Between “Sex and the City” re-runs the other night, I managed to catch a couple of new reality TV shows, “Date My Ex: Jo and Slade” and “Must Love Kids.” I really feel like I’m slumming it when I watch these shows, but now that I work full time as a cog in the well- greased capitalist machine—actually, cogs have more creative freedom than I do—all I want to do is watch so-bad-it’s-good television and forget I exist.
In spite of the proletarian doldrums, Jo and Slade set this cog rolling. In depicting hetero sex and dating, TV and movies have lately swayed towards the “guy indefatigably pursues girl” schema—like all those WASPy skirt-chasing executive frat boys in “Mad Men” (oh, how I love them!). Obviously, there’s nothing new about the concept of men pursuing women—it just caries a different set of meanings now. For a long time it was all about equality (Nora Ephron movies) or women pursuing men (all Axe commercials, action movies, “The Bachelor”) or nebbishes pursuing women (Woody Allen’s films/ life). But fresher crops of pop culture works have been dealing with matters of the heart (and ‘nads) rather differently.
In “Date My Ex,” Jo, a former “Real Housewife of Orange County” (not so real, she was only a fiancé) who left Slade to pursue a career singing nauseous pop music and getting spray tans, goes on dates with four men desperately trying to bed her, or in Jo’s words, sweep her off her feet. Slade plays host to all his ex- fiancé’s suitors, which allows him to tighten the leash of any guy he doesn’t like, but also causes him distress when he watches Jo’s live, uncut and unrated dates (poor Slade!). All the “Date My Ex” advertisements emphasize the awkwardness of being set up on dates by an ex. Yes, its weird, but mostly it just seems cheap. I don’t even know what Slade is doing there; he just watches in silent agony as his ex- lover compliments another man’s fine behind. It’s like watching a freak show—gruesome, uncomfortable, and highly entertaining.
Anyway, the really interesting thing about this show is that each episode, four men—not including Slade, who’s apparently still in love with Jo—compete for one woman. If the format is successful (there was a “Bachlorette,” but didn’t it tank?) it may bespeak a man-as-hunter dating fantasy bubbling up from the depths of our culture. Maybe I’m just projecting onto society my deep- seated desire to get a date without exerting myself, but if you add it all up—“Date My Ex;” “Must Love Kids,” featuring a handful of hungry men trying to snag a single mom; “Mad Men,” with all its skirt chasing and the sexual harassment that could almost be considered a capital offense; “Sex and the City: The Movie,” in which Big pursues Carrie, compared with the show, in which he strings her along—it makes sense.
And that’s just pop culture. There’s also the economic downturn keeping men from bringing home the turkey bacon, threatening their sense of self-worth, and maybe even catalyzing a desire to be Men in other ways, if not financially. And we can see it in the way Hillary Clinton was treated during her run: she was criticized for her cleavage, portrayed as a castrating bitch, and the only time any one could stand her was when she cried. Maybe it represents a lurking misogyny. Maybe in rejecting Clinton’s shoulder pad feminism we just tacked on another “post-” to the ideology (where are we now, post-post-post- feminism?). Maybe men are just feeling a little threatened and want to reassert their power by chasing women. Or maybe a lot of women (myself included) quit chasing men because it just isn't worth the effort (usually not even close).
It’s impossible to say if all this will tend towards the offensive skirt chasing, the romantic gestures, the Jo De La Rosa sweep- me- off- my- feet- (wink, wink), or something completely different. Let's hope the sleeze will be confined to reality TV.
-shoshi
23 July 2008
22 July 2008
God, I miss camp
Yesterday at Barnes and Noble I bought this book which is a compendium of peoples' stories and pictures from camp (primarily Jew camp.) Gosh I miss camp. If anyone ever attended camp they should buy it. It's called Camp Camp and it rules. I remember before I left for my first real sleep-away experience my wise older brother told me "Enjoy camp while you're young. I wish I could go but I'm too old. And don't touch any boys' weiners." I asked him where old people go for fun. "Vegas."
I was thirteen years old and had gone to day camp my whole life. The camp that I attended was targeted towards autistic (my mom told me "artistic") kids so you could spend the whole day in arts and crafts making book marks and tie-dying pillowcases if you so chose. I really liked it there because I stayed clean and air-conditioned. Also, if you're open-minded, autistic kids have a lot to bring to the table. Sleepaway camp, on the flipside, was a whole different dirty animal. I'm a textbook Taurus -- a creature of luxury and comfort. I have no time for dirty animals.
