In lieu of today's entry, I present to you the following poem...
Christmas Day is almost here
I feel the happy warmth of holiday cheer
The overcooked turkey roasting in its juice
The family calling a seasonal truce
Uncle Fred getting drunk as a lord
All the kids sitting around bored
Presents lying under the tree
Waiting for us to bust them free
Of their ribbon and tacky paper wrap--
A bulky green sweater from the Gap
A cloying scented candle for Sarah Jane
A year-old fruitcake for my cousin from Maine
A brand new fire extinguisher for Mom and Dad
For me, a puppy-shaped heating pad!
How I love the fire bursting in its place
The carols sung with complete lack of grace
The toddlers ripping off Aunt Laura's toupee
The kids clamoring for Santa's sleigh
The food about as delicious as it looks
(Spoiled, I'm afraid, by too many cooks)--
It's Christmas, that day of family fun
And if I could, I'd turn and run.
But after the gifts have all been returned
(or, in the case of Sarah Jane, burned)
And we recall the pleasures of the night
Not a thing thrown, and just one fight
I hope we remember what we did gain--
An evening with family, and an absence of pain.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...
I'm taking a short break. I don't know how long it will be because I don't know when it will move me to actually write something again. But it is the holidays, and I am working pretty hard as well as trying to survive Christmas, so for the next two weeks expect only sporadic postings. Not like anyone's reading this anyway.
I'm taking a short break. I don't know how long it will be because I don't know when it will move me to actually write something again. But it is the holidays, and I am working pretty hard as well as trying to survive Christmas, so for the next two weeks expect only sporadic postings. Not like anyone's reading this anyway.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Support Your Friendly Neighborhood Pet-Sitter: Tip Her!
Okay, some people might think I'm just saying this because I'm greedy and I want my clients to give me more money this holiday season. This is true. But around this time of year, I don't worry so much about my income--everyone wants to hire me. It's Christmas, after all, and what are they going to do with their pets when they leave for the Bahamas?
As you may remember, I own my own pet-sitting business. I started it about two years ago when I quit a horrible magazine job. No, walking dogs is not a difficult job. No, I don't have to deal with sadistic bosses (I'm the sadistic boss here). People are constantly telling me, "You have it made. I wish I had your job!"
For all of you thinking about a career in pet-sitting: rethink it. Yes, I get to play with puppies on a regular basis. Yes, I get to spend a lot of time outside. But here are the disadvantages you haven't thought of yet:
1. It's pretty cold in Chicago this time of year. But the cold doesn't make dogs poop any faster.
2. When you walk dogs, you can talk to them--but they can't talk back. No one talks to you. You can go a day without talking to a single person except your mother-in-law.
3. 70 percent of pet-sitting is driving. Try this during one Chicago summer and I guarantee you'll hate it. It takes 20 minutes longer to get anywhere during the summer.
4. You have to work whenever everyone else has time off. This means: summer, Christmas, spring break, July 4th, Thanksgiving, Easter, Memorial Day, Labor Day and any other holiday you can think of. You just try to get your employees to work those dates without huge raises.
5. You're in a service industry. That means that from some homes, you get the same treatment as The Help do.
6. When you take care of animals, you're bound to get a few sick ones. You'd be surprised at how many of your clients will die in one year. Dogs and cats, after all, don't live so long.
7. If you're also trying to have a life at the same time, don't. You'll be slated to work Friday nights, Saturday nights and every weekend lots of parties are happening. I can't tell you how often I've walked a dog in an evening gown because I had to rush over in the middle of a meal at the Palmer House Hilton.
8. You probably won't eat on a regular schedule. Remember that most people who work want their dogs walked at lunchtime. You have four dogs to do in the afternoon--when's your meal? Usually about 3 p.m. At McDonald's 'cause you're starving to death.
Holidays are the worst. If one dog requires four visits a day at 8 a.m., 12 noon, 4 p.m and 8 p.m. and you're taking care of 16 animals at a time--well, you do the math. When do you get to see your family? And, for some reason, everyone decides on Dec. 16 that they're leaving for Christmas and they call you at the last minute. I've worked from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. and stayed overnight at a home with two 45-minute breaks all day. I don't get to travel.
So I'm not saying pet-sitting is difficult, or that it's not fun (though I do have to deal with cats who hate being given medication. Ouch). I'm just saying that dogs don't care if it's Christmas--they still have to go out and do their thing. Cats who are sick are just as likely to have an emergency on Thanksgiving as any other day (I was at the emergency room on Thanksgiving night this year, thank you). It's just that I intended this to be my day job, and it's taken over my life.
Even the people who just have me walk dogs on weekdays can be troublesome. I have to work all my other clients around them (they've got Prime Time) and they still call me Saturday nights at 10 p.m. for schedule changes. Yes, I keep my phone on. For emergencies.
I love the dogs and cats I care for. I do everything I can to make sure they're healthy and comfortable. But it takes a toll on my life. A tip from a client, even just a hand-written card with a picture of her dog on the inside, lets me know that they realize how hard I've worked so that their pets get the best of care.
This goes for all service industries, by the way. We all appreciate a little thank-you now and again.
Okay, some people might think I'm just saying this because I'm greedy and I want my clients to give me more money this holiday season. This is true. But around this time of year, I don't worry so much about my income--everyone wants to hire me. It's Christmas, after all, and what are they going to do with their pets when they leave for the Bahamas?
As you may remember, I own my own pet-sitting business. I started it about two years ago when I quit a horrible magazine job. No, walking dogs is not a difficult job. No, I don't have to deal with sadistic bosses (I'm the sadistic boss here). People are constantly telling me, "You have it made. I wish I had your job!"
For all of you thinking about a career in pet-sitting: rethink it. Yes, I get to play with puppies on a regular basis. Yes, I get to spend a lot of time outside. But here are the disadvantages you haven't thought of yet:
1. It's pretty cold in Chicago this time of year. But the cold doesn't make dogs poop any faster.
2. When you walk dogs, you can talk to them--but they can't talk back. No one talks to you. You can go a day without talking to a single person except your mother-in-law.
3. 70 percent of pet-sitting is driving. Try this during one Chicago summer and I guarantee you'll hate it. It takes 20 minutes longer to get anywhere during the summer.
4. You have to work whenever everyone else has time off. This means: summer, Christmas, spring break, July 4th, Thanksgiving, Easter, Memorial Day, Labor Day and any other holiday you can think of. You just try to get your employees to work those dates without huge raises.
5. You're in a service industry. That means that from some homes, you get the same treatment as The Help do.
6. When you take care of animals, you're bound to get a few sick ones. You'd be surprised at how many of your clients will die in one year. Dogs and cats, after all, don't live so long.
7. If you're also trying to have a life at the same time, don't. You'll be slated to work Friday nights, Saturday nights and every weekend lots of parties are happening. I can't tell you how often I've walked a dog in an evening gown because I had to rush over in the middle of a meal at the Palmer House Hilton.
8. You probably won't eat on a regular schedule. Remember that most people who work want their dogs walked at lunchtime. You have four dogs to do in the afternoon--when's your meal? Usually about 3 p.m. At McDonald's 'cause you're starving to death.
Holidays are the worst. If one dog requires four visits a day at 8 a.m., 12 noon, 4 p.m and 8 p.m. and you're taking care of 16 animals at a time--well, you do the math. When do you get to see your family? And, for some reason, everyone decides on Dec. 16 that they're leaving for Christmas and they call you at the last minute. I've worked from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. and stayed overnight at a home with two 45-minute breaks all day. I don't get to travel.
So I'm not saying pet-sitting is difficult, or that it's not fun (though I do have to deal with cats who hate being given medication. Ouch). I'm just saying that dogs don't care if it's Christmas--they still have to go out and do their thing. Cats who are sick are just as likely to have an emergency on Thanksgiving as any other day (I was at the emergency room on Thanksgiving night this year, thank you). It's just that I intended this to be my day job, and it's taken over my life.
Even the people who just have me walk dogs on weekdays can be troublesome. I have to work all my other clients around them (they've got Prime Time) and they still call me Saturday nights at 10 p.m. for schedule changes. Yes, I keep my phone on. For emergencies.
I love the dogs and cats I care for. I do everything I can to make sure they're healthy and comfortable. But it takes a toll on my life. A tip from a client, even just a hand-written card with a picture of her dog on the inside, lets me know that they realize how hard I've worked so that their pets get the best of care.
This goes for all service industries, by the way. We all appreciate a little thank-you now and again.
Friday, December 19, 2003
De-Mystifying Hollywood: Mona Lisa Smile
NOTE: Spoilers Ahead
I’ll come clean: I’m no critic. Yes, I’ve had my share of reviews published. I panned “Primal Fear” and “Showgirls” back in the day. I can probably tell a good film the same as anyone else. But I’ve never been able to be that observant about the minutiae—the glass of water that has more liquid than before, the open window where there wasn’t one before. I had always been amazed at the level of detail movies deal with successfully and how they become seamless pieces of work.
Last night I went to the Chicago area premiere of “Mona Lisa Smile.” In fact, I was the guest speaker, since I’m an alum of Wellesley College, the school featured in the movie (and because I was willing to help my favorite charity out at the last minute). It’s a place I know intimately. I can tell you that the exteriors of the school were indeed filmed at Wellesley. The lake, the carillon tower, the academic buildings, the pathways—all Wellesley. The interiors, on the other hand, do not exist at Wellesley. Most of those large classrooms and staircases in the film wouldn’t fit into our small, lovely buildings. When a character enters a door, suddenly she’s at Columbia Univerisity in New York instead of Massachusetts.
On a more substantive level, I know this. The producers of the movie have changed the entire character of my alma mater to make their movie work. Wellesley College has never been, and will never be, anything akin to a finishing school (whatever that is). When it was founded in 1870 by Henry Fowler Durant and his wife Pauline, it was always meant to be an institute of higher education that would help women become the leaders of tomorrow. At no period in its existence has Wellesley been a mere meeting ground/waiting area for students to meet men and get married. In 1955, just a couple of years after the movie takes place, a woman named Madeleine Albright became a student.
The motto of Wellesley is “Non Ministrari Sed Ministrare”—not to be served, but to serve. It’s a motto that I have always taken to mean “Don’t just sit there; go out and do things.” You’ll find that other alums, from all eras, have translated the motto to mean the same. And we live by it. Including alums like Hillary Rodham Clinton, Diane Sawyer and Cokie Roberts.
Here’s an example of what I’m talking about. In one scene, Julia Roberts’ character Katherine Watson is talking with the president. She says that half the women of Wellesley are married and the other half probably will be within a month. I’ve discussed this with the public information office at Wellesley; this statistic is way off base. Only a few women were married at Wellesley in 1953. I can also tell you, as an alum myself, that the campus is rather isolated from public transportation and there are very few students who live off campus even today. It’s just too inconvenient. Boston is 13 miles away.
