitcomically said, that's the basic premise: the perils of dating.
Sadly, at least so far, there's nothing new said about these perils here. In fact, the whole thing plays like a midseason coaster of an episode in the middle of an already moderately successful sitcom's waning golden years. To put it bluntly, it's lazy. But the problem with the whole criticism is that sitcoms are always lazy, to an extent. That's the nature of the sitcom. It's a rarified genre that allows its conventions to be used and reused ad nauseum because said conventions are societal fractals, containing infinite possibilities. There will always be a new scene to be written where two people who don't particularly get along at the moment are trapped in an elevator/stairwell/mine shaft, and infinite degrees of comedy in each new configuration. It's a beautiful mold to work from, honestly (at least to some of us), like a jazz standard. So reusing old sitcom standards isn't enough to doom Romantically Challenged.
It's the jokes. The reason that situation-comedies' "sit" portions are allowable is because there is room for experimentation within the form, i.e. how can we make this funny again? Community does this by being delightfully clever and meta. Parks and Recreation leans on the strengths of its cast. How I Met Your Mother uses strong characterizations in conjunction with a wonky framing concept that gives the writers room to experiment with presentation and structure. All of the above are good. Romantically Challenged does none of these. The characterizations are weakly standard, and there's nothing particularly groundbreaking in a concept that never goes beyond, as Buckwheat sang, wookin' pa nub in all da wong paces. If your characters are stock and your premise is stock, then guess what your show is going to turn out like?
Pilots are tricky buggers though, as most of them have the burden of introducing all the characters, all the central settings, on top of actually making some sort of self-contained conflict within the episode that exemplifies the types of conflicts we might be dealing with in future episodes. It's a tough line to walk, and Romantically Challenged I suppose you could say 'succeeds' at skirting the line by not attempting to do any of the above. I honestly couldn't tell, of the four main characters, who was dating, who (if anyone) had dated whom in the past, or who was related to whom. And that made the whole thing really really dirty-feeling. Was the guy asking about spanking advice talking to his ex-girlfriend? His sister? Or just some girl he knows somehow? Shouldn't I know by now? Well, I don't. Pilot fail. Same goes for the settings; here, the obligatory way-too-nice apartment and their "hangout" spot, which appears to be some sort of restaurant. Again, things are unclear. The plot was self-serving enough, pretty middlebrow sitcom fare,3 and I admit I chuckled slightly a few times (but only because I'm pretty liberal in what I chuckle at), but overall didn't achieve what pilots should strive to. Again, tricky buggers, but also again, laziness. Oh well.
Sitcoms have been called a dying breed in some circles, but hopefully what's actually dying out are bad sitcoms. Because for every Romantically Challenged that hopes to coast through our screens by "playing the sitcom hits" as it were, there's a Modern Family that can take the oldest of tropes and make them feel fresh, new, and relevant again. Just like stereotypes, tropes are usually tropes for a reason, but at this point shows have to do a little digging to find a new way to show that reason. And at this point, the only thing Romantically Challenged is digging is its own grave. Zing!4
Addenda
- Stay tuned for my long-promised Curb Your Enthusiasm/Seinfeld reunion cogitation, now that I've made my way through the latest season a second time. Thank God for HBO/Larry David's long-ass turnaround time. You may understand the placement of this footnote better upon reading that future post. ↑
- About her career? ↑
- Milano tries to start dating again 5 months after her divorce, mostly because her ex-husband sent her an invitation to his marriage, which is totally a dick move, and totally not a good reason to start dating again just for the sake of it. I suppose you would call that the A-story. The B-story was funnier, slightly, as one of the dudes finds the perfect girl with one glaring flaw (again, pretty wonted when it comes to sitcoms): she likes the dirty talk, and our gentle soul ain't the kind of man to give it to her. This was mostly funnier only because the actor had a semblance of charisma that was absent from the other ligneous cast members. C-story, also tropological sit-comedy, had the "goofball" "writer" character getting his short stories evaluated by a high school English teacher and getting a B-. The plots are relegated to a footnote because they are as inconsequential to this blog post as they were to this show. ↑
- And if you have to say "zing!" after a joke, it probably shouldn't go into your sitcom. ↑
4.19.2010
Sometimes The Blogs Just Write Themselves
