A few years ago while on a road trip to a friend’s wedding, I happened to pass through one of my many formers towns of residence, Virginia Beach, VA. Feeling nostalgic, I decided to drive by my family’s old house. I had fond memories of that house on Wivenhoe Way. I remembered it to be a grand, luxurious two-story home, located on a sprawling, beautifully manicured lot. It’s amazing what 18 years can do to a memory, as the house that was a palatial estate in my mind, turned out in actuality to be just an ordinary home, in an ordinary neighborhood, on an ordinary piece of land. My reaction to seeing it for the first time in nearly two decades was a resounding, “That’s IT??” After the disappointment of going back to the old neighborhood, one would have thought I’d have learned a lesson. A lesson that specifically says: “You can’t go back. Don’t even try! It’s never the same!!” But alas…I did not heed the warnings, and recently set off on another ill-fated trip down memory lane.
My younger sister decided to spend her spring break visiting me in Los Angeles. Finding fun activities for a college student who has not quite reached the legal drinking age is not the easiest task, but I managed to find an all-ages Jason Mraz show that turned out to be amazing (as usual), and figured that she’d spend the rest of her time lounging at the beach. I was surprised when she suggested a trip to Disneyland, but became excited at the prospect of revisiting a place that, as a child, I considered to be the most wonderful place in all the land. I was enchanted by Disneyland when I was young, and since my father was stationed in Southern California several times during his military career, had many-an-opportunity to walk the streets where Mickey Mouse himself had walked. I loved Disneyland SO much in fact, that I actually collected autographs from all the Disney characters and kept them in a big pink Disneyland scrapbook. As I looked back with fondness on my former adoration for all that was Disney, I began to actually look forward to reliving the experience. The night before our Magic Kingdome adventure, I went to sleep with images in my head of thrilling rides on the Matterhorn and Thunder Mountain, of me snapping silly pictures with Mickey and Donald, and of my sister and me strolling around the bustling streets in the faux French Quarter.
Unfortunately as I stood in the middle of “Main Street USA” at the front of the park the next morning, my reaction to Disneyland was identical to that of my reaction when setting eyes on my former home. “This is IT??” My sister and I asked, practically in unison. I was shocked and dismayed at the sight that lay before us. It was as if someone had taken the Disneyland of my childhood, thrown it in a really hot dryer, and shrunk it down to about half the size that I remembered it to be. True, when I last visited the Magic Kingdom I was half the size that I am now, but this was ridiculous. The Matterhorn and Thunder Mountain seemed so tiny that I’m pretty sure I could have easily climbed to the peak in my flip flops and still not have been out of breath. The Tea Cup ride that I thought was so intimidating when I was young made the Tilt-O-Whirl at Coney Island look like a state-of-the-art modern marvel. The fact that everything was so tiny was bad enough, but just as I began to get over the park’s diminished size, I began to notice other problems, and it started to make me sad. The entire park looked a bit worse for wear. The once-brightly colored plastic mushrooms found sprouting up all over the park were cracked and faded, the rides were creaky and incredibly out dated, and several of the automated characters on the It’s a Small World ride were broken down and appeared lifeless amongst their wriggling, dancing, mechanized counterparts. Even the live Disney characters that once walked around the park hugging children and jovially waving at passersby seemed to be tired and old. In fact, they didn’t even walk around anymore, and instead parked themselves in little viewing stations where kids have to stand in line to pose for a picture. I wasn’t even able to catch a mere glimpse of Mickey because the crowd around him was so large. To top it all off, the once-gleaming Magic Castle that was a focal point in the park, now looked like a dilapidated old building, and was in dire need of a remodel. As a matter of fact, the whole park looked as if it could use a fresh coat of paint.
Despite all the park’s problems, Disneyland seemed to still be doing a bustling business. In fact, business was SO good on a random Tuesday in March, that my sadness surrounding what I saw as the demise of my beloved Magic Kingdom, quickly turned to severe annoyance. By noon, the crowds had swelled to an unreasonable number, a fact made worse since 99% of said crowds were made up of parents and their obnoxious, whining little children. The sight of them inspired me to develop a new ad campaign for Trojan Condoms that involved a picture of four screaming children wearing Mickey Mouse ears, the caption simply reading “Reason enough.” The crowd got so bad as the day progressed that I went so far as to abandon several lines because I just couldn’t see the sense in waiting three f*&king hours for anything, let alone a creaky, old, boring-ass ride. Worst of all, the lines to purchase food were actually longer than some of the lines for rides. When a small child wiped his ice cream cone on me as I was about to purchase a $5 pickle from a pickle stand in Frontierland (the pickle stand being the only food that didn’t require a 2 hour wait), I realized that it was probably time for me to leave the park before I did something that would get me forcibly removed from the Magic Kingdom.
So, after mere four hours of Disneyland fun under our belts, we left the park. I think, I hope, I pray, that I have finally learned my lesson. I vow from this point forward to cut out my visits to old houses, and places that I remember fondly from my youth. I plan to keep my childhood memories intact rather than try to recreate them and ruin them forever. Lord knows I'll never be able to think of the Disneyland the same way again. There is absolutely no way I’ll ever be able to get the image out of my head of that broken-down robot child from the It’s a Small World ride, jerking and shaking as if it was having a epileptic seizure. Gives me chills to even think about it.
I’ve never been a huge No Doubt fan, in fact I used to despise them. I was too scarred by a sub-par live performance of “Just a Girl” on MTV to understand the irony in their first hit song. My disgust with the band’s undeserved fame was cemented during a television interview with Gwen Stefani. When asked about her reaction to the death of Sublime lead singer Brad Newell, the high priestess of SoCal pop replied, “Um, it’s like, really bad that Brad is dead. We, like, miss him sooo much.” From then on, any time I heard a No Doubt song I would express my displeasure with gagging and retching sounds. It would take six years, and one dance song, for me to change my tune.