These are things I know because I went to Wellesley (and Columbia, later on). No longer does the film seem so unified to me. I get it now. I understand how Hollywood manipulates me. I can see where they modified the truth for dramatic effect. I know where they cut scenes. I know where they took liberties. I can tell what they were trying to do. Eureka! I can tell the difference between movie reality and my reality. I can watch it and say, “They made this part up for the masses.” It’s a heady feeling. I can actually look at almost every scene and tell what’s fiction and what’s not.
Oh, the movie? It’s cute. I’ve never been a big fan of Julia Roberts and have trouble seeing her as “subversive”—an idea they really hit you over the head with—but she did okay. I think her romance with Bill Dunbar (Dominic West) was rather pointless, though. They should have developed a little more of an emotional connection between her and her students to make the ending convincing. I wish that Kirsten Dunst’s Betty didn’t have to see her marriage fail before trying to fulfill her potential. I think it was nice, if redundant, that Julia Stiles’ Joan decided that being a housewife was her thing. It’s not like being a wife and mother has ever been vilified in this society. So I liked it. It’s not going to change my life or anything, but it was a nice way to spend an evening.
Some poor ignorant reviewer on imdb.com wrote that “this film makes an honest attempt to capture the culture of an elite all women's college in the mid-50s.” With my newfound authority I can say, yeah right. The producers of the movie made a very conscious portrayal of Wellesley as something it is not. If they’d showed Wellesley as it was, they wouldn’t have had a film. We’re talking about Hollywood after all. Reality is not particularly important there. But it’s nice to be able to tell the difference.
NOTE: Spoilers Ahead
I’ll come clean: I’m no critic. Yes, I’ve had my share of reviews published. I panned “Primal Fear” and “Showgirls” back in the day. I can probably tell a good film the same as anyone else. But I’ve never been able to be that observant about the minutiae—the glass of water that has more liquid than before, the open window where there wasn’t one before. I had always been amazed at the level of detail movies deal with successfully and how they become seamless pieces of work.
Last night I went to the Chicago area premiere of “Mona Lisa Smile.” In fact, I was the guest speaker, since I’m an alum of Wellesley College, the school featured in the movie (and because I was willing to help my favorite charity out at the last minute). It’s a place I know intimately. I can tell you that the exteriors of the school were indeed filmed at Wellesley. The lake, the carillon tower, the academic buildings, the pathways—all Wellesley. The interiors, on the other hand, do not exist at Wellesley. Most of those large classrooms and staircases in the film wouldn’t fit into our small, lovely buildings. When a character enters a door, suddenly she’s at Columbia Univerisity in New York instead of Massachusetts.
On a more substantive level, I know this. The producers of the movie have changed the entire character of my alma mater to make their movie work. Wellesley College has never been, and will never be, anything akin to a finishing school (whatever that is). When it was founded in 1870 by Henry Fowler Durant and his wife Pauline, it was always meant to be an institute of higher education that would help women become the leaders of tomorrow. At no period in its existence has Wellesley been a mere meeting ground/waiting area for students to meet men and get married. In 1955, just a couple of years after the movie takes place, a woman named Madeleine Albright became a student.
The motto of Wellesley is “Non Ministrari Sed Ministrare”—not to be served, but to serve. It’s a motto that I have always taken to mean “Don’t just sit there; go out and do things.” You’ll find that other alums, from all eras, have translated the motto to mean the same. And we live by it. Including alums like Hillary Rodham Clinton, Diane Sawyer and Cokie Roberts.
Here’s an example of what I’m talking about. In one scene, Julia Roberts’ character Katherine Watson is talking with the president. She says that half the women of Wellesley are married and the other half probably will be within a month. I’ve discussed this with the public information office at Wellesley; this statistic is way off base. Only a few women were married at Wellesley in 1953. I can also tell you, as an alum myself, that the campus is rather isolated from public transportation and there are very few students who live off campus even today. It’s just too inconvenient. Boston is 13 miles away.
These are things I know because I went to Wellesley (and Columbia, later on). No longer does the film seem so unified to me. I get it now. I understand how Hollywood manipulates me. I can see where they modified the truth for dramatic effect. I know where they cut scenes. I know where they took liberties. I can tell what they were trying to do. Eureka! I can tell the difference between movie reality and my reality. I can watch it and say, “They made this part up for the masses.” It’s a heady feeling. I can actually look at almost every scene and tell what’s fiction and what’s not.
Oh, the movie? It’s cute. I’ve never been a big fan of Julia Roberts and have trouble seeing her as “subversive”—an idea they really hit you over the head with—but she did okay. I think her romance with Bill Dunbar (Dominic West) was rather pointless, though. They should have developed a little more of an emotional connection between her and her students to make the ending convincing. I wish that Kirsten Dunst’s Betty didn’t have to see her marriage fail before trying to fulfill her potential. I think it was nice, if redundant, that Julia Stiles’ Joan decided that being a housewife was her thing. It’s not like being a wife and mother has ever been vilified in this society. So I liked it. It’s not going to change my life or anything, but it was a nice way to spend an evening.
Some poor ignorant reviewer on imdb.com wrote that “this film makes an honest attempt to capture the culture of an elite all women's college in the mid-50s.” With my newfound authority I can say, yeah right. The producers of the movie made a very conscious portrayal of Wellesley as something it is not. If they’d showed Wellesley as it was, they wouldn’t have had a film. We’re talking about Hollywood after all. Reality is not particularly important there. But it’s nice to be able to tell the difference.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Holiday Blues (Or, How to Completely Offend Your Mother-in-Law)
Does everyone get stressed around the holiday? I was originally considering writing about Madonna's children's book The English Roses. I haven't read the sequel, but this book is asinine. And if you remove the last five letters of my description and add an "s" it's even more accurate. The basic moral: "Be nice to the beautiful people." Only a celebrity could get this kind of self-indulgent idiocy published.
Anyway, this topic has been trumped by my family woes this Christmas. My husband and I have been effectively barred from the family celebration of the holiday because we had hoped for a less work-intensive day. A get-together, with appetizers (perhaps brie with cranberries and walnuts, a couple of pies, that sort of thing) and hot cider and hot chocolate, to talk and exchange gifts. At our place, because no one else's was convenient. But no. Let me explain.
I'm a dog-walker, so I have to work. People who go out of town entrust their animals to my care, and animals don't care if it's a holiday, they still have to poop. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has to work on Christmas. And in fact, this is one of my busiest times of the year. So yes, I'd prefer a little less of a production, especially since we did an 11-head Thanksgiving dinner completely made from scratch this year.
My mother-in-law, who thinks I'm a freak of nature because I'm Chinese, insists on doing the whole big turkey dinner again. Otherwise, it's not Christmas. She refuses to compromise with us and instead insists on completely twisting and misunderstanding our complaints. Not taking into account the hectic schedules my husband and I are dealing with this time of the year, or our wishes for a quieter holiday, she's pushing a "traditional" Christmas that no one wants except her.
To me and my husband, Christmas has always been more about a vacation you spend with family than a holiday where you buy gifts for each other. We're not particularly religious so we don't celebrate the day as the birth of Christ. But we do appreciate the chance to see our families and the time off. We put up Christmas trees (but not every year) and decorations. We have a fiber-optic snowman, lights all over the house, candles and everything. We have our own traditions (new because we've only been married a few years). We open one gift on Christmas eve and the rest the next morning. We like to go out to the movies on Christmas day. Maybe we're in the minority. Maybe everyone else in America does it my mother-in-law's way, with the big, fat, bloated Christmas dinner. I only know my own experience. And perhaps my Chinese family didn't do the typical American thing--we had fish dishes as well as a turkey, for example. Or we went out to eat. That didn't make holidays any less enjoyable for me. But my mother-in-law was shocked and offended to hear such a thing.
On past Christmases, we have had these huge, bland dinners with lots of food no one can eat, and we spend it with my mother-in-law's Not-Boyfriend and his son. This is another bone of contention. The NB and his son have nothing to do with us. We have little respect for him because of the way he treats my mother-in-law--I wouldn't even treat a stranger that badly. He's ignorant, little-minded, mean and gross. He wouldn't drive my mother-in-law to the doctor when her right foot was broken and her windshield wipers inoperable in the middle of an icy winter when it was snowing. For the record, he was home and watching TV.
Can you blame us for not wanting to spend time with this man? Well, it doesn't matter now. We had already decided to let my mother-in-law do it her way, because neither of us wanted to fight with her. We were even going to let her use our house to do the cooking since I'm working. Then, she called, told us she'd moved Christmas dinner to the NB's house and disinvited us to the celebration because clearly, we don't want to celebrate at all. The damage is done. Now my husband and I are the Source Of All Contention in the family.
What can we do? We'll have a nice dinner ourselves. Maybe we'll go to Chinatown and the Brookfield Zoo. We'll go see a movie, like we always do. We'll be sad not to spend the day with family. But you see, it wasn't our decision. I hope my mother-in-law has a nice traditional Christmas without us. I guess her tradition means the meal is more important than family.
Does everyone get stressed around the holiday? I was originally considering writing about Madonna's children's book The English Roses. I haven't read the sequel, but this book is asinine. And if you remove the last five letters of my description and add an "s" it's even more accurate. The basic moral: "Be nice to the beautiful people." Only a celebrity could get this kind of self-indulgent idiocy published.
Anyway, this topic has been trumped by my family woes this Christmas. My husband and I have been effectively barred from the family celebration of the holiday because we had hoped for a less work-intensive day. A get-together, with appetizers (perhaps brie with cranberries and walnuts, a couple of pies, that sort of thing) and hot cider and hot chocolate, to talk and exchange gifts. At our place, because no one else's was convenient. But no. Let me explain.
I'm a dog-walker, so I have to work. People who go out of town entrust their animals to my care, and animals don't care if it's a holiday, they still have to poop. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has to work on Christmas. And in fact, this is one of my busiest times of the year. So yes, I'd prefer a little less of a production, especially since we did an 11-head Thanksgiving dinner completely made from scratch this year.
My mother-in-law, who thinks I'm a freak of nature because I'm Chinese, insists on doing the whole big turkey dinner again. Otherwise, it's not Christmas. She refuses to compromise with us and instead insists on completely twisting and misunderstanding our complaints. Not taking into account the hectic schedules my husband and I are dealing with this time of the year, or our wishes for a quieter holiday, she's pushing a "traditional" Christmas that no one wants except her.
To me and my husband, Christmas has always been more about a vacation you spend with family than a holiday where you buy gifts for each other. We're not particularly religious so we don't celebrate the day as the birth of Christ. But we do appreciate the chance to see our families and the time off. We put up Christmas trees (but not every year) and decorations. We have a fiber-optic snowman, lights all over the house, candles and everything. We have our own traditions (new because we've only been married a few years). We open one gift on Christmas eve and the rest the next morning. We like to go out to the movies on Christmas day. Maybe we're in the minority. Maybe everyone else in America does it my mother-in-law's way, with the big, fat, bloated Christmas dinner. I only know my own experience. And perhaps my Chinese family didn't do the typical American thing--we had fish dishes as well as a turkey, for example. Or we went out to eat. That didn't make holidays any less enjoyable for me. But my mother-in-law was shocked and offended to hear such a thing.
