Boy Band Meets World: A Retrospective (Part 1)

Preamble 1:

When thinking of the most divisive figures in popular culture, it’s pretty easy to generate a list of usual suspects. Take Kanye West, for example; some argue that he’s a mad genius, while others may claim he is simply a raging asshole. Similarly, depending on who you ask, Lady Gaga is either a brilliant Warholian performance artist or a semi-talented attention whore. But there’s one name that doesn’t pop up frequently when discussing controversial public figures, even though he personifies the “love’em or hate’em” dichotomy. I’m talking about Justin Beiber, the pop moppet alternatively worshipped by some as a helmet-haired deity and derided by others as some sort of musical Antichrist. What’s most interesting about Beiber’s public reception is the clear demographic split between his admirers and his detractors. Every preteen girl in the Western Hemisphere dreams of innocently holding hands with the Beebs, while nearly all adults – and especially adult males – bristle at his very existence. All across the Internet, hate spews for Beiber like a geyser. I have to admit, I don’t understand this reaction. Firstly, I acknowledge that I’m not part of his target audience; I’m not still waiting to have my first period. It’s music for babies, and as such, I don’t let it bother me too much. Secondly, his musical output can be avoided with relative ease, even among hardcore pop radio listeners. When I commuted to work, I listened to probably 5 hours of pop radio per week, and I’ve heard, at a maximum, 3 of his songs. In comparison, I’ve heard roughly 80% of everything Jason Derulo has ever recorded, which mostly all sounds to me like a toilet flushing. Finally, what I have heard from Beiber is pretty inoffensive, even by the lenient standards of pop music. For example, I’d take any given Beiber song over Hot Chelle Rae’s “Tonight Tonight”; of course, I’d rather have Beiber personally crush my trachea with a tire iron than listen to Hot Chelle Rae’s “Tonight Tonight”. While I find the Beiber hatred vastly overblown among adults, there is one population that I think has a legitimate beef with him: regular preteen boys, who must hopelessly compete against Beiber for the affections of their female classmates. I can sympathize with them, because I lived this reality during my middle school years. You see, I came of age during the Boy Band Era. 

My Wife: Restaurant Critic

Some months back, my lovely wife and I visited a historic Ohio bar/eatery near her hometown. It turned out to be the gastric equivalent of the Challenger disaster. In a fit of pique, my wife wrote a vicious takedown of this particular establishment. I’ve reproduced her review below in its entirety. The only alteration I’ve made is removing the restaurant’s name, in an effort to avoid potential litigation. 

Tired Shit on Facebook: “Should I Stay or Should I Go” Edition

I’m a facebook OG. I was too stupid and too poor to go to an Ivy League school, so while I wasn’t part of the first wave of facebook users, I got in pretty early. My college received access to facebook back in the spring of 2005, so I’ve been able to watch the social networking site mutate and evolve over the past several years. To give you some context of how much change I’ve witnessed, when I first signed up, it was still THE motherfucking facebook.com, before “the” was dropped for being insufficiently clean. Like I said, I’m an old-timer. Back in early days, facebook was about reconnecting with high school friends who went to different schools and making plans with your college friends. Unlike Myspace, it didn’t have myriad add-ons and design options that resulted in pages that looked like exploded digital diarrhea. Everyone’s profile looked the same; the site’s uniform, egalitarian design was geared to the utilitarian purpose of connecting with your friends. Put simply, it was a true social networking site.

Then came the feed.

Thing That Are Terrible, No. 4: Boxed In

Technology has made nearly every form of entertainment easily and quickly available. Books can be delivered wirelessly to e-book readers, songs can be purchased and downloaded within seconds, and rental services such as Netflix make it possible to view even the rarest of cinematic treasures. In years past, watching the entirety of Akira Kurosawa’s filmography would take years and a truly exceptional public library system. Netflix enables one to accomplish the same enterprise in a few weeks, without ever having to leave the house or interact with other human beings. While Netflix presents the opportunity to enjoy cinema obscura in its myriad forms, another service allows movie fans to rent the newest releases for only a dollar per night. I’m speaking, of course, of RedBox, the kiosk-based rental business that can be found outside anyplace that sells box wine and condoms (the other two necessary ingredients for a successful movie night). Unfortunately, technology changes far more rapidly than both society and the human brain. After all, anatomically modern humans have existed for roughly 50,000 years, meaning that 21^st century humans and cavemen possess essentially the same cognitive ability. Nowhere is man’s primal incomprehension of contemporary technology more manifest than in the queue at RedBox. An early human plucked from a hunting party on the Serengeti and placed in front of a RedBox terminal would behave similarly to the numerous cretins I have stood behind while waiting to rent Black Swan. The situation is, as you can imagine, both intolerable and terrible.