These days, the only things I see that inspire me to write blogs are twofold: Lost and The Real World. And so instead of constantly writing about Lost and The Real World, I hesitated. I waited for the episode of either that best exemplified television watching at its finest. And it just so happened that The Real World's finale came first.1
This season of MTV's Ph.D-level dissertation/social experiment has proven to be a delight beyond measure after a rocky start not only for me, but for the housemates themselves. After bitter beginnings with The God Argument, The Don't-Beat-Me-I'm-Fragile Crusade, and The Nervous Breakdown, the remaining roommates have had a long enough stretch of peace to form the scar tissue of True Friendship. Through their collective sufferings and woes, these misfit toys banded together to prove to The Powers That Be that their Machiavellian meddling will not control them anymore! You couldn't buy a logline better than that. And with the clubhouse poison of Erika 'Milton Bradley' Rocker-Girl (never did find out her last name) out of the picture, the strong that survived came together tighter than drying rawhide. Their farewells were tearful, their last actions meaningful, their sorrow palpable. It was adorable. Like kids saying goodbye from summer camp adorable. They wrote on the walls, played a final (and especially 7th-grade-risque) game of truth or dare, and finally got really really fucked up (at least one of them did). And most importantly, Ol' Yellow Eyes (Callie) had an art show.
But first, some backstory from episodes lost in the abyss: The Boy Who Lies stopped lying long enough to get himself a real actual girl, not just a vagina with a torso and stems. Incredible, I know. This week we meet them in the throes of love's blossom and the wonderful Powers That Be felt them worthy for the happiest of endings. Despite initial dramatic pauses and important hesitation on whether he could handle it, Andrew agreed to have Andrea (seriously, this is not made up) move in with him, beyond the realm of The Real World, in the real world. I believe in them, their love is real.2 This newfound infatuation with the Greek goddess Andreathena, however, seriously diminishes his need to give a shit about anyone else. Callie asked him for a favor goddammit! Our Original Oh Yeah I Forgot About Her gathers the three artistes in the house--that is, herself, Andrew the cartoonist, and... Emily?... the... poet?--to display their corporate sponsored [Buy a Five Dollar Foot Long on any sub, that's right, ANY SUB. foralimitedtimeonly] personal vision of DC in a gallery. Of art. So goddamn Andrew better get goddamn painting. But in a beautiful moment of planting and pay-off, we hark back to Andrew's near-disastrous, short-lived political cartoon career. The man's a procrastinator--and I for one, can relate. I've been procrastinating this whole season.
So then Richard Alpert sez, he sez--oh wait, what show are we on?--So then Andrew does the paintings, but he's almost late, blah blah blah, just one last bit of drama where we learn characters like Andrew have bettered themselves oh-so-slightly from "a procrastinator who turns things in late" to "a procrastinator who turns things in with just enough time to let the ink dry;" Inspector Instigator even made a last villainous showing when he decided to say to Callie The Budding Yet Fragile-To-Criticism Photographer that anybody with a finger and an eyeball can take pictures. But again, The Inspector has gone from "instigates until he makes someone cry" to "instigate until you can say sorry and sound like you mean it." That, or everyone has just learned to ignore him. But in the end (or "in the deep end" as Ty or the proverbial She might say), the art is a success, if a little damp. She even sells some photos. So naturally, it's time to celebrate.
And celebrate they do, and the best bit of drunkenness of the year manifests in the form of The Formerly Bisexual But Now Pretty Much Gay Boy tease-boxing some guy literally called Hockey Guy and getting thrown into a wall. Now his nose is all busted! On the day his dad is coming to town! So they can both go to a fancy (and probably expensive! -- my occasionally Republican and entirely fictional editor) DC dinner party, featuring Obama appearance #2!3 Oh what a Marcia Brady conundrum! But luckily, he's the kind of man who's not afraid to wear make-up. You know, like Andrew. He goes to the dinner with his dad, and they fist bump and clap hands and jump up and down screaming "Barack!" in little girl voices, and all is going just dandy until, riding the high that comes with mob mentality, the FBBNPMGB accosts the most interesting protester ever to have his face blurred on television. I had no idea the Darwinists were against gay marriage. Apparently there are evolutionary zealots as well? But back to the accosting, the Darwinist is berated without a chance to retaliate and Mike's uncomfortable dad teaches his son a valuable lesson about giving each other a chance and he makes him apologize to the now wimpering Darwinist. Parents connected with while in DC: 2 of 2 for Mike!4
That means our final Oh Yeah I Forgot About Him goes to Lenny Kravitz, who didn't do much except look like a total badass by blowing off everyone in the house in his final goodbye confessional, instead saying that he'll be most thankful for his band. Peace out Lenny!