I was thirteen years old and had gone to day camp my whole life. The camp that I attended was targeted towards autistic (my mom told me "artistic") kids so you could spend the whole day in arts and crafts making book marks and tie-dying pillowcases if you so chose. I really liked it there because I stayed clean and air-conditioned. Also, if you're open-minded, autistic kids have a lot to bring to the table. Sleepaway camp, on the flipside, was a whole different dirty animal. I'm a textbook Taurus -- a creature of luxury and comfort. I have no time for dirty animals.
When my dad ran into the owner of the camp he attended as a crewcutted boyscout back in 1956 and got all torqued up on his Leave-It-To-Beaverish nostaligia I suddenly and unwittingly found myself signed up for four weeks of fun in beautiful Marshalls Creek, PA. I did NOT want to go. I really didn't want to go. Especially when the sleazy camp owner came to our house, told me I looked "hot in my bellbottom trousers," and showed us the camp video. He reeked of charlatanism (which I imagine smells like Drakkar Noir.) Everyone in the video was wearing INXS t-shirts and ripped jeans! The film quality could best be described as 1982 cable access or UHF bootleg. "But mom and dad, everyone there looks like they're from 1985! " I protested. "Well, at camp they don't have hairdryer outlets so that's why all the girls have big hair. I'm sure they're very nice and unsuperficial. You're being intolerant" my mom reasoned. I found out later that the camp video was indeed made in 1985 and had not been updated because the owner was too cheap. And that most of our time at camp was spent in the bunk coiffing.
I arrived in Marshall's Creek, Pennsylvania in my snazziest new bootie shorts from Gadzooks ready to conquer the joint. I was imagining it would be like Footloose and I would introduce those backward, follically-challenged campers to the glamorous modern world of hairdryers and dance. Jesus, was I in for a gloriously rude awakening.My camp was a veritable wasteland that had not been renovated since 1956. The basketball courts were piles of rubble. There were snakes in the lake. There were maybe five campers wandering around who looked like they were straight out of Appalachia. The camp owner, who legitimately was on crack (sorry, last sidenote: he brought a prositute and her dog back on the bus from our New York City outing to be a bunk counsler. She slept with him at night), told my dad not to fear for his little princess's comfort -- he had a brand new roll of linoleum that he was going to put down in the bathroom of my bunk. To prove that he wasn't fooling around he fetched a roll of linoleum from his office and told my dad to feel it. It was luxurious. Things would be A-okay. My parents didn't want to leave me there but I told them I needed to spread my wings and fly. Even if it meant spending four weeks in apocalyptic Pocono hell.
That very same night I had my first makeout sesh. I had left New Jersey a wee starling who equated summers with quadruple reverse barell stitch, basket weaving, and Aspergers. I liked my innocent summer fun. In Marshalls Creek, PA I became a woman. Things started out inauspiciously enough. At dinner a wad of gum flew out of my mouth and got stuck in my hair. That sucked and I was ready to call my dad and have him pick me up. The head counselor had to tell me to stop being such a cunt and to CHILL OUT. She had short hair and birkenstocks and could probably fling me into orbit if she got mad enough. Nothing puts a 13 year old primma donna in her place like a militant lesbian with a whistle around her neck and Indigo Girls in her ears. Luckily I stayed though. Maybe I knew subconsciously that romance was in the cards.
At evening activities I met Teddy. Teddy had a shaved head, wore a chain, and smelled like a Polo Sport factory vomited all over him. He spoke in ebonics, had a lisp, and was from Florida. All in all, 13 year old girl bait.He told a girl in my bunk that he had a crush on me and that he wanted to be my boyfriend. His first words were "will you be my girlfwend?" I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go off into some long-winded diatribe about how "Gee Teddy, we don't really know each other but I'm sure you're a great guy. Can you cook eggs?" I said yes. He put his arm around me and we walked around like that for awhile not saying anything because that's what boyfriends and girlfriends do. I was wondering if and when I would touch his weiner and if it would be romantic. I told myself that I would wait at least a week and do it at a campfire or something so it would be extra special. Somebody suggested that a group of us play truth or dare.