On past Christmases, we have had these huge, bland dinners with lots of food no one can eat, and we spend it with my mother-in-law's Not-Boyfriend and his son. This is another bone of contention. The NB and his son have nothing to do with us. We have little respect for him because of the way he treats my mother-in-law--I wouldn't even treat a stranger that badly. He's ignorant, little-minded, mean and gross. He wouldn't drive my mother-in-law to the doctor when her right foot was broken and her windshield wipers inoperable in the middle of an icy winter when it was snowing. For the record, he was home and watching TV.
Can you blame us for not wanting to spend time with this man? Well, it doesn't matter now. We had already decided to let my mother-in-law do it her way, because neither of us wanted to fight with her. We were even going to let her use our house to do the cooking since I'm working. Then, she called, told us she'd moved Christmas dinner to the NB's house and disinvited us to the celebration because clearly, we don't want to celebrate at all. The damage is done. Now my husband and I are the Source Of All Contention in the family.
What can we do? We'll have a nice dinner ourselves. Maybe we'll go to Chinatown and the Brookfield Zoo. We'll go see a movie, like we always do. We'll be sad not to spend the day with family. But you see, it wasn't our decision. I hope my mother-in-law has a nice traditional Christmas without us. I guess her tradition means the meal is more important than family.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
The Joys of Retro TV
I used to love TV. I watched “Charlie’s Angels,” “CHiPs,” “Riptide,” “Remington Steele,” “Family Ties,” “Growing Pains,” “BJ and the Bear,” “Wonder Woman,” “Dallas”—anything and everything that was on. I watched three or four hours of TV a day all during my childhood and adolescence. Whether it was “She-Ra” the cartoon or “The Bionic Woman,” I was there.
Then I grew up and became an entertainment journalist. I was so excited about the idea of interviewing my favorite stars, and finding out about what made them tick. For about five years. Then I started to get disillusioned. The thing is, Hollywood isn’t exactly designed to cater to regular people like me. I’m not a star, therefore I’m not worthy. I interviewed Ernest Borgnine, who worked really hard to get where he is today. I interviewed Arista pop stars, who didn’t. I found that fame, and money, and the celebrity lifestyle, seemed more important to young would-be stars than craft or talent. I found that the same held true for “regular” people like me. You want proof? Exhibit A. The advent of reality TV. What are those people seeking? Their 15 minutes of fame. Tell me I’m wrong.
I stopped watching TV. I found family dramas boring and pedantic. I found “teen” shows patronizing and mostly insulting. Cop dramas? Get a sense of humor, people. Comedies? Unfunny. Kids’ shows? Well, actually, I still liked those. “Blue’s Clues” is a welcome tonic to the melodramatic sophistication of shows like “24.” Reality TV? Please.
And we really are much more sophisticated TV watchers than we used to be. Today’s dramas are so gripping compared to the cheesiness of shows like “Dynasty” back in the early '80s. Or even “Knight Rider.” Those episodes had plot holes you could drive through. We’d never buy such a silly show today. Look at “Alias” in comparison. Here’s a show with a sexy female heroine who actually does kick butt, and the plot twists are so fast and furious it’s hard to keep up. “Knight Rider” wrapped every adventure into a tidy, hour-long package. The people were beautiful, there was no torture, not much angst, good and evil were black and white—just pure fun with a cool car and a tall man. “Alias” has no such parameters. Torture is normal, killing is fine, and it’s hard to know who’s good and who’s bad sometimes. The main character is a beautiful woman instead of a macho guy. One hour isn’t enough to contain all the action and drama. We’ve grown so much in twenty years.
And yet. Now that it’s been a few years since I had to deal with Hollywood types, I am starting to watch TV again. But I’m not turning to the big networks for my TV fix now. I’m back to watching a couple of hours a day, but I’m happily absorbing reruns of “The A-Team,” “Knight Rider,” “Family Ties” and even “Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.” “The Twilight Zone,” “Battlestar Galactica,” “Scarecrow & Mrs. King.” Instead of the crap that’s on primetime. “Everybody Loves Raymond?” Not me.
These days, I prefer the older shows, with clear-cut moralities and predictable storylines. They’re silly, a little idiotic and carry stereotypes we’ve finally (more or less) abolished—but they have charm. They remind me of a time when I loved TV, and the characters were so real to me that I imagined the folks on “Diff’rent Strokes?” were actually a family in real life. They remind me of how I looked up to the women, like Sheba on “Battlestar Galactica,” and kept hoping they’d trounce the men. Maybe Jennifer Garner’s character is a better role model for girls today—but back in the ‘70s when women weren’t quite so equal I could feel righteously annoyed the third time in three weeks that Sheba got hypnotized or taken in by the bad guy.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the brooding mystery of “The X-Files” or the excitement of a sweeps episode of “Law and Order.” It’s just that I want a little bit of happy-ending simplicity in my very hectic life. Is that so wrong?
I used to love TV. I watched “Charlie’s Angels,” “CHiPs,” “Riptide,” “Remington Steele,” “Family Ties,” “Growing Pains,” “BJ and the Bear,” “Wonder Woman,” “Dallas”—anything and everything that was on. I watched three or four hours of TV a day all during my childhood and adolescence. Whether it was “She-Ra” the cartoon or “The Bionic Woman,” I was there.
Then I grew up and became an entertainment journalist. I was so excited about the idea of interviewing my favorite stars, and finding out about what made them tick. For about five years. Then I started to get disillusioned. The thing is, Hollywood isn’t exactly designed to cater to regular people like me. I’m not a star, therefore I’m not worthy. I interviewed Ernest Borgnine, who worked really hard to get where he is today. I interviewed Arista pop stars, who didn’t. I found that fame, and money, and the celebrity lifestyle, seemed more important to young would-be stars than craft or talent. I found that the same held true for “regular” people like me. You want proof? Exhibit A. The advent of reality TV. What are those people seeking? Their 15 minutes of fame. Tell me I’m wrong.
I stopped watching TV. I found family dramas boring and pedantic. I found “teen” shows patronizing and mostly insulting. Cop dramas? Get a sense of humor, people. Comedies? Unfunny. Kids’ shows? Well, actually, I still liked those. “Blue’s Clues” is a welcome tonic to the melodramatic sophistication of shows like “24.” Reality TV? Please.
And we really are much more sophisticated TV watchers than we used to be. Today’s dramas are so gripping compared to the cheesiness of shows like “Dynasty” back in the early '80s. Or even “Knight Rider.” Those episodes had plot holes you could drive through. We’d never buy such a silly show today. Look at “Alias” in comparison. Here’s a show with a sexy female heroine who actually does kick butt, and the plot twists are so fast and furious it’s hard to keep up. “Knight Rider” wrapped every adventure into a tidy, hour-long package. The people were beautiful, there was no torture, not much angst, good and evil were black and white—just pure fun with a cool car and a tall man. “Alias” has no such parameters. Torture is normal, killing is fine, and it’s hard to know who’s good and who’s bad sometimes. The main character is a beautiful woman instead of a macho guy. One hour isn’t enough to contain all the action and drama. We’ve grown so much in twenty years.
And yet. Now that it’s been a few years since I had to deal with Hollywood types, I am starting to watch TV again. But I’m not turning to the big networks for my TV fix now. I’m back to watching a couple of hours a day, but I’m happily absorbing reruns of “The A-Team,” “Knight Rider,” “Family Ties” and even “Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.” “The Twilight Zone,” “Battlestar Galactica,” “Scarecrow & Mrs. King.” Instead of the crap that’s on primetime. “Everybody Loves Raymond?” Not me.
These days, I prefer the older shows, with clear-cut moralities and predictable storylines. They’re silly, a little idiotic and carry stereotypes we’ve finally (more or less) abolished—but they have charm. They remind me of a time when I loved TV, and the characters were so real to me that I imagined the folks on “Diff’rent Strokes?” were actually a family in real life. They remind me of how I looked up to the women, like Sheba on “Battlestar Galactica,” and kept hoping they’d trounce the men. Maybe Jennifer Garner’s character is a better role model for girls today—but back in the ‘70s when women weren’t quite so equal I could feel righteously annoyed the third time in three weeks that Sheba got hypnotized or taken in by the bad guy.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the brooding mystery of “The X-Files” or the excitement of a sweeps episode of “Law and Order.” It’s just that I want a little bit of happy-ending simplicity in my very hectic life. Is that so wrong?
Monday, December 15, 2003
We're All Paris Hilton? Oh, Please.
I read this editorial the other day on the online edition of Fortune that rather disgusted me. Okay, I admit that what this guy says rings true. I can't deny that our culture is becoming more commercial--I've said it myself in this very blog. I'm not particularly an optimist (I quote Doctor Who here--"Optimism is the belief, bordering on the insane, that everything will work out well"). The acquisitive madness the Fortune column refers to is all around us. I see perfectly good houses being torn down right here in Chicagoland so that larger ones can go up. I see better, bigger gifts being the focus of Christmas. I see that we're buying digital cameras, technological gadgets, bigger TVs, bigger everything. That we're fascinated by those who "have it all" is also not arguable. Paris Hilton has nothing but looks and money, and she's absolutely fascinating to some for that reason.
The thing is, even though I agree with this guy on these points, I still think comparing us to Paris Hilton is lower than we deserve. Here's a girl who doesn't know how to do anything, whose common sense is absolutely nil, who cares more about her clothes than the people who work in this country making the things she uses. She doesn't have an original idea in her blonde little head, and she's done absolutely nothing of note. Her life is one big party after another. Her friends are about the same. Sure, compare our spending habits to hers, even our attitudes about the rich--but please, please, don't imply that her ideas and her morals and her feelings are anything close to ours.
I'd like to make this distinction, since the Fortune columnist did not. The things I value in a person are things I like to think most of my fellow humans value: integrity, honesty, strength, industry, knowledge, openness, common sense, independence and tolerance. Notice that list doesn't include: knowledge of designers; invites to the best parties; rubbing elbows with celebrities; fascination with the media; lots and lots of money.
Let's break this down so you can see why comparing us to Paris is a big, fat insult:
Integrity: She sold herself out on a reality TV show.
Honesty: Well, she's supposed to be playing herself. But I read an interview where she admitted that she didn't exactly stay true to herself. For entertainment value, you understand.
Industry: Tell me where Paris has worked, ever?
Knowledge: I don't know about you, but I don't think she comes off as extremely intelligent.
Openness: She's got none of that. If she did, she wouldn't be a celebrity.
Common sense: She's got none of that. If she did, she wouldn't be a celebrity (perhaps you've realized that I don't have a very high opinion of celebrity).