And slowly they trickle out, and you can tell how much they love each other by how hard they hug each other, until there are none left, only the voiceover of The Formerly Bisexual But Now Pretty Much Straight Girl, summing it all up with a "What I Learned..."moment. So in the end, it turns out, we found ourselves forged together in the fires of Calamity, we found out who we really are, we found True Love. All in all, not a bad social experiment.
----------
Postscript: The Reunion Show
It was exactly what you would expect. They bickered and laughed, and talked unironically of True Friendship and Love. Also, there was swearing. Liberal amounts of Friendship swearing. But overall, the same shit happened, rehashing the Big Events of the series and reinforcing the fact that none of these people will back down. Only Erika cried (big surprise), and it seemed like everyone settled back into their original roles, pre-Finale. The Bisexual Duo voraciously defended their bisexuality, Callie was sweetly naive (though it was tantalizingly hinted at that she may be a closet hipster?! Hipsters can't be nice Cal!), and Inspector Instigator was less a Snively Whiplash-scheming sort of villain than a Dastardly and Muttley-comedic sort of villain. The guy's never going to look good when he opens his mouth. But at least Andrew's True Love has continued post-camera-bombardment.
Somewhat sadly, the most interesting part was watching Andrew fidget in the background when the spotlight wasn't on him, because who gives a shit what you're all doing now that you're not on TV anymore. It was surprisingly unjuicy and anticlimactic overall, and their bickering felt as uncomfortable as it was way back in Week One, only this time, as I said, there was Friendship swearing. Maybe I should start watching The Real World/Road Rules Challenge: Fresh Meat 2 (quite the unruly title), because it looks like those people really know how to fuck each other up.
Addenda
This season of MTV's Ph.D-level dissertation/social experiment has proven to be a delight beyond measure after a rocky start not only for me, but for the housemates themselves. After bitter beginnings with The God Argument, The Don't-Beat-Me-I'm-Fragile Crusade, and The Nervous Breakdown, the remaining roommates have had a long enough stretch of peace to form the scar tissue of True Friendship. Through their collective sufferings and woes, these misfit toys banded together to prove to The Powers That Be that their Machiavellian meddling will not control them anymore! You couldn't buy a logline better than that. And with the clubhouse poison of Erika 'Milton Bradley' Rocker-Girl (never did find out her last name) out of the picture, the strong that survived came together tighter than drying rawhide. Their farewells were tearful, their last actions meaningful, their sorrow palpable. It was adorable. Like kids saying goodbye from summer camp adorable. They wrote on the walls, played a final (and especially 7th-grade-risque) game of truth or dare, and finally got really really fucked up (at least one of them did). And most importantly, Ol' Yellow Eyes (Callie) had an art show.
But first, some backstory from episodes lost in the abyss: The Boy Who Lies stopped lying long enough to get himself a real actual girl, not just a vagina with a torso and stems. Incredible, I know. This week we meet them in the throes of love's blossom and the wonderful Powers That Be felt them worthy for the happiest of endings. Despite initial dramatic pauses and important hesitation on whether he could handle it, Andrew agreed to have Andrea (seriously, this is not made up) move in with him, beyond the realm of The Real World, in the real world. I believe in them, their love is real.2 This newfound infatuation with the Greek goddess Andreathena, however, seriously diminishes his need to give a shit about anyone else. Callie asked him for a favor goddammit! Our Original Oh Yeah I Forgot About Her gathers the three artistes in the house--that is, herself, Andrew the cartoonist, and... Emily?... the... poet?--to display their corporate sponsored [Buy a Five Dollar Foot Long on any sub, that's right, ANY SUB. foralimitedtimeonly] personal vision of DC in a gallery. Of art. So goddamn Andrew better get goddamn painting. But in a beautiful moment of planting and pay-off, we hark back to Andrew's near-disastrous, short-lived political cartoon career. The man's a procrastinator--and I for one, can relate. I've been procrastinating this whole season.