Obviously the first dare was "Marlo and Teddy -- make out." We played tonsil hockey (oh, how 90's girl mag of me) for about three minutes and then it somehow came out that it was my first real kiss. He patted my back and got all concerned and serious and was like "awwww boo. are you okay?" then felt me up over my shirt since we were now intimate. I was basking in the love. My mouth devirginator! My Rudolph Valentino! Teddy Mercer! At the end of the night he told me that I was a flyyyy girl. It was all so romantic. Then a girl told me that Teddy had mouth herpes and spread it around camp the summer before. He didn't deny it. I wish she hadn't told me that. We broke up two days later. The girls in my bunk did a lunch cheer dedicated to Teddy telling him IT WAS OVER. I never touched his wang. -- marlo
I arrived in Marshall's Creek, Pennsylvania in my snazziest new bootie shorts from Gadzooks ready to conquer the joint. I was imagining it would be like Footloose and I would introduce those backward, follically-challenged campers to the glamorous modern world of hairdryers and dance. Jesus, was I in for a gloriously rude awakening.My camp was a veritable wasteland that had not been renovated since 1956. The basketball courts were piles of rubble. There were snakes in the lake. There were maybe five campers wandering around who looked like they were straight out of Appalachia. The camp owner, who legitimately was on crack (sorry, last sidenote: he brought a prositute and her dog back on the bus from our New York City outing to be a bunk counsler. She slept with him at night), told my dad not to fear for his little princess's comfort -- he had a brand new roll of linoleum that he was going to put down in the bathroom of my bunk. To prove that he wasn't fooling around he fetched a roll of linoleum from his office and told my dad to feel it. It was luxurious. Things would be A-okay. My parents didn't want to leave me there but I told them I needed to spread my wings and fly. Even if it meant spending four weeks in apocalyptic Pocono hell.
That very same night I had my first makeout sesh. I had left New Jersey a wee starling who equated summers with quadruple reverse barell stitch, basket weaving, and Aspergers. I liked my innocent summer fun. In Marshalls Creek, PA I became a woman. Things started out inauspiciously enough. At dinner a wad of gum flew out of my mouth and got stuck in my hair. That sucked and I was ready to call my dad and have him pick me up. The head counselor had to tell me to stop being such a cunt and to CHILL OUT. She had short hair and birkenstocks and could probably fling me into orbit if she got mad enough. Nothing puts a 13 year old primma donna in her place like a militant lesbian with a whistle around her neck and Indigo Girls in her ears. Luckily I stayed though. Maybe I knew subconsciously that romance was in the cards.
At evening activities I met Teddy. Teddy had a shaved head, wore a chain, and smelled like a Polo Sport factory vomited all over him. He spoke in ebonics, had a lisp, and was from Florida. All in all, 13 year old girl bait.He told a girl in my bunk that he had a crush on me and that he wanted to be my boyfriend. His first words were "will you be my girlfwend?" I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go off into some long-winded diatribe about how "Gee Teddy, we don't really know each other but I'm sure you're a great guy. Can you cook eggs?" I said yes. He put his arm around me and we walked around like that for awhile not saying anything because that's what boyfriends and girlfriends do. I was wondering if and when I would touch his weiner and if it would be romantic. I told myself that I would wait at least a week and do it at a campfire or something so it would be extra special. Somebody suggested that a group of us play truth or dare.