In an ideal world, everyone who approached a RedBox would know exactly which movie they wanted to rent. I understand, however, that this is an unreasonable request. I also confess that I have causally perused the touchscreen after stocking up on box Merlot and jimmy hats at the local grocery store. However, when I browse through the selections, I have a general idea of the featured movies, as well as a basic grasp of what a motion picture actually is. Many customers, it seems, lack even this elementary understanding. They will furrow their heavy brows while they read synopsis after synopsis of movies whose advertisements were in constant rotation a mere three months prior. Even if you are somehow ignorant about what the movie is about, what will the description of Season of the Witch tell you that the cover art already doesn’t?

"An obviously be-wigged Nicholas Cage brandishing a sword? COUNT ME IN"

 

 

 

 

It isn’t only customers’ unawareness of what movies are out that makes any given RedBox experience unpleasant – it’s also their total disregard of acceptable social behavior. I’ve written before about both the excess and dearth of exercising civil niceties, and this is yet another example of the latter category. More than once, I’ve had to stand and grit my teeth while some dunderhead stares blankly at the screen for up to ten minutes, unable to complete the Herculean task of deciding which horrendous Kevin James comedy they want to rent. Recently, I was forced to wait behind a portly gentleman while he twice called his wife to debate the merits of the Adam Sandler-Jennifer Anniston fecal stain Just Go With It. In a truly civilized society, either this man would have stepped aside while I made my selection, or jack-booted police would have emerged from an unmarked van to bludgeon and arrest him.

I’ve spent many sleepless and movie-less nights pondering what can be done about this situation. Perhaps RedBox etiquette could be inserted into the public school curriculum? Given that I wasn’t taught multiplication tables until the middle of my junior year of high school, I don’t have much confidence in the educational system to solve this problem. Maybe RedBox could introduce technology that delivers a powerful electric shock when it detects someone has been browsing for too long? Again, this is a flawed idea; most RedBox customers are so dull that the sensation of pain may take entire minutes to reach their brains, much in the same fashion as a brontosaurus. Unfortunately, I believe that the only solution is to wait. As in all social revolutions, the time required to adjust to RedBox use must be measured in years, not months. I predict that nearly everyone will have figured out how to properly use RedBox within the next two decades. My only hope is that I will still be around when that day comes, so that I may enjoy the anxiety-free experience of renting a 4-D remake of The Zookeeper.   

Rock N’ Roller Cola Wars: Their Antecedents and Consequences, and Why I Can’t Take Them Anymore

I am not a big believer in conspiracy theories. I think that Lee Harvey Oswald, acting independently and of his own volition, assassinated John F. Kennedy with two rifle shots; that Al Qaeda was responsible for 9/11; and that the Harlem Globetrotters routinely defeat the Washington Generals based on their superior athleticism, not because the games are fixed. If I were to ever meet Jesse Ventura, he would yell at me in his deep baritone and I would sob like the weak, noodle-wristed half-man that I am. But there is one conspiracy theory for which I am an ardent supporter, even though there is basically no evidence for it: I believe with religious enthusiasm that soda companies consistently roll out products that they know will fail. The reason I believe this so fervently is because there is no mentally sound person alive that believes the below products could possibly succeed in the competitive soda market:

1. Crystal Pepsi

No product in the history of soft drinks can prove my thesis as thoroughly as Crystal Pepsi. No one could convince me that Crystal Pepsi was anything but a novelty product designed to sell well in the short term before quickly flaming out. If you are not familiar with this product, it was basically what it sounds like: Pepsi in which the brown food coloring had not been added, and was thus transparent. If you dedicate more than 1 second of thought to this concoction, you will begin to understand why it was such a monumental flop. I was just a young lad in 1991 when Crystal Pepsi was released, so my recollections of it are foggy. I believe that the formula differed from regular opaque Pepsi, but the flavor was definitely cola. As I have alluded to, this is a problem. Ever since the invention of cola, it has been dark brown in color, while citrus-based drinks have been clear. The psychological dissonance resulting from seeing a clear beverage and tasting cola is so powerful that no one could have truly enjoyed the experience of imbibing it. It’s like having sex with a Real Doll; the physical sensation is identical, but the reality is both terrifying and sad.