So then Richard Alpert sez, he sez--oh wait, what show are we on?--So then Andrew does the paintings, but he's almost late, blah blah blah, just one last bit of drama where we learn characters like Andrew have bettered themselves oh-so-slightly from "a procrastinator who turns things in late" to "a procrastinator who turns things in with just enough time to let the ink dry;" Inspector Instigator even made a last villainous showing when he decided to say to Callie The Budding Yet Fragile-To-Criticism Photographer that anybody with a finger and an eyeball can take pictures. But again, The Inspector has gone from "instigates until he makes someone cry" to "instigate until you can say sorry and sound like you mean it." That, or everyone has just learned to ignore him. But in the end (or "in the deep end" as Ty or the proverbial She might say), the art is a success, if a little damp. She even sells some photos. So naturally, it's time to celebrate.
And celebrate they do, and the best bit of drunkenness of the year manifests in the form of The Formerly Bisexual But Now Pretty Much Gay Boy tease-boxing some guy literally called Hockey Guy and getting thrown into a wall. Now his nose is all busted! On the day his dad is coming to town! So they can both go to a fancy (and probably expensive! -- my occasionally Republican and entirely fictional editor) DC dinner party, featuring Obama appearance #2!3 Oh what a Marcia Brady conundrum! But luckily, he's the kind of man who's not afraid to wear make-up. You know, like Andrew. He goes to the dinner with his dad, and they fist bump and clap hands and jump up and down screaming "Barack!" in little girl voices, and all is going just dandy until, riding the high that comes with mob mentality, the FBBNPMGB accosts the most interesting protester ever to have his face blurred on television. I had no idea the Darwinists were against gay marriage. Apparently there are evolutionary zealots as well? But back to the accosting, the Darwinist is berated without a chance to retaliate and Mike's uncomfortable dad teaches his son a valuable lesson about giving each other a chance and he makes him apologize to the now wimpering Darwinist. Parents connected with while in DC: 2 of 2 for Mike!4
That means our final Oh Yeah I Forgot About Him goes to Lenny Kravitz, who didn't do much except look like a total badass by blowing off everyone in the house in his final goodbye confessional, instead saying that he'll be most thankful for his band. Peace out Lenny!
And slowly they trickle out, and you can tell how much they love each other by how hard they hug each other, until there are none left, only the voiceover of The Formerly Bisexual But Now Pretty Much Straight Girl, summing it all up with a "What I Learned..."moment. So in the end, it turns out, we found ourselves forged together in the fires of Calamity, we found out who we really are, we found True Love. All in all, not a bad social experiment.
----------
Postscript: The Reunion Show
It was exactly what you would expect. They bickered and laughed, and talked unironically of True Friendship and Love. Also, there was swearing. Liberal amounts of Friendship swearing. But overall, the same shit happened, rehashing the Big Events of the series and reinforcing the fact that none of these people will back down. Only Erika cried (big surprise), and it seemed like everyone settled back into their original roles, pre-Finale. The Bisexual Duo voraciously defended their bisexuality, Callie was sweetly naive (though it was tantalizingly hinted at that she may be a closet hipster?! Hipsters can't be nice Cal!), and Inspector Instigator was less a Snively Whiplash-scheming sort of villain than a Dastardly and Muttley-comedic sort of villain. The guy's never going to look good when he opens his mouth. But at least Andrew's True Love has continued post-camera-bombardment.
Somewhat sadly, the most interesting part was watching Andrew fidget in the background when the spotlight wasn't on him, because who gives a shit what you're all doing now that you're not on TV anymore. It was surprisingly unjuicy and anticlimactic overall, and their bickering felt as uncomfortable as it was way back in Week One, only this time, as I said, there was Friendship swearing. Maybe I should start watching The Real World/Road Rules Challenge: Fresh Meat 2 (quite the unruly title), because it looks like those people really know how to fuck each other up.