Independence: Yeah, right. If she can survive in my world, I'll eat my hat. Note: my world is not particularly rough. It just involves cooking for myself and working for a living.
Tolerance: Oh, this one she does well on. She has great tolerance for all of us peons who live to serve/adore her.
Okay, I've just realized I'm spending way too much time on a person I don't care about. My point is, this is a person about which very little that is admirable can be said. Maybe I don't have the highest opinion of human nature, but telling us all that we're like this little rich girl is a bit out of line. I like to think that we, as a country, are better than that.
I may be wrong.
I read this editorial the other day on the online edition of Fortune that rather disgusted me. Okay, I admit that what this guy says rings true. I can't deny that our culture is becoming more commercial--I've said it myself in this very blog. I'm not particularly an optimist (I quote Doctor Who here--"Optimism is the belief, bordering on the insane, that everything will work out well"). The acquisitive madness the Fortune column refers to is all around us. I see perfectly good houses being torn down right here in Chicagoland so that larger ones can go up. I see better, bigger gifts being the focus of Christmas. I see that we're buying digital cameras, technological gadgets, bigger TVs, bigger everything. That we're fascinated by those who "have it all" is also not arguable. Paris Hilton has nothing but looks and money, and she's absolutely fascinating to some for that reason.
The thing is, even though I agree with this guy on these points, I still think comparing us to Paris Hilton is lower than we deserve. Here's a girl who doesn't know how to do anything, whose common sense is absolutely nil, who cares more about her clothes than the people who work in this country making the things she uses. She doesn't have an original idea in her blonde little head, and she's done absolutely nothing of note. Her life is one big party after another. Her friends are about the same. Sure, compare our spending habits to hers, even our attitudes about the rich--but please, please, don't imply that her ideas and her morals and her feelings are anything close to ours.
I'd like to make this distinction, since the Fortune columnist did not. The things I value in a person are things I like to think most of my fellow humans value: integrity, honesty, strength, industry, knowledge, openness, common sense, independence and tolerance. Notice that list doesn't include: knowledge of designers; invites to the best parties; rubbing elbows with celebrities; fascination with the media; lots and lots of money.
Let's break this down so you can see why comparing us to Paris is a big, fat insult:
Integrity: She sold herself out on a reality TV show.
Honesty: Well, she's supposed to be playing herself. But I read an interview where she admitted that she didn't exactly stay true to herself. For entertainment value, you understand.
Industry: Tell me where Paris has worked, ever?
Knowledge: I don't know about you, but I don't think she comes off as extremely intelligent.
Openness: She's got none of that. If she did, she wouldn't be a celebrity.
Common sense: She's got none of that. If she did, she wouldn't be a celebrity (perhaps you've realized that I don't have a very high opinion of celebrity).
Independence: Yeah, right. If she can survive in my world, I'll eat my hat. Note: my world is not particularly rough. It just involves cooking for myself and working for a living.
Tolerance: Oh, this one she does well on. She has great tolerance for all of us peons who live to serve/adore her.
Okay, I've just realized I'm spending way too much time on a person I don't care about. My point is, this is a person about which very little that is admirable can be said. Maybe I don't have the highest opinion of human nature, but telling us all that we're like this little rich girl is a bit out of line. I like to think that we, as a country, are better than that.
I may be wrong.
Friday, December 12, 2003
David Sedaris Rules the Holidays
When my friend first gave me a copy of David Sedaris'Barrel Fever, I let it sit around for a few years before I even picked it up to read it. I really don't like short stories, especially the ones that have been published in The New Yorker with some cryptic ending that I don't understand. I'm not particularly stupid, but those short stories make me feel like I'm five years old trying to make sense of the world around me. Because I simply don't get it. I figured this would be the same.
Then, one fateful day last year, I discovered David Sedaris. You see, I own a dog-walking business. This means I spend a lot of my time driving around to people's homes. In order to keep myself from being bored in the car, I listen to a lot of music and a lot of news. Especially NPR. That day, they were airing a reading of "Season's Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!" I heard the beginning, and I heard the end, but I had to walk a dog in between. But when I heard the author's name I thought perhaps I had a copy of this story--and I did. Joy! And after that, of course, I had to read "The SantaLand Diaries." Well, those were so good I read the other stories and essays, too.
So I started a new holiday tradition. Along with watching "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" and "A Wonderful Life," I now pick up the slim volume Holidays On Ice. I enjoy it alone, but I'm planning to get copies for all my friends who have not yet discovered the acerbic wit and insight of this writer.
It isn't just that David Sedaris is funny, with a writing style that's cunning and sharp. It's also the way he looks at the dark, slightly twisted and human side of the holiday. I'm inclined toward that anyway, so it just makes me happy. You have to laugh out loud at the way the characters in his short stories spiral out of control. And in his essays, which I like the best, he just does such a great job observing and telling the stories that shaped his writing. It's a nice antidote to the saccharine Christmas specials they show this time of year, the feel-good movies and TV shows that sometimes make me want to throw up more than anything else.
In other words, it's the perfect way to put me into the holiday spirit.
When my friend first gave me a copy of David Sedaris'Barrel Fever, I let it sit around for a few years before I even picked it up to read it. I really don't like short stories, especially the ones that have been published in The New Yorker with some cryptic ending that I don't understand. I'm not particularly stupid, but those short stories make me feel like I'm five years old trying to make sense of the world around me. Because I simply don't get it. I figured this would be the same.
Then, one fateful day last year, I discovered David Sedaris. You see, I own a dog-walking business. This means I spend a lot of my time driving around to people's homes. In order to keep myself from being bored in the car, I listen to a lot of music and a lot of news. Especially NPR. That day, they were airing a reading of "Season's Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!" I heard the beginning, and I heard the end, but I had to walk a dog in between. But when I heard the author's name I thought perhaps I had a copy of this story--and I did. Joy! And after that, of course, I had to read "The SantaLand Diaries." Well, those were so good I read the other stories and essays, too.
So I started a new holiday tradition. Along with watching "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" and "A Wonderful Life," I now pick up the slim volume Holidays On Ice. I enjoy it alone, but I'm planning to get copies for all my friends who have not yet discovered the acerbic wit and insight of this writer.
It isn't just that David Sedaris is funny, with a writing style that's cunning and sharp. It's also the way he looks at the dark, slightly twisted and human side of the holiday. I'm inclined toward that anyway, so it just makes me happy. You have to laugh out loud at the way the characters in his short stories spiral out of control. And in his essays, which I like the best, he just does such a great job observing and telling the stories that shaped his writing. It's a nice antidote to the saccharine Christmas specials they show this time of year, the feel-good movies and TV shows that sometimes make me want to throw up more than anything else.
In other words, it's the perfect way to put me into the holiday spirit.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Not That Anyone Cares What I Think About...The New "Battlestar Galactica"
The reason I waxed long about my love for "Battlestar Galactica" a few days ago is because I wanted people to know that, well, I wasn't going to accept tinkering with the formula. Scifi Channel's "re-imagining" of the show seemed to be taking everything that's wrong about sci-fi actioners today and putting them all into one show with a familiar name. Starbuck, a woman? Boomer, also a woman? Adama's family, disfunctional? Come on! What good could come of this? Sexy Cylons? It's just wrong.
But let's face it. I loved the idea of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" when purists were all mad that Paramount would (gasp) dare to redo the classic TV show back in the late '80s. And there is so little good sci-fi TV out there that I'm starving for it. And so here's my verdict on the new "Battlestar Galactica" that the Scifi Channel aired this week: It totally rocked.
Yes, it rocked. There are some bits I didn't like. I'm still not sold on the sexy Cylon bit--red dress, sex right there on the bridge (sort of), seduction as a weapon. Yuck. Enough, already. There was a lot of emotional impact to the story, but I thought they could have put a little more punch into the actual genocide. You never saw anything bad happening on the ground except some news broadcasts going dark. What about the Cylon fleet? Why couldn't we see it? I think the new version missed a few dramatic possibilities there. There was more of an emotional focus on leaving 20 ships behind than on the death of millions of people, which I always thought was one of the truly moving and devastating events of the series. The Starbuck character is a little too much of a hard-ass, and there were some other things that didn't ring so true to me.
But, having said that--the ending was totally perfect. I won't give it away, but it was only after the fact that I started to think about the small things that hinted at this big revelation. And the way the new BG was made was enough for me to look at the show as its own entity, not as a ruined "Battlestar Galactica" remake. Which was exactly what I was hoping. The effects were very nice, creating exactly the kind of fantastic vision that I hope for in a good science fiction tale. Loved the way the vipers moved, and the daring stunt Starbuck pulled to get Apollo's broken ship back into the landing bay. The characters were engaging, the conflict definitely makes me want to watch future episodes--if there are any. Even the question of Baltar's sanity was rather interesting. I liked the cliffhangers, and I want more.
So, Scifi Channel. If my opinion matters one bit, I'd say, bring it on. I want to see more of the new "Battlestar Galactica."
The reason I waxed long about my love for "Battlestar Galactica" a few days ago is because I wanted people to know that, well, I wasn't going to accept tinkering with the formula. Scifi Channel's "re-imagining" of the show seemed to be taking everything that's wrong about sci-fi actioners today and putting them all into one show with a familiar name. Starbuck, a woman? Boomer, also a woman? Adama's family, disfunctional? Come on! What good could come of this? Sexy Cylons? It's just wrong.
But let's face it. I loved the idea of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" when purists were all mad that Paramount would (gasp) dare to redo the classic TV show back in the late '80s. And there is so little good sci-fi TV out there that I'm starving for it. And so here's my verdict on the new "Battlestar Galactica" that the Scifi Channel aired this week: It totally rocked.
Yes, it rocked. There are some bits I didn't like. I'm still not sold on the sexy Cylon bit--red dress, sex right there on the bridge (sort of), seduction as a weapon. Yuck. Enough, already. There was a lot of emotional impact to the story, but I thought they could have put a little more punch into the actual genocide. You never saw anything bad happening on the ground except some news broadcasts going dark. What about the Cylon fleet? Why couldn't we see it? I think the new version missed a few dramatic possibilities there. There was more of an emotional focus on leaving 20 ships behind than on the death of millions of people, which I always thought was one of the truly moving and devastating events of the series. The Starbuck character is a little too much of a hard-ass, and there were some other things that didn't ring so true to me.
But, having said that--the ending was totally perfect. I won't give it away, but it was only after the fact that I started to think about the small things that hinted at this big revelation. And the way the new BG was made was enough for me to look at the show as its own entity, not as a ruined "Battlestar Galactica" remake. Which was exactly what I was hoping. The effects were very nice, creating exactly the kind of fantastic vision that I hope for in a good science fiction tale. Loved the way the vipers moved, and the daring stunt Starbuck pulled to get Apollo's broken ship back into the landing bay. The characters were engaging, the conflict definitely makes me want to watch future episodes--if there are any. Even the question of Baltar's sanity was rather interesting. I liked the cliffhangers, and I want more.