2. Pepsi Blue

As demonstrated by the above entry, Pepsi has not had great success in monkeying with their formula. Unlike Mountain Dew, whose brand can undergo innumerable permutations as long as it remains kidney-puckeringly sugary and vaguely citrus inspired, Pepsi’s identity is fixed. There are some allowable variations: cherry, of course, and vanilla is tolerated in some markets, but overall, when consumers purchase Pepsi, they expect a caramel-colored cola. With this information in mind, it is truly beyond comprehension that PepsiCo would release this blue beverage under the Pepsi brand rather than the more flexible Mountain Dew banner; conspiracy is the only logical conclusion. Aside from the senseless branding, Pepsi Blue also faced another, arguably insurmountable obstacle: its deep blue hue was identical to that of Windex. If you had responsible parents, you were likely taught that the cleaning products under the kitchen sink were not food, and would, in fact, act as deadly poison if ingested. This early-life programming is so ingrained in human consciousness that it takes tremendous effort to overcome. But why would you battle both your subconscious and your basic mammalian instincts (for nothing edible is this color in nature) if the reward is something as mediocre as Pepsi Blue’s vaguely chemical taste? The color betrays the drink’s origins as a totally artificial suspension created in the same laboratory as AIDS. Of course, as an impressionable teenager at the time of Pepsi Blue’s 2002 release, I played right into the conspirators’ hands. I purchased a few bottles in an attempt to convince myself it was good. You see, my family was nominally Baptist, but in truth we were fundamentalist Pepsians. To this day, my father drinks between 3 and 5 Pepsi colas per day. I felt it was my ecclesiastical duty to try to like Pepsi Blue, but no matter how valiant my effort, I ultimately had to admit that it’s flavor and appearance were an affront to both God and Man.

3. C2 

In moving away from PepsiCo to their primary competitor, most would assume I would discuss New Coke, Coca-Cola’s disastrous replacement for their flagship beverage, about which there is already a well-known conspiracy theory. However, I won’t be talking about New Coke. For one thing, there has already been a great deal written about it, and two, I was far too young during New Coke’s rollout to understand it’s cultural and gustatory ramifications. Instead, I’d like to turn my attention to C2, Coca-Cola’s utterly bizarre diet-ish drink released in 2004. C2 was designed to piggy-back on the success of the Adkins diet, which you have to admit was a good business move; hitching your wagon to a diet fad seems like an excellent recipe for long-term success. C2 occupied the strange and unexplored “no man’s land” between regular Coke and Diet Coke. It boasted half of the calories, sugar, and carbohydrates of regular Coke, which paradoxically meant that it had 50% more of those things than Diet Coke. Ultimately, my problem with C2 is the target demographic; namely, what is it? For whom was this product designed? When it comes to cola, most people have already made their decision. If you want full flavor, you drink Coke; if you want to control your calorie intake, you drink diet Coke. What are the circumstances under which one would choose C2? It wouldn’t make sense for someone who drinks Diet Coke to switch to a drink with more calories. Is it for regular Coke drinkers who want two cans of soda, but want to maintain the same calorie consumption? Consumers that are physiologically addicted to Coke and are trying to quit, and C2 acts as methadone? These are senseless questions, but that is because there are no reasonable answers. This was a product designed to increase sales for a quarter or two, then quietly disappear into American folklore, like Paul Bunyan.

Conclusion:

As this tour of soda failures demonstrates, there is clearly a conspiracy at work at the highest levels of commerce. Each product represents an insane idea that could never be successful over time, but that offer enough novelty that people will buy them for a short time. The early quasi-success may be enough to cover the costs of research and development, or they may not; it doesn’t matter. Given that the failures of these products are preordained, and that they may actually represent a net lost for the company, the question is, “why are they doing this?” The answer is simple: the ongoing cold war between PepsiCo and Coca-Cola. Just as Ronald Christ Reagan single-handedly defeated the Soviet Union by forcing them to spend all of their money on military escalation, Pepsi and Coke are locked in arms war with each side desperately hoping the other will run out of funds and dissolve. Pepsi Blue and C2 are carbonated beverage versions of Reagan’s Star Wars defense system: unfeasible and expensive pipe dreams constructed to strike terror into the hearts of adversaries. Many academics state that the legendary Cola Wars of the 1980’s are long over, but this article demonstrates the falsity of such claims. The Cola Wars are still raging on, in our supermarkets, in our schools, and in our homes, and they are still claiming lives. Unfortunately, we huddled masses must live with this reality, just as when we cowered impotently under the specter of nuclear annihilation. All we can do is envision a finer world in which all colas exist harmoniously in a more perfect Dew-mocracy.