Addenda
- Yeah, it came first like two weeks ago, apologies for the constant delays here. ↑
- This newfound belief in the wondrous machinations of The World's Greatest Social Experiment ties into the housemates as well, as my relationship with them grew as they grew with each other. And when clubhouse poison Erika 'Barry Bonds' Rocker-Girl left, we were all free to let loose and have fun with each other. I felt like I was 13 again. ↑
- At which point I had one of those sublime moments of realization and appreciation of the time we live in, where historic things are happening, in a country emerging from a time of hopeless dark despair and moving into a future once again filled with possibility rather than more of the same. Yes, The Real World made me remember that it's a good time to be alive. If that doesn't prove a.) the show's relevance, and b.) how far I've come in this season of nonsense, then I can't do anything more for you. ↑
- Though his political hopes might be dashed by the previously mentioned drunken tickle-fight that resulted in a nose gash, which was broadcast on national television. But then again, without the national television part, would he have had the opportunities to participate in the politicking that solidified the dream in the first place? A real monkey's paw situation indeed--wait, am I talking about Lost again? ↑
3.01.2010
Two Overly Serious Treatises
Treatise The First:
The Bachleor: Meditations on American Sexuality
White Female America was riveted as All-American-Male Jake the Bachelor chose his bride-to-be, and White Female America released a collective squeal of disgust as Jake the Bachelor chose the shrewier of two shrews. Was anyone really going to be pleased by either outcome?
In the wake of trashier cable reality shows featuring the increasingly shallow premise of "looking for love," The Bachelor now emerges as a hyper-conservative punchline in most respects. Touting everlasting heterosexual (and entirely Caucasian) love as its goal, The Bachelor peddles unnaturally straight white teeth and shallow cliches as the American ideal of love. Roses, tropical locales, flowing evening gowns, tailored suits and stilted emotions abound, and we are meant to yearn for something similar. Women swoon over large hunks of mineral ore and men on single knees, and The Bachelor presents no alternative, instead adding in helicopter rides and long-lensed cameras and a heaping sense of façade.
I find myself wondering the percentage of people who are swept up by the theatrics of network pandering compared to the percentage who are purely in it for the schadenfreude. Watching The Rejected's face contort into ugly expressions heretofore unseen on her until-now perfectly composed visage held a slight bit of satisfaction, a sort of "welcome to the real world, honey" kind of scoff at her pain, partially in self-defense because we know in our hearts (though the word "heart" is thrown around so much on The Bachelor that it's elevated to the most Platonic of ideals rather than the thing that works the hardest in our bodies to keep us alive and smiling impossibly clear-enameled smiles) that she came a helluva lot closer to that American Ideal of Romance, of being swept away by a Harlequin figure to exotic locales to be proposed to on bended knee and kissed oh-so-softly as the sun sets behind us and fade out the end. But we in the real world, watching TV with the man or woman who probably farts in bed, who proposed at Benihana when the chef flipped the ring out of the fried rice, who not-so-sadly lacks six-pack abs and a completely fabricated smile, we know it's just a dream. An impossibly white, WASPy, heterosexual, so-called "American" dream, presented to us as fact, though it's indubitably undoubtedly fiction, the most reaching definition of "reality" there ever was.
Treatise The Second:
Canadian Stereotypes on the International Stage
Where most countries might try to enlighten or educate the world about their culture when offered an international audience to appeal to, Canada stands alone. And their resistance, their utter denunciation of the Chinese precedent of grandeur and majesty shows that Canada's got a lot more balls than we give them credit for, and they somehow stood up to this in the most Canadian way imaginable: pure, innocent ignorance.
Canada is the friend that will smile and laugh as you completely eviscerate his manhood through taunts and pants-ings. Canada takes the ribbings in stride, without a hint of torment or sign of the sort of bottled-up-anger warnings that signal an impending emotional explosion. Which begs the question: Do they just not realize? Oh no. They realize. And they don't give a shit.
Canada's closing ceremonies made no effort to subvert stereotypes of moose and mounties and maple leaves, instead opting to have each of those dancing to what can only be described as Canadian Pop Music, accompanied by giant inflatable beavers and Michael Buble And His Incredible Quebecois Chorus Line. It takes a serious amount of nuts (Canadians love puns) to stand up in front of all of your "friends" and say, "You know all that shit you make fun of me for? Well here it is, bigger and more incredibly 'Canadian' than your piddly little international brains could ever dream of, because if there's one thing a Canadian knows how to do, it's laugh at himself."