So, Scifi Channel. If my opinion matters one bit, I'd say, bring it on. I want to see more of the new "Battlestar Galactica."
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
We Interrupt This Regularly-Scheduled Blog...
to bring you a top ten list. It's rainy and crappy out, and I'm soaked through from walking dogs in the freezing rain, so I'm giving myself a break. Did I mention that my day (and night, and weekend, and holiday) job is sitting for pampered pets?
Top Ten Gifts I'd Like for Christmas
10. World peace. I won't even get started on how much I hate this thing with Iraq.
9. A new president. I don't care how well the economy does, George W. is still a horrible, horrible man. Horrible. Did I mention, he's horrible? By the way, so I don't get accused of defaming him with a personal attack--what I mean to say is, his administration is horrible.
8. A stuffed puppy dog from Lord & Taylor. I'll hug him and love him and call him George. Well, George Jr., actually, since I already have a cat named George. Or maybe it'll be a girl dog, since girls are cooler anyway.
7. Recognition by the U.S. public that soccer is actually pretty cool. What's wrong with us Americans, that we can't get into a sport the rest of the world thinks is awesome? See, there's this conspiracy among sports writers, who feel as though they must put down soccer in order to boost our own crappy American sport, football.
6. A super-heated thermal Smart Suit, that will allow me to walk dogs in the middle of a bitter Chicago winter without getting frozen and miserable. Don't tell me this sort of invention is impossible. If we can make nuclear weapons and clone sheep, surely we can heat our clothing. Why haven't we figured out how to control the weather again?
5. Ann Coulter's head on a silver tray. Okay, I'm kidding. I'm not bloodthirsty. I just don't understand why she has all this anger towards liberals like me. I've never even met her. Did some mean registered Democrat kick her dog or something when she was five? What could cause her to be so repressed and hateful?
4. A really good TV sitcom. You know how, when they advertise half-hour comedies on the networks, they show us a bit from the show and expect us to say, "Wow, that was really funny. I think I'll watch that show tonight"? I've seen tons of these ads. The problem is, the bit they pick is NEVER funny. I'd like to see a sitcom that was actually hilarious and innovative without humiliating women, or Hispanics, or African-Americans, or the actors on the show.
3. A brand new car. Well, why not? As long as I'm dreaming. Let's say, a BMW. Or a Honda CR-V.
2. "My Neighbor Totoro." That's the cutest movie of all time. And you don't even have to put money into Disney's pocket when you buy it. I think. At least, not directly. I'm just making the assumption here that Disney controls everything. I'm not far from wrong, am I?
1. Stuff. Everyone could use more stuff, couldn't they? Our capitalist system runs on the idea that we always need more Stuff. Without Stuff, we wouldn't buy anything and our economy would be down the drain again. Without Stuff, we couldn't clothe our children, abuse drugs and alcohol or read Jane Austen (which I do quite often). So, my motto is, Stuff is good.
to bring you a top ten list. It's rainy and crappy out, and I'm soaked through from walking dogs in the freezing rain, so I'm giving myself a break. Did I mention that my day (and night, and weekend, and holiday) job is sitting for pampered pets?
Top Ten Gifts I'd Like for Christmas
10. World peace. I won't even get started on how much I hate this thing with Iraq.
9. A new president. I don't care how well the economy does, George W. is still a horrible, horrible man. Horrible. Did I mention, he's horrible? By the way, so I don't get accused of defaming him with a personal attack--what I mean to say is, his administration is horrible.
8. A stuffed puppy dog from Lord & Taylor. I'll hug him and love him and call him George. Well, George Jr., actually, since I already have a cat named George. Or maybe it'll be a girl dog, since girls are cooler anyway.
7. Recognition by the U.S. public that soccer is actually pretty cool. What's wrong with us Americans, that we can't get into a sport the rest of the world thinks is awesome? See, there's this conspiracy among sports writers, who feel as though they must put down soccer in order to boost our own crappy American sport, football.
6. A super-heated thermal Smart Suit, that will allow me to walk dogs in the middle of a bitter Chicago winter without getting frozen and miserable. Don't tell me this sort of invention is impossible. If we can make nuclear weapons and clone sheep, surely we can heat our clothing. Why haven't we figured out how to control the weather again?
5. Ann Coulter's head on a silver tray. Okay, I'm kidding. I'm not bloodthirsty. I just don't understand why she has all this anger towards liberals like me. I've never even met her. Did some mean registered Democrat kick her dog or something when she was five? What could cause her to be so repressed and hateful?
4. A really good TV sitcom. You know how, when they advertise half-hour comedies on the networks, they show us a bit from the show and expect us to say, "Wow, that was really funny. I think I'll watch that show tonight"? I've seen tons of these ads. The problem is, the bit they pick is NEVER funny. I'd like to see a sitcom that was actually hilarious and innovative without humiliating women, or Hispanics, or African-Americans, or the actors on the show.
3. A brand new car. Well, why not? As long as I'm dreaming. Let's say, a BMW. Or a Honda CR-V.
2. "My Neighbor Totoro." That's the cutest movie of all time. And you don't even have to put money into Disney's pocket when you buy it. I think. At least, not directly. I'm just making the assumption here that Disney controls everything. I'm not far from wrong, am I?
1. Stuff. Everyone could use more stuff, couldn't they? Our capitalist system runs on the idea that we always need more Stuff. Without Stuff, we wouldn't buy anything and our economy would be down the drain again. Without Stuff, we couldn't clothe our children, abuse drugs and alcohol or read Jane Austen (which I do quite often). So, my motto is, Stuff is good.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Growing Up with "Battlestar Galactica"
I don't think most people truly understand the depth of love many people have for science fiction--even for bad science fiction (the bad stuff is often called sci-fi; the good stuff is SF). There's so much imagination, so much wonder and innovation. So many amazing stories to tell. I think what many people don't get is that SF is all about people. You can't tell a good SF story without revealing the most vital, intimate workings of humanity. So I crave science fiction; there just isn't enough of it out there. I have craved it ever since I saw "Star Wars" when I was six and then, later on, a little show called "Battlestar Galactica."
I believe I was nine when I first saw BG and I wasn't very critical at that age. All I remember about that time was Sunday nights, sitting in front of the tube watching Baltar on his pedestal give orders to a disco guy in a sparkling robe with a glass head. I had a little coloring book, too. I thought Starbuck was so cool, and brooding Apollo was awesome too. My favorite character was Sheba, the female pilot who could hold her own with the guys. I was a small girl looking for female role models in my favorite shows, which were all about action. Back then girls didn't get to kick butt quite so much as they do today, but Sheba came close (okay, she did get hypnotized and rescued a lot, and she didn't get to play triad). She's still my favorite.
I was nine a long time ago. Fortunately, both BG and "Buck Rogers" were syndicated in a block every Saturday afternoon throughout my entire childhood and adolescence, on channel 41 in Kansas City. Of course, they kept changing the times on me every half-year or so. Sometimes the block would start at 1 p.m., sometimes at 4 p.m., sometimes at 2 p.m. and they'd switch the order. Didn't matter. If I was home, I'd be watching both shows no matter how often I'd seen every episode before. I may have seen every episode of both shows at least seven or eight times. I don't remember why I stopped watching--if they stopped showing it, or I went off to college, or what. But the fact is, BG was always hovering in the background of my developmental years.
Later, it was the Sci-Fi channel I turned to to get my BG fix, but this didn't always work. Sometimes they'd let the show lapse for months and then run a marathon during some holiday. By this time I'd recorded some select episodes, like the last episode and the two-paters. Now, I've got the DVD and am discovering bits I've only seen a few times, or never--because different networks edited episodes differently.
Why do I love this show? Okay, not every episode is great. In fact, some in retrospect pretty much sucked. But the story is so amazingly epic and unforgettable. It brings in rich elements of religion, of hope, of faith, of the kind of camraderie you can only get when you've gone through something totally devastating. The Cylons kill most of the people on 12 entire worlds, and of the survivors only a few can make it into space and the protection of the last surviving battlestar. They set out on a crazy search for a mythical planet--Earth. What will they find when they get there, if they ever do?
The characters, too, were so much fun. Apollo, whose wife died in the first few episodes and who spent the rest of the series trying to kill himself so he could join her (okay, this is a bit simplistic). Starbuck, the hard-drinking, hard-womanizing flamboyant pilot whose buddy-buddy partnership with Apollo formed a strong and fascinating emotional core for the series. There was Cassiopeia, who I didn't like because, despite her interesting background (as a socialator, which is basically a geisha), she soon settled into a stereotypical nurse/supporting female role. Athena had promise, but sort of got relegated to interstellar receptionist later on. Adama, played by Lorne Greene, had so much charisma and was always right about everything. As an adult, I learned to find it ironic that I, a liberal who finds freedom and peace to be very important, should gravitate to this extremely religious character who imposes martial law and never lets it end. But I guess that shows how successful BG was at creating this character.
So I loved this show. I loved the adventure, the romance, the despair, the very thought of this culture searching so hard for the world I live on now. I can't get enough of BG, even today. I can't think of another one-season TV series that had this much impact.
I don't think most people truly understand the depth of love many people have for science fiction--even for bad science fiction (the bad stuff is often called sci-fi; the good stuff is SF). There's so much imagination, so much wonder and innovation. So many amazing stories to tell. I think what many people don't get is that SF is all about people. You can't tell a good SF story without revealing the most vital, intimate workings of humanity. So I crave science fiction; there just isn't enough of it out there. I have craved it ever since I saw "Star Wars" when I was six and then, later on, a little show called "Battlestar Galactica."
I believe I was nine when I first saw BG and I wasn't very critical at that age. All I remember about that time was Sunday nights, sitting in front of the tube watching Baltar on his pedestal give orders to a disco guy in a sparkling robe with a glass head. I had a little coloring book, too. I thought Starbuck was so cool, and brooding Apollo was awesome too. My favorite character was Sheba, the female pilot who could hold her own with the guys. I was a small girl looking for female role models in my favorite shows, which were all about action. Back then girls didn't get to kick butt quite so much as they do today, but Sheba came close (okay, she did get hypnotized and rescued a lot, and she didn't get to play triad). She's still my favorite.
I was nine a long time ago. Fortunately, both BG and "Buck Rogers" were syndicated in a block every Saturday afternoon throughout my entire childhood and adolescence, on channel 41 in Kansas City. Of course, they kept changing the times on me every half-year or so. Sometimes the block would start at 1 p.m., sometimes at 4 p.m., sometimes at 2 p.m. and they'd switch the order. Didn't matter. If I was home, I'd be watching both shows no matter how often I'd seen every episode before. I may have seen every episode of both shows at least seven or eight times. I don't remember why I stopped watching--if they stopped showing it, or I went off to college, or what. But the fact is, BG was always hovering in the background of my developmental years.