Things That Are Terrible, No. 3: Unwanted Truths

As I wrote in the very first installment of Things That Are Terrible, the exhibition of certain niceties is required in order to maintain a functioning, civilized society. I discussed the various tradeoffs of this social arrangement in depth in that essay, focusing special attention on the annoying habit of strangers holding doors open for other, distant strangers. In this chapter, I will examine a different, but nonetheless terrible, aspect of living amongst other humans. This time, I’ll focus on interacting with the most dreaded of all social creatures, the acquaintance.

During my undergraduate years, I had the pleasure/misfortune to know a young gentleman who I’ll call David Nixon. Dave was a walking stereotype cut from the Charlie Brown cloth. If we lived within a cartoon fantasy world, a small, dark raincloud would be perpetually perched over Dave’s head. One time, I was walking around campus and ran into Dave. Because I had not seen him in several weeks (a strange absence, since we lived on the same floor in the same dormitory), I asked where he had been. In response, he lifted his shirt to reveal a freshly stitched incision on his lower abdomen. “My appendix burst,” he explained. If it had been literally anyone else, I would have been shocked. But for Dave, this was merely par for the course.

I bring up Dave Nixon because he epitomizes a certain phenomenon that is limited to people you don’t know very well and for whom you do not care deeply. As I mentioned, societal norms require us to exchange pleasantries with people we recognize. It’s generally understood, for example, that when you ask someone in passing “How are you doing?,” the only acceptable answer is a one-word reply along the lines of “Good,” followed by asking the same question to you. Again, this is a concession we make so that we can exist in a civilization. Neither party is truly interested in the cognitive or emotional state of the other, and both are usually on their way to a certain destination. Unfortunately, there are people, Dave among them, who do not understand or refuse to conform to this convention. They take “How are you?” not as a simple politeness, but as an invitation to launch into a checklist of grievances. Here is a hypothetical exchange:

Me:

“Hey, Dave, how’s it going?”

Dave:

“Not too good, man. Trish kicked me out of the apartment, and her two asshole brothers are there all the  time so I can’t even get my stuff. I’m also failing out of my English course because of all the classes I missed because of my surgery. I got caught in the rain yesterday and all of my cigarettes got wet, and I can’t afford to buy anymore…”

Me:

(eyes roll back into skull as frontal lobe disengages and reptilian brain takes over basic biological functions)

Being caught in these situations is the conversation equivalent of the 1979 Iranian hostage crisis; you are held captive by a fanatic whose motives are beyond your experience and comprehension. Mores dictate that you have to tolerate a certain amount of this, as it would be uncouth to yell “Eat shit, I have to get to class!” as soon as the third word escapes their face hole. You instead have to try to keep your senses keen so you can exploit any natural break in the conversation and use it to escape.

The other terrible thing about these situations is that the nature of the person’s answer makes it basically impossible to respond to them. Refer to the above example again. Keep in mind that such an exchange takes place in a public space while you are on your way to someplace. Also recall that this person is merely an acquaintance, not a close friend or confidante. What the hell are you supposed to say to something like that? If it were a real friend, you could use your knowledge of their personality and past experiences to provide some heartfelt words of wisdom. But your knowledge of this person is restricted to what they look like, perhaps their full name, and that they know some of the same people as you. The only way to mitigate the awkwardness is to quickly offer some meaningless platitudes and beat a hasty retreat.

It is said that no man is an island. Our social and biological needs require interaction with other humans to be met. Much of the time, these encounters are beneficial. Living in a society allows us steady access to food, power, housing, and so much shameful, anonymous sexual intercourse. However, there are drawbacks, ranging from the major (crime, disease, etc.) to the minor (awkward and unavoidable encounters with various weirdos). While the latter are certainly less severe, they are also more common, and thus can be considered a worthy entry into the hallowed halls of Things That Are Terrible.