Okay, so I liked “Don’t Speak”, but I hated Gwen and the boys too much to admit that to anyone at the time. It was “Hella Good”, the infectious dance groove on their late 2001 release Rock Steady that inspired me to purchase their album. Still, I listened in the privacy of my bedroom, too shamed to play it at full volume. It wasn’t until Jerry invited me to their performance in Continental Arena that I finally understood the hype behind the band. Bedecked in colorful outfits, they bounced and strutted without a moment’s rest during their entire two-hour performance. I felt as if a spaceship had landed on the stage and out tumbled No Doubt. Such limitless energy, such flawless skin… the only explanation was that they were aliens. That, or from Southern California. After the concert I felt as if I’d spent a fun-filled day at the beach.
Last night’s performance at the Hammerstein Ballroom was no different. Still dizzy from winning a Grammy on Sunday night, No Doubt delivered a high-energy show that left a room of New York curmudgeons feeling like kids again. Gwen’s thin athletic body twisted into inhuman contortions as she delivered each note through perfect red lips. Tony Kanal plucked his bass with vigor, grinning at the screaming fans at his feet. Drummer Adrian Young’s baby, in red and white striped footy pajamas and sequined earphones, bopped on his mother’s lap in the box seats to our right, where Gwen’s parents also sat, proudly watching the electric performance on stage.
As if this were not worth the price of admission, during the encore, Mike Einziger and BrandonthehottestmanaliveBoyd from Incubus joined the band for a surprise performance of the classic Police hit, “Message in a Bottle.” They covered it perfectly, although I think I reached some sort of altered state in Brandon’s presence, bruising Jerry’s arm with firm squeezes to contain my excitement. Seconds after Brandon left the stage, he was replaced by Gavin Rossdale of Bush, and it was Jerry’s turn to drool. As the British hunk joined his wife in the final song of the evening, it occurred to me that some of the sexiest people in pop music were in the room with us. It was as if the Hammerstien Ballroom had turned into a museum of impossibly good-looking people. They performed, they flashed perfect smiles, and they thanked us for being there. I love them all so very much.
So a few parting words to those of you who, like me, are quick to judge pop music: don’t knock it till you’ve seen it live. And if you’re going to see it live, try to go around Grammy time in New York City. You never know who’s going to turn up.
Universal Studios – A Land Without Open Container Laws By Jen
I recently assisted my good friend Kristin with her application to get into the UCLA MBA program. It was a long and arduous five-essay process, and as a thank you present, she treated me to a fun-filled day at Universal Studios in Hollywood. I am a lover of all types of amusement parks, and was immediately thrilled by the prospect of spending the day learning about the “magic of the movies.” I had never been to a Universal Studios, and my knowledge of the park was limited to an episode of an 80’s sitcom where the cast visits the park. For the life of me I could not remember which 80’s sitcom this was, but did recall from the episode a montage of the cast traveling via tram all about the park, being frightened by movie monsters, flash floods, earthquakes, and JAWS. It was good enough for me.
In an effort to avoid crowds, Kristin and I arrived bright and early on Saturday morning, and avoid crowds we did. Apparently very few people found it necessary to get up at 7:30 am to get to the park when it opened, and the park’s visitors at that early hour were limited to foreign tour groups, a smattering of families with small children, one Tibetan monk, and us. We decided to take advantage of its emptiness, immediately nailed down our plan of attack for the morning, and headed off to the first activity:
Waterworld: A Tidal Wave of Explosive Action
What was a tragically horrific movie has been transformed by Universal Studios into a really cool live show. The action-packed fifteen minute performance was resplendent with loud explosions and burning buildings, ridiculously faux fight scenes, and daredevil jet-skiers who dove under the water, jumped through walls of fire, and continually soaked audience members who were sitting in the seats labeled “soak section.” Note to Universal Studios: You might want to label the “soak section” in several different languages, as there were many Japanese tourists who were shocked and somewhat frightened when the characters in the show “warmed up” the audience by dumping buckets of water on their heads.
After Waterworld was over, we saw that the line to "Back to the Future: The Ride" was a mere five minutes long, and decided it was time “to rip across the past and blast into the future with Doc Brown in his tricked-out, high-flying, time-traveling machine.” As with all rides in the park, they try (and not very hard) to make it seem like the ride is “real.” The gimmick on Back to the Future was that we were supposed to be participating in a scientific study of some kind, and they send you into individual examination rooms with several other people. The members of our study were a young blond couple who didn’t speak, and the aforementioned Tibetan monk. As Doc Brown explained that we were on a mission to save the future, I’m pretty sure the Tibetan monk didn’t understand that we were on a ride rather than participating in an actual experiment. He looked rather confused. As was promised to us, we zipped around Hill Valley in our tricked-out time machines, traveled to the past where we got swatted around by a dinosaur, and then fell into some sort of volcano. Naturally, we ended up saving the day. It was a rather rocky ride, but incredibly fun. As we climbed out of the car on unsteady legs, the Tibetan Monk was only able to muster the words, “That was scary!” He sounded weak and disoriented.
After pausing briefly to take a picture with my head inside of JAWS’ mouth, we headed to The Studio Tour that I remembered fondly from the unnamed 80’s sitcom. This was where things really took a turn for the better. We both agreed we were thirsty, and spied a cart selling refreshments. I was about to purchase a Spongebob Squarepants water bottle, when I noticed that there was