Later, it was the Sci-Fi channel I turned to to get my BG fix, but this didn't always work. Sometimes they'd let the show lapse for months and then run a marathon during some holiday. By this time I'd recorded some select episodes, like the last episode and the two-paters. Now, I've got the DVD and am discovering bits I've only seen a few times, or never--because different networks edited episodes differently.
Why do I love this show? Okay, not every episode is great. In fact, some in retrospect pretty much sucked. But the story is so amazingly epic and unforgettable. It brings in rich elements of religion, of hope, of faith, of the kind of camraderie you can only get when you've gone through something totally devastating. The Cylons kill most of the people on 12 entire worlds, and of the survivors only a few can make it into space and the protection of the last surviving battlestar. They set out on a crazy search for a mythical planet--Earth. What will they find when they get there, if they ever do?
The characters, too, were so much fun. Apollo, whose wife died in the first few episodes and who spent the rest of the series trying to kill himself so he could join her (okay, this is a bit simplistic). Starbuck, the hard-drinking, hard-womanizing flamboyant pilot whose buddy-buddy partnership with Apollo formed a strong and fascinating emotional core for the series. There was Cassiopeia, who I didn't like because, despite her interesting background (as a socialator, which is basically a geisha), she soon settled into a stereotypical nurse/supporting female role. Athena had promise, but sort of got relegated to interstellar receptionist later on. Adama, played by Lorne Greene, had so much charisma and was always right about everything. As an adult, I learned to find it ironic that I, a liberal who finds freedom and peace to be very important, should gravitate to this extremely religious character who imposes martial law and never lets it end. But I guess that shows how successful BG was at creating this character.
So I loved this show. I loved the adventure, the romance, the despair, the very thought of this culture searching so hard for the world I live on now. I can't get enough of BG, even today. I can't think of another one-season TV series that had this much impact.
Monday, December 08, 2003
The Death of Cinnamon Bear
In mid-November, a beautiful gray northern wolf was killed here in the Chicago area. His name was Cinnamon bear, and he was the last of the wolves to reside in Wolf Woods at the Brookfield Zoo. The zoo staff had been letting the remaining wolves live out their lives naturally, anticipating that when they did, Mexican wolves would then be introduced into the space. But the way Cinnamon Bear died was not natural. It was a tragedy caused by human ignorance.
A 40-year-old woman went through the barrier set up to keep visitors away from the wolf. She stuck her arm in the enclosure so she could pet the wolf, and it grabbed her arm. When Cinnamon Bear wouldn't let go, the security people ended up killing him in order to save the woman's arm.
I'm not faulting the security people who had to shoot Cinnamon Bear. They did what they had to do. I blame the woman, who I'm sure loved wolves and animals and was just trying to make a connection. But she couldn't generate enough common sense in her head to stay away from an animal that her instinct should have told her was dangerous. On a less tangible level, I blame a society that keeps itself so stupid about many things, and considers watching the Discovery Channel enough qualification for understanding and handling wild animals.
I first started volunteering at the Brookfield Zoo in 1997. I trained to be a docent so that I could teach kids, and their parents, about animals and conservation. I enjoy showing them things they haven't seen before, telling them about the amazing natural world. I get lots of big eyes when I tell people about an elephant's teeth, or about the way an alligator snapping turtle fishes. It's rewarding to watch kids develop a love of nature by seeing the animals at the zoo. It's nice to see parents urging their kids to thank us, to ask us a question if they don't know the answer, to feed their own hunger for knowledge. That's what I love when I work at the zoo.
What I didn't anticipate was that every time I went there, I'd see something that would disappoint me about human nature. Oh, I don't expect zoo visitors to know everything about animals, like the difference between monkeys and apes or the fact that turtles can't leave their shells. I don't even expect them to understand why they shouldn't feed or chase the geese (what, you don't think they're aggressive enough? We made them that way, you know).
I do, however, expect a little common courtesy and some following of the rules. We don't tell people to stay behind railings because we revel in petty authority. There's a good reason for our safety precautions. I expect parents to be teaching good values to their kids. Instead, they harass a golden lion tamarin and tell us that they "adopted" it so therefore they can abuse it however they want. They throw dangerous items at the animals, they use red laser pointers, they crawl around on top of barriers from which they could fall and get torn apart by baboons. That kid who fell into the gorilla pit and was saved by Binty Jua? If the child had been conscious and screaming, he probably would've been injured instantly by frightened primates.
How could a parent let that happen? Well, here's a news flash. They do it every day at the zoo. They dangle their kids over 25-foot drops. They ask us to lie to their children ("No, the ice cream stands are closed, aren't they, Ms. Docent?"). They tell their kids all sorts of crazy nonsense as if they know all about the animals already ("Oh, look at the zebra," they say, pointing at an okapi). They don't mind their kids when the kids throw their favorite stuffed animal at the bats. They leave their strollers, with children in them, alone in front of the bear grotto.
Let me spell it out for the idiots out there. We don't keep domestic animals at the zoo, except for Children's Zoo. These are animals, and they're dangerous, and we don't make them semi-tame like Siegfried and Roy (and you know what happened there). Just because they're enclosed away from you doesn't mean it's okay to touch them. Just because you learned about it on Animal Planet doesn't make you an expert. Stay away.
In mid-November, a beautiful gray northern wolf was killed here in the Chicago area. His name was Cinnamon bear, and he was the last of the wolves to reside in Wolf Woods at the Brookfield Zoo. The zoo staff had been letting the remaining wolves live out their lives naturally, anticipating that when they did, Mexican wolves would then be introduced into the space. But the way Cinnamon Bear died was not natural. It was a tragedy caused by human ignorance.
A 40-year-old woman went through the barrier set up to keep visitors away from the wolf. She stuck her arm in the enclosure so she could pet the wolf, and it grabbed her arm. When Cinnamon Bear wouldn't let go, the security people ended up killing him in order to save the woman's arm.
I'm not faulting the security people who had to shoot Cinnamon Bear. They did what they had to do. I blame the woman, who I'm sure loved wolves and animals and was just trying to make a connection. But she couldn't generate enough common sense in her head to stay away from an animal that her instinct should have told her was dangerous. On a less tangible level, I blame a society that keeps itself so stupid about many things, and considers watching the Discovery Channel enough qualification for understanding and handling wild animals.
I first started volunteering at the Brookfield Zoo in 1997. I trained to be a docent so that I could teach kids, and their parents, about animals and conservation. I enjoy showing them things they haven't seen before, telling them about the amazing natural world. I get lots of big eyes when I tell people about an elephant's teeth, or about the way an alligator snapping turtle fishes. It's rewarding to watch kids develop a love of nature by seeing the animals at the zoo. It's nice to see parents urging their kids to thank us, to ask us a question if they don't know the answer, to feed their own hunger for knowledge. That's what I love when I work at the zoo.
What I didn't anticipate was that every time I went there, I'd see something that would disappoint me about human nature. Oh, I don't expect zoo visitors to know everything about animals, like the difference between monkeys and apes or the fact that turtles can't leave their shells. I don't even expect them to understand why they shouldn't feed or chase the geese (what, you don't think they're aggressive enough? We made them that way, you know).
I do, however, expect a little common courtesy and some following of the rules. We don't tell people to stay behind railings because we revel in petty authority. There's a good reason for our safety precautions. I expect parents to be teaching good values to their kids. Instead, they harass a golden lion tamarin and tell us that they "adopted" it so therefore they can abuse it however they want. They throw dangerous items at the animals, they use red laser pointers, they crawl around on top of barriers from which they could fall and get torn apart by baboons. That kid who fell into the gorilla pit and was saved by Binty Jua? If the child had been conscious and screaming, he probably would've been injured instantly by frightened primates.
How could a parent let that happen? Well, here's a news flash. They do it every day at the zoo. They dangle their kids over 25-foot drops. They ask us to lie to their children ("No, the ice cream stands are closed, aren't they, Ms. Docent?"). They tell their kids all sorts of crazy nonsense as if they know all about the animals already ("Oh, look at the zebra," they say, pointing at an okapi). They don't mind their kids when the kids throw their favorite stuffed animal at the bats. They leave their strollers, with children in them, alone in front of the bear grotto.
Let me spell it out for the idiots out there. We don't keep domestic animals at the zoo, except for Children's Zoo. These are animals, and they're dangerous, and we don't make them semi-tame like Siegfried and Roy (and you know what happened there). Just because they're enclosed away from you doesn't mean it's okay to touch them. Just because you learned about it on Animal Planet doesn't make you an expert. Stay away.
Friday, December 05, 2003
I do have to make a living, which means I don't have much time today for blogging. So, here's a top ten list. Yes, I stole it from that totally overrated white boy David Letterman. No, it's not going to be funny. If I were funny, I'd be a comedian instead of a writer.
Top Ten Reasons "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" Is My Favorite Reality Show
10. Being trapped in the banality of the Midwest, I get to vicariously go to all these cool places in New York that I may never see again.
9. Let's face it. Gay guys are better-looking than most heterosexual guys. And they have prettier drinks. Who wouldn't want to watch that?
8. Their tips actually work. I did that trick with the asparagus rack, and the asparagus was quite tasty. And my husband dimples his tie now. Everything I learned this year came from "Queer Eye."
7. That warm-fuzzy feeling I get when the guy's house turns out perfect and he embarks on a new life. Come on, we all grew up in a Disney-fied world. Who doesn't love the happy ending?
6. It's making men realize the importance of grooming. It's about time! Go get a facial, boys!
5. I think every woman should have a gay man as a best friend. I don't have one, but when "Queer Eye" is on I can still get the benefit of advice from guys who understand.
4. The Fab 5 have their priorities straight. Fashion, food and wine, interior design, grooming and culture. What else is there?
3. It makes me realize that not ALL reality shows suck. I am now ready to give "American Idol" a chance. No, wait. I better start slow. "Trading Spaces," here I come.
2. Shopping is my cardio, too!
And the number one reason I like "Queer Eye"--
1. It brought the word "tjuje" into the lexicon. But don't ask me how to spell it.
Top Ten Reasons "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" Is My Favorite Reality Show
10. Being trapped in the banality of the Midwest, I get to vicariously go to all these cool places in New York that I may never see again.
9. Let's face it. Gay guys are better-looking than most heterosexual guys. And they have prettier drinks. Who wouldn't want to watch that?
8. Their tips actually work. I did that trick with the asparagus rack, and the asparagus was quite tasty. And my husband dimples his tie now. Everything I learned this year came from "Queer Eye."
7. That warm-fuzzy feeling I get when the guy's house turns out perfect and he embarks on a new life. Come on, we all grew up in a Disney-fied world. Who doesn't love the happy ending?
6. It's making men realize the importance of grooming. It's about time! Go get a facial, boys!
5. I think every woman should have a gay man as a best friend. I don't have one, but when "Queer Eye" is on I can still get the benefit of advice from guys who understand.
4. The Fab 5 have their priorities straight. Fashion, food and wine, interior design, grooming and culture. What else is there?