Disrespecting the Cock: Hollywood’s Contentious Relationship with the Male Member

Nudity has long been a tricky subject in the American film industry. Unlike our filthy European counterparts, who are all too happy to include explicit fellatio in everything but children’s movies (where only verbal references to oral sex are permitted), American filmmakers are constrained by the Draconian policies of the MPAA. Because our First Amendment rights allow us to say whatever the fuck shit hell ass cunt we want, the MPAA can’t actually prevent anyone from including stiff dicks or split beavs in their movies; they can, however, slap an NC-17 rating on them, which is generally regarded as a financial kiss of death. As a result, nudity (especially of the full frontal variety) is exceedingly rare in American cinema. The MPAA has its roots in the notorious Hayes Code, which forbade obscenity (which included everything from profanity to blasphemy to sexual content) in film. By the 1970s, restrictions were relaxed, and basically every director in that decade had a field day with including nudity. Seriously, pick any random film from the 70’s, and there is a 75% chance that there will be a pair of bare breasts contained therein. I’m surprised Stars Wars doesn’t have a loose set of titties. Anyway, this influx in nakedness (as well as explicit language) was largely an attempt to add verisimilitude to the proceedings, which I appreciate; there’s nothing that takes me out of a movie faster than showing a couple interacting post-coitus and the woman has a blanket pulled over breasts, suddenly coy after her partner has literally had his penis inside of her. Adding realism is the second most popular reason to include nudity for both males and females. The number one reason for the inclusion of female nudity is, of course, titillating the audience. I would estimate that 9/10s of female nudity in major U.S. film releases is designed to cause the male viewers to shift in their seats, if you know what I mean (I’m talking about repositioning their erections to reduce discomfort). 2001’s Swordfish is one of the prime examples of this sort of nudity. In this movie, there is an entirely pointless scene in which Halle Berry exposes her jugs. The scene advances neither plot nor characterization (other than the fact that Halle Berry’s character likes to sunbathe topless, I guess). It was filmed solely to give the men in the audience boners.

Male nudity (or dudeity, as it is sometimes known), is exhibited in movies for entirely different reasons. Women, in general, are not aroused by the mere sight of a swinging johnson (they find money, chocolate, and, apparently, vampires far more erotic). Especially over the past few years, male nudity has been presented in movies primarily for comedic reasons. For example, weens have been featured in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story (2007), Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008), Bruno (2009), Observe and Report (2009), and The Hangover (2009). There are two reasons audiences – both male and female – find schlongs so hilarious. For one thing, there is the element of surprise. Comedy is said to be the collision of the familiar and the unexpected; of course everyone is acquainted with at least one dick, but few expect them to be projected on a 20 foot screen in glorious 1:85:1 aspect ratio. A textbook example of this appears in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, wherein the title character (portrayed by John C. Reilly) is on the telephone while a nude man stands in the middle of the frame, cock exposed for God and everyone to see. The comedy results from both Reilly’s nonchalant reaction to the penis, as well as the uncomfortably and shockingly long time it is visible on screen. Another reason for the humorous exploitation of penis is the anatomical characteristics of that particular organ. Frankly, they look ridiculous, dangling limply like a sullen turtle’s head. Clinically miniscule peens are even more preposterous, and are lovingly showcased in both Observe and Report and The Hangover.

The question that must be asked in light of these facts is: does Hollywood treat the cock fairly? After all, the vulva would never suffer the indignities the penis has, treated as an object of mockery and ridicule. Could the gender politics of Hollywood be so inverted that we are conditioned to giggle at the once-powerful phallus while the proverbial pussy is put on the proverbial pedestal? Could conservatives have been right about the movie industry all these years? Ultimately, I think the penis is handled appropriately by the film industry (if only I could say the same about my marriage). As pointed out above, its appearance is patently absurd, and thus ripe for comedy. Furthermore, while dicks are primarily used for humor purposes, they are not used exclusively to this end. David Cronenberg’s Eastern Promises (2007), for example, features a vicious fight scene in which a nude Viggo Mortensen kicks the asses of two Russian gangsters; his kibble n’ bits are visible the entire time and react appropriately to his flying kicks. As long as the male member is not shown solely in the context of comedy, we can rest (our hands) easy (on our dicks).