Canada gave the world a treat by being as absolutely Canadian as it could possibly be, with no shame. The prospect of being a dancing maple leaf girl could have brought even the most desperate Broadway wannabe to ignominious tears, but I can only guess that there was a line of Newfoundlanders and Saskatchewanians ready to don a giant symbol of their country and flap around like a cocooning caterpillar, and good for them. They showed this cocky American that they could care less what I think about them and their one-road country, and for that, I salute them.
The Bachleor: Meditations on American Sexuality
White Female America was riveted as All-American-Male Jake the Bachelor chose his bride-to-be, and White Female America released a collective squeal of disgust as Jake the Bachelor chose the shrewier of two shrews. Was anyone really going to be pleased by either outcome?
In the wake of trashier cable reality shows featuring the increasingly shallow premise of "looking for love," The Bachelor now emerges as a hyper-conservative punchline in most respects. Touting everlasting heterosexual (and entirely Caucasian) love as its goal, The Bachelor peddles unnaturally straight white teeth and shallow cliches as the American ideal of love. Roses, tropical locales, flowing evening gowns, tailored suits and stilted emotions abound, and we are meant to yearn for something similar. Women swoon over large hunks of mineral ore and men on single knees, and The Bachelor presents no alternative, instead adding in helicopter rides and long-lensed cameras and a heaping sense of façade.
I find myself wondering the percentage of people who are swept up by the theatrics of network pandering compared to the percentage who are purely in it for the schadenfreude. Watching The Rejected's face contort into ugly expressions heretofore unseen on her until-now perfectly composed visage held a slight bit of satisfaction, a sort of "welcome to the real world, honey" kind of scoff at her pain, partially in self-defense because we know in our hearts (though the word "heart" is thrown around so much on The Bachelor that it's elevated to the most Platonic of ideals rather than the thing that works the hardest in our bodies to keep us alive and smiling impossibly clear-enameled smiles) that she came a helluva lot closer to that American Ideal of Romance, of being swept away by a Harlequin figure to exotic locales to be proposed to on bended knee and kissed oh-so-softly as the sun sets behind us and fade out the end. But we in the real world, watching TV with the man or woman who probably farts in bed, who proposed at Benihana when the chef flipped the ring out of the fried rice, who not-so-sadly lacks six-pack abs and a completely fabricated smile, we know it's just a dream. An impossibly white, WASPy, heterosexual, so-called "American" dream, presented to us as fact, though it's indubitably undoubtedly fiction, the most reaching definition of "reality" there ever was.
Treatise The Second:
Canadian Stereotypes on the International Stage
Where most countries might try to enlighten or educate the world about their culture when offered an international audience to appeal to, Canada stands alone. And their resistance, their utter denunciation of the Chinese precedent of grandeur and majesty shows that Canada's got a lot more balls than we give them credit for, and they somehow stood up to this in the most Canadian way imaginable: pure, innocent ignorance.
Canada is the friend that will smile and laugh as you completely eviscerate his manhood through taunts and pants-ings. Canada takes the ribbings in stride, without a hint of torment or sign of the sort of bottled-up-anger warnings that signal an impending emotional explosion. Which begs the question: Do they just not realize? Oh no. They realize. And they don't give a shit.
Canada's closing ceremonies made no effort to subvert stereotypes of moose and mounties and maple leaves, instead opting to have each of those dancing to what can only be described as Canadian Pop Music, accompanied by giant inflatable beavers and Michael Buble And His Incredible Quebecois Chorus Line. It takes a serious amount of nuts (Canadians love puns) to stand up in front of all of your "friends" and say, "You know all that shit you make fun of me for? Well here it is, bigger and more incredibly 'Canadian' than your piddly little international brains could ever dream of, because if there's one thing a Canadian knows how to do, it's laugh at himself."
Canada gave the world a treat by being as absolutely Canadian as it could possibly be, with no shame. The prospect of being a dancing maple leaf girl could have brought even the most desperate Broadway wannabe to ignominious tears, but I can only guess that there was a line of Newfoundlanders and Saskatchewanians ready to don a giant symbol of their country and flap around like a cocooning caterpillar, and good for them. They showed this cocky American that they could care less what I think about them and their one-road country, and for that, I salute them.
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