3. It makes me realize that not ALL reality shows suck. I am now ready to give "American Idol" a chance. No, wait. I better start slow. "Trading Spaces," here I come.
2. Shopping is my cardio, too!
And the number one reason I like "Queer Eye"--
1. It brought the word "tjuje" into the lexicon. But don't ask me how to spell it.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Bah, Humbug: Or, It's All About the Benjamins
Ah, Christmas. The lights on houses and trees are pretty, like the lights of the Las Vegas strip. The Christmas carols are as familiar and soothing as a heavy rotation Britney Spears song. The frantic shopping trips to find the latest hot toys are a good exercise for those of us who want to know what it's like to experience shortages in third-world countries.
No, I really do like Christmas. It's a nice break in the gloominess of the long winters we have here in the Chicago area. Without it, we'd all get seasonal affective disorder two months earlier. I like giving gifts, I like getting them, I even like getting the Christmas tree up and decorating the house. Those of you who know anything about me are thinking, hey, aren't you an atheist? You celebrate a Christian holiday? Yes, but I'm also a capitalist. And let's face it, Christmas is more about buying things than it is about the birth of Christ.
Am I being cynical? Okay, maybe I am. I look at the parking lot around Ikea and I think, this has nothing to do with religion. This is all about helping the economy, one-upping your neighbors with better presents, cutting trees down to decorate them for three weeks and then throwing them out. It's about long lines at the toy store, about avoiding Woodfield Mall for a month until things calm down, about finding the best gift for spoiled kids. It seems like the only warm-fuzzy feelings around Christmas anymore come from Very Special Episodes of pre-2000 sitcoms like "Full House." That, and the special showing of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" they do every year, on a day so early in the holiday season that I almost always end up missing it.
I don't necessarily think this focus on materialism is a bad thing. Halloween is unabashedly all about the candy; why shouldn't Christmas be all about the gifts? For me the answer to that question is because I'm already stressed all season trying to find good gifts for people. Thank goodness for amazon.com. But think about it. It's good for the economy and it's good for all the retailers that get something like 40 percent of their annual income from this period. Customers get huge blow-out sales when stores buy too much inventory, and stores make a crapload of dough in the name of Santa. Movie theaters pack in the audiences with movies made-for-the-season. Pop stars release albums full of new renditions of "I Caught Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" and rake in the bucks. Talk about good cheer.
Recently, I know you've all seen the same trend I've seen--how they're extending the holiday all the way back to September. I saw Christmas ornaments on sale at my local drugstore before Halloween, I kid you not. Now you can't tell me this is because they're hoping we celebrate the birth of Christ for three whole months. No, it's so we spend mo' money, mo' money, mo' money.
But I'm telling you, it's all okay. No need to feel guilty about spending, about forgetting the real meaning of Christmas. Why bother to rationalize with cute snowmen, cookies for Santa and chestnuts roasting on an open fire? These types of feelings are obsolete in a society like ours anyway, a society that runs on cold, hard cash. It's all about the Benjamins.
Ah, Christmas. The lights on houses and trees are pretty, like the lights of the Las Vegas strip. The Christmas carols are as familiar and soothing as a heavy rotation Britney Spears song. The frantic shopping trips to find the latest hot toys are a good exercise for those of us who want to know what it's like to experience shortages in third-world countries.
No, I really do like Christmas. It's a nice break in the gloominess of the long winters we have here in the Chicago area. Without it, we'd all get seasonal affective disorder two months earlier. I like giving gifts, I like getting them, I even like getting the Christmas tree up and decorating the house. Those of you who know anything about me are thinking, hey, aren't you an atheist? You celebrate a Christian holiday? Yes, but I'm also a capitalist. And let's face it, Christmas is more about buying things than it is about the birth of Christ.
Am I being cynical? Okay, maybe I am. I look at the parking lot around Ikea and I think, this has nothing to do with religion. This is all about helping the economy, one-upping your neighbors with better presents, cutting trees down to decorate them for three weeks and then throwing them out. It's about long lines at the toy store, about avoiding Woodfield Mall for a month until things calm down, about finding the best gift for spoiled kids. It seems like the only warm-fuzzy feelings around Christmas anymore come from Very Special Episodes of pre-2000 sitcoms like "Full House." That, and the special showing of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" they do every year, on a day so early in the holiday season that I almost always end up missing it.
I don't necessarily think this focus on materialism is a bad thing. Halloween is unabashedly all about the candy; why shouldn't Christmas be all about the gifts? For me the answer to that question is because I'm already stressed all season trying to find good gifts for people. Thank goodness for amazon.com. But think about it. It's good for the economy and it's good for all the retailers that get something like 40 percent of their annual income from this period. Customers get huge blow-out sales when stores buy too much inventory, and stores make a crapload of dough in the name of Santa. Movie theaters pack in the audiences with movies made-for-the-season. Pop stars release albums full of new renditions of "I Caught Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" and rake in the bucks. Talk about good cheer.
Recently, I know you've all seen the same trend I've seen--how they're extending the holiday all the way back to September. I saw Christmas ornaments on sale at my local drugstore before Halloween, I kid you not. Now you can't tell me this is because they're hoping we celebrate the birth of Christ for three whole months. No, it's so we spend mo' money, mo' money, mo' money.
But I'm telling you, it's all okay. No need to feel guilty about spending, about forgetting the real meaning of Christmas. Why bother to rationalize with cute snowmen, cookies for Santa and chestnuts roasting on an open fire? These types of feelings are obsolete in a society like ours anyway, a society that runs on cold, hard cash. It's all about the Benjamins.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Why I Can't Swallow Chick-Lit
Don't get me wrong. I do read a lot of chick-lit. I enjoyed Bridget Jones' Diary, the Shopoholic books, High Maintenance and 4 Blondes (oh wait, scratch that one. I didn't enjoy that one at all. Candace Bushnell: overrated). The point is, I do like the frothy escapism of these types of novels and I've read a number of them in my time. No, my problem with this genre is personal. It's the same problem that anyone who's ever had her profession glamorized by TV also experiences. Did you notice what most of these woman do for a living? They're writers. Or editors. Or columnists. For fashion magazines, or gossip rags, or whatever.
This probably requires a little bit of explanation on my part. Forgive the diversion into my personal life; I'm a writer, therefore I'm self-absorbed.
Until about a year and a half ago, I was a magazine writer and editor. I wrote for a video games magazine, a movie magazine, a big news syndicate, a sports-related dot com and a group of women's magazines. Exciting, right? Well, when I left, I absolutely hated it. I kept getting laid off. My companies kept going under or getting bought out. I kept having to suck up to Hollywood types. Trust me, this gets incredibly annoying. Then the last magazines I worked for, dealing with self-help and fashion and hair, killed my self-esteem and my stamina. Granted, not everyone's foray into the world of women's magazines is as bad as mine. If you heard my story, you'd understand. If I told you all the indignities I suffered on a daily basis, you might not believe me.
This is the very type of profession you'll find rampant in all these women's novels. And it's the reason that, even though I bought a copy of The Devil Wears Prada, I haven't been able to open it yet. I told a friend my dilemma, and she, being as smart as she is, points out that the role of magazine writer or columnist is a very glamorous one, a great escapist vision for women trying to imagine a more interesting life. Having lived this "more interesting life," I suppose I understand. It sounds exciting, when you're not living it.
My editor used to scream at us in order to humiliate us in front of our colleagues. This is glamorous? We were forced to sign out to go to the bathroom. With my Masters degree in journalism I was reduced to buying pizza for a pop star at a photo shoot. I once had seven articles due in one day, five of which had been assigned to me the day before. Now, let's put this in perspective. I also answered the phones, did the accounting, mailed the FedExes, called every hair salon on the east coast to get photos, did the filing, picked out photos, sorted contest entries, read books to see if we could excerpt them, talked to publicists, agents, magazine editors, authors, publishers, singers, actors. We were extremely overworked.
And mentally abused. The owner used to play us against each other all the time. We were encouraged to tattle, to hate, to feel like peons with no control over our lives. We were afraid to leave the office in pairs lest the people in control think we were socializing. We were forced to organize our desktops in a certain way or else. We had to close our desks a certain way or else. We weren't allowed keys to the office. That wasn't glamour. That was sadism. Writers were a dime a dozen, and the owner knew it. She'd replace one of us every three months, with someone who wanted to work in a more "glamorous" setting.
So it's not even that I don't think magazine editor is a good job for an escapist heroine. It's just that it reminds me that once, maybe I thought that way. And I can't anymore. Maybe I'm regretting the death of the illusion.
Okay, I admit it. There's also an element of snobbishness. I can't find a journalism job to save my life, despite my masters degree from Columbia University. I am not the best writer in the world, but I can put a sentence together and I've been trained since the 6th grade. I've interviewed dozens of entertainers, actors, personalities, would-be pop stars, executives, college presidents, athletes and creative types. Yet Bridget Jones, whose fictional interview with Colin Firth was both hilarious and laughable, gets to be in print and I don't. Is that fair?
If I sound bitter, forgive me. I am. I'm waiting for the day I can open up The Devil Wears Prada and enjoy it without all the baggage I'm carrying around.
Don't get me wrong. I do read a lot of chick-lit. I enjoyed Bridget Jones' Diary, the Shopoholic books, High Maintenance and 4 Blondes (oh wait, scratch that one. I didn't enjoy that one at all. Candace Bushnell: overrated). The point is, I do like the frothy escapism of these types of novels and I've read a number of them in my time. No, my problem with this genre is personal. It's the same problem that anyone who's ever had her profession glamorized by TV also experiences. Did you notice what most of these woman do for a living? They're writers. Or editors. Or columnists. For fashion magazines, or gossip rags, or whatever.
This probably requires a little bit of explanation on my part. Forgive the diversion into my personal life; I'm a writer, therefore I'm self-absorbed.
Until about a year and a half ago, I was a magazine writer and editor. I wrote for a video games magazine, a movie magazine, a big news syndicate, a sports-related dot com and a group of women's magazines. Exciting, right? Well, when I left, I absolutely hated it. I kept getting laid off. My companies kept going under or getting bought out. I kept having to suck up to Hollywood types. Trust me, this gets incredibly annoying. Then the last magazines I worked for, dealing with self-help and fashion and hair, killed my self-esteem and my stamina. Granted, not everyone's foray into the world of women's magazines is as bad as mine. If you heard my story, you'd understand. If I told you all the indignities I suffered on a daily basis, you might not believe me.
This is the very type of profession you'll find rampant in all these women's novels. And it's the reason that, even though I bought a copy of The Devil Wears Prada, I haven't been able to open it yet. I told a friend my dilemma, and she, being as smart as she is, points out that the role of magazine writer or columnist is a very glamorous one, a great escapist vision for women trying to imagine a more interesting life. Having lived this "more interesting life," I suppose I understand. It sounds exciting, when you're not living it.