Obviously the first dare was "Marlo and Teddy -- make out." We played tonsil hockey (oh, how 90's girl mag of me) for about three minutes and then it somehow came out that it was my first real kiss. He patted my back and got all concerned and serious and was like "awwww boo. are you okay?" then felt me up over my shirt since we were now intimate. I was basking in the love. My mouth devirginator! My Rudolph Valentino! Teddy Mercer! At the end of the night he told me that I was a flyyyy girl. It was all so romantic. Then a girl told me that Teddy had mouth herpes and spread it around camp the summer before. He didn't deny it. I wish she hadn't told me that. We broke up two days later. The girls in my bunk did a lunch cheer dedicated to Teddy telling him IT WAS OVER. I never touched his wang. -- marlo
20 July 2008
Welcome to the Dollhouse
So the day has descended like a black cumulus on my humdrum suburban town (I’m obviously listening to The Smiths as I write this.) Alas, my narcissism hath boileth over and here I am -- ready and raring to enter the nefarious world of blogging. So, hi, I'm Marlo. On this blog (lovingly named in honor of the Bill Murray/Wes Anderson vehicle I never saw), I hope to share with you all the various mind-blowing and despicable and mind-blowingly despicable things I learn on a daily basis. Hopefully this whole thing will be classier than a Livejournal. HOPEFULLY. -- mar mar
A teleology of the writing life
I’m writing in search of an edge, an angle, a certain keenness and acerbic wit. It’s what I might have called “my literary voice” if it was 1985 and I wore draping black dresses with shoulder pads and scribbled brooding poetry in diners that borrowed their décor from the Q train. I never thought I’d blog, but I suppose, like writing in general, it’s just something I resisted until it became undeniably clear—it may just be the thing. If I wanted to do something out of character and be really optimistic, I could think of myself as some kind of writing superhero, born with a pen in my hand and fated to save humanity one snarky (but incredibly poignant) article at a time. It goes like this:
My earliest memory of writing is of the time I procrastinated on a book report in first grade. Actually, that’s when I learned the word procrastinate and it’s a tenet I’ve ascribed to ever since. Evidently, by the following year I was a dedicated short story writer. I have no recollection of this at all—I only found out several years later when I bumped into my second grade teacher, Mrs. Burns, who asked if I was still writing (I wasn’t, I wanted to be biologist and cure cancer). Fast forward to junior year of high school, when I took AP Chem and AP English and worked after school in a solitary beige vascular lab pulverizing aneurisms and growing arterial cells in flasks. I really enjoyed English; I felt psychically connected to Kafka, not to mention real fuckin’ cool for memorizing passages from Shakespeare. And I hated acids and bases and counting moles. More than that, I couldn’t stand all those overachievers with their veins full of liquid nitrogen. I usually spent chem class hyperventilating in the first row.
And still, I didn’t put it together. There I was, sixteen, angsty, romantic and trite (ah, my salad days!), worshipping the Beats and Maureen Dowd, sure that I’d become an MD/PhD. Eventually I realized that any science that didn’t appear in the Times on Tuesday was dullsville, so I decided to study anthropology in college. I really liked it for long time, but, again, I came to hate the idea of locking myself in an ivory tower and throwing away the key. The turning point came when I studied in Tel Aviv about a year ago and, inspired by all the male beauty running around on the beach in its underwear—er, natural beauty of the Holy Land—I started writing again. Still, it’s slow going and torturous, like bleeding onto the page—in a good way, of course.
So I’m blogging to make up for a life of denial and misplaced ambition. Maybe it’s a sort of penance, but I’m hoping it won’t be as much of a drag as all that. I’m hoping it’ll make me a little sharper, get the juices flowing. Mostly, I hope it’ll be a good read, maybe even good enough to distract five or ten people procrastinating at work.
- shoshi
My earliest memory of writing is of the time I procrastinated on a book report in first grade. Actually, that’s when I learned the word procrastinate and it’s a tenet I’ve ascribed to ever since. Evidently, by the following year I was a dedicated short story writer. I have no recollection of this at all—I only found out several years later when I bumped into my second grade teacher, Mrs. Burns, who asked if I was still writing (I wasn’t, I wanted to be biologist and cure cancer). Fast forward to junior year of high school, when I took AP Chem and AP English and worked after school in a solitary beige vascular lab pulverizing aneurisms and growing arterial cells in flasks. I really enjoyed English; I felt psychically connected to Kafka, not to mention real fuckin’ cool for memorizing passages from Shakespeare. And I hated acids and bases and counting moles. More than that, I couldn’t stand all those overachievers with their veins full of liquid nitrogen. I usually spent chem class hyperventilating in the first row.
And still, I didn’t put it together. There I was, sixteen, angsty, romantic and trite (ah, my salad days!), worshipping the Beats and Maureen Dowd, sure that I’d become an MD/PhD. Eventually I realized that any science that didn’t appear in the Times on Tuesday was dullsville, so I decided to study anthropology in college. I really liked it for long time, but, again, I came to hate the idea of locking myself in an ivory tower and throwing away the key. The turning point came when I studied in Tel Aviv about a year ago and, inspired by all the male beauty running around on the beach in its underwear—er, natural beauty of the Holy Land—I started writing again. Still, it’s slow going and torturous, like bleeding onto the page—in a good way, of course.
So I’m blogging to make up for a life of denial and misplaced ambition. Maybe it’s a sort of penance, but I’m hoping it won’t be as much of a drag as all that. I’m hoping it’ll make me a little sharper, get the juices flowing. Mostly, I hope it’ll be a good read, maybe even good enough to distract five or ten people procrastinating at work.
- shoshi
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