My editor used to scream at us in order to humiliate us in front of our colleagues. This is glamorous? We were forced to sign out to go to the bathroom. With my Masters degree in journalism I was reduced to buying pizza for a pop star at a photo shoot. I once had seven articles due in one day, five of which had been assigned to me the day before. Now, let's put this in perspective. I also answered the phones, did the accounting, mailed the FedExes, called every hair salon on the east coast to get photos, did the filing, picked out photos, sorted contest entries, read books to see if we could excerpt them, talked to publicists, agents, magazine editors, authors, publishers, singers, actors. We were extremely overworked.
And mentally abused. The owner used to play us against each other all the time. We were encouraged to tattle, to hate, to feel like peons with no control over our lives. We were afraid to leave the office in pairs lest the people in control think we were socializing. We were forced to organize our desktops in a certain way or else. We had to close our desks a certain way or else. We weren't allowed keys to the office. That wasn't glamour. That was sadism. Writers were a dime a dozen, and the owner knew it. She'd replace one of us every three months, with someone who wanted to work in a more "glamorous" setting.
So it's not even that I don't think magazine editor is a good job for an escapist heroine. It's just that it reminds me that once, maybe I thought that way. And I can't anymore. Maybe I'm regretting the death of the illusion.
Okay, I admit it. There's also an element of snobbishness. I can't find a journalism job to save my life, despite my masters degree from Columbia University. I am not the best writer in the world, but I can put a sentence together and I've been trained since the 6th grade. I've interviewed dozens of entertainers, actors, personalities, would-be pop stars, executives, college presidents, athletes and creative types. Yet Bridget Jones, whose fictional interview with Colin Firth was both hilarious and laughable, gets to be in print and I don't. Is that fair?
If I sound bitter, forgive me. I am. I'm waiting for the day I can open up The Devil Wears Prada and enjoy it without all the baggage I'm carrying around.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Pitying Michael Jackson
When I was in L.A. a week or so ago, I stepped onto Hollywood Boulevard only to find the sidewalk blocked by news cameras and fans lighting a candle for Michael Jackson. It's so sad that such a talented singer, a child star and hero, could be reduced to this. Truly, you have to feel sorry for him.
Let's inject a little perspective into the spin, shall we? Bring this issue down to reality.
I really don't care what Michael Jackson did. If he molested a child, it'll come out. If he didn't, well--he shoulda known that loving children he way he does in this society automatically makes you a suspicious character. Not that I'm blaming the victim here. I believe it is possible that he's had no improper relations with any of the kids. I believe that he might truly care for them on an innocent, wonder-filled level. But let's face it. That doesn't make him any less creepy than he already is.
I look at all the people throwing pity parties for Michael Jackson (like Oprah), and I have to laugh. What a joke. I still can't look him in the face because it's been completely mutilated. This is a person who purposefully surrounds himself with opulent fantasy, who spends huge amounts of money on things that no person with any common sense would buy, who looks more like an alien than a human. If he loves kids so much, he should stick some of that money into charity instead of a huge estate he can't afford.
Okay, I'll say it right out. To me, Michael Jackson represents some of the worst things about the famous, the royalty we've developed in this country. He's ego-centric, he's spent huge amounts of money on attaining an artificial physical perfection, he thinks he can get away with stuff because he's famous, he doesn't live in the same world the rest of us have to trudge through every day. Do I resent him for that? Hell, yeah. I mean, look at him (gross). Now look at the life he leads (also gross). What's admirable about it?
I'm not saying that once upon a time, he wasn't talented. I wore out my copy of "Thriller" just like everyone else and "Beat It" was my favorite video during those heady "MTV actually shows music videos" years. I'm not saying he should be vilified for something he didn't do. For all I know, he's fallen into the same trap that many child stars have, and I'm willing to admit that and feel sorry for the guy. All I'm saying is the obvious--that he's a creepy, freakazoid man-creature. Enough said.
Some other time, we'll talk about Janet. I think this family has made a deal with the devil--how is it that she seems to look younger and more beautiful each year?
When I was in L.A. a week or so ago, I stepped onto Hollywood Boulevard only to find the sidewalk blocked by news cameras and fans lighting a candle for Michael Jackson. It's so sad that such a talented singer, a child star and hero, could be reduced to this. Truly, you have to feel sorry for him.
Let's inject a little perspective into the spin, shall we? Bring this issue down to reality.
I really don't care what Michael Jackson did. If he molested a child, it'll come out. If he didn't, well--he shoulda known that loving children he way he does in this society automatically makes you a suspicious character. Not that I'm blaming the victim here. I believe it is possible that he's had no improper relations with any of the kids. I believe that he might truly care for them on an innocent, wonder-filled level. But let's face it. That doesn't make him any less creepy than he already is.
I look at all the people throwing pity parties for Michael Jackson (like Oprah), and I have to laugh. What a joke. I still can't look him in the face because it's been completely mutilated. This is a person who purposefully surrounds himself with opulent fantasy, who spends huge amounts of money on things that no person with any common sense would buy, who looks more like an alien than a human. If he loves kids so much, he should stick some of that money into charity instead of a huge estate he can't afford.
Okay, I'll say it right out. To me, Michael Jackson represents some of the worst things about the famous, the royalty we've developed in this country. He's ego-centric, he's spent huge amounts of money on attaining an artificial physical perfection, he thinks he can get away with stuff because he's famous, he doesn't live in the same world the rest of us have to trudge through every day. Do I resent him for that? Hell, yeah. I mean, look at him (gross). Now look at the life he leads (also gross). What's admirable about it?
I'm not saying that once upon a time, he wasn't talented. I wore out my copy of "Thriller" just like everyone else and "Beat It" was my favorite video during those heady "MTV actually shows music videos" years. I'm not saying he should be vilified for something he didn't do. For all I know, he's fallen into the same trap that many child stars have, and I'm willing to admit that and feel sorry for the guy. All I'm saying is the obvious--that he's a creepy, freakazoid man-creature. Enough said.
Some other time, we'll talk about Janet. I think this family has made a deal with the devil--how is it that she seems to look younger and more beautiful each year?
Monday, December 01, 2003
Re-discovering Hemingway
I've always considered Ernest Hemingway to be the Bret Easton Ellis of his generation. To me, his work seemed self-indulgent, re-creating and glorifying a particular circle of society that's meant to invoke a feeling of, "Gee, look how exciting my life is. Aren't you jealous?" That's the worst kind of art, as far as I'm concerned--that which confirms the author's life while trivializing everyone else's. Any angst-ridden teenager can write on a similar theme.
But let's be fair here. I read one of his books, many years ago, and I don't even remember which one it was. I'm not even sure how old I was when I read it. Today I found myself revisiting Hemingway. Here's why: I live near Oak Park, Illinois, where Hemingway was born. In fact, I give tours at the Frank Lloyd Home and Studio, and the lives of these two luminous personalities have intersected on occasion. Last month, I found myself in Key West for the second time. The first time I didn't bother to visit Hemingway's house; the second time, it seemed like I should. Only because I consider myself to be a literary person, and because I like cats.
So I learned a little bit about his life. I found that the places I was frequenting on that trip were places where he hung out. I discovered that his ghost might be haunting Key West (although I don't know why--he didn't die there). So I figured, what the heck. I'll pull out my husband's edition of The Old Man and the Sea. It's not too long. Maybe after all this time I'll understand Hemingway better.
I did. I found that I actually like The Old Man and the Sea. As a journalist, I appreciate the succinctness of his words, the way a simple phrase hides an ocean of meaning. I love to picture the titanic, yet understated, battle that goes on in the sea of Hemingway's imagination. As an animal lover I can picture the beauty and the majesty of the sharks, the turtles, the marlin that the old man battles. As a wanna-be snowbird I am happy to imagine the shores the old man walked. The tone is lovely and subdued; the words are strong and poetic.
I also enjoy the fact that after the battle, the old man comes back to port, fighting off the sharks so that he ends up with just a skeleton of the huge fish. There's something quite profound in that statement--that such a trophy, proof of an almost superhuman triumph, can be reduced to an ephemeral thing. I don't pretend to be an English teacher, so I'll end the analysis there.
So am I converted? Well, to some extent. I can understand why Hemingway has so many fans. He led an interesting life, and it shows in his work. I'm probably going to have to read some more to be convinced that he's as good as some people think he is. After all, he didn't revolutionize writing or anything. He's just a solid writer/storyteller, who turned out tales a bit tainted by the egocentrism of the artist. I guess there's nothing wrong with that, really, as long as it doesn't color all his work.
But I'm willing to read more, and that's a good first step.
I've always considered Ernest Hemingway to be the Bret Easton Ellis of his generation. To me, his work seemed self-indulgent, re-creating and glorifying a particular circle of society that's meant to invoke a feeling of, "Gee, look how exciting my life is. Aren't you jealous?" That's the worst kind of art, as far as I'm concerned--that which confirms the author's life while trivializing everyone else's. Any angst-ridden teenager can write on a similar theme.
But let's be fair here. I read one of his books, many years ago, and I don't even remember which one it was. I'm not even sure how old I was when I read it. Today I found myself revisiting Hemingway. Here's why: I live near Oak Park, Illinois, where Hemingway was born. In fact, I give tours at the Frank Lloyd Home and Studio, and the lives of these two luminous personalities have intersected on occasion. Last month, I found myself in Key West for the second time. The first time I didn't bother to visit Hemingway's house; the second time, it seemed like I should. Only because I consider myself to be a literary person, and because I like cats.
So I learned a little bit about his life. I found that the places I was frequenting on that trip were places where he hung out. I discovered that his ghost might be haunting Key West (although I don't know why--he didn't die there). So I figured, what the heck. I'll pull out my husband's edition of The Old Man and the Sea. It's not too long. Maybe after all this time I'll understand Hemingway better.
I did. I found that I actually like The Old Man and the Sea. As a journalist, I appreciate the succinctness of his words, the way a simple phrase hides an ocean of meaning. I love to picture the titanic, yet understated, battle that goes on in the sea of Hemingway's imagination. As an animal lover I can picture the beauty and the majesty of the sharks, the turtles, the marlin that the old man battles. As a wanna-be snowbird I am happy to imagine the shores the old man walked. The tone is lovely and subdued; the words are strong and poetic.
I also enjoy the fact that after the battle, the old man comes back to port, fighting off the sharks so that he ends up with just a skeleton of the huge fish. There's something quite profound in that statement--that such a trophy, proof of an almost superhuman triumph, can be reduced to an ephemeral thing. I don't pretend to be an English teacher, so I'll end the analysis there.
So am I converted? Well, to some extent. I can understand why Hemingway has so many fans. He led an interesting life, and it shows in his work. I'm probably going to have to read some more to be convinced that he's as good as some people think he is. After all, he didn't revolutionize writing or anything. He's just a solid writer/storyteller, who turned out tales a bit tainted by the egocentrism of the artist. I guess there's nothing wrong with that, really, as long as it doesn't color all his work.
But I'm willing to read more, and that's a good first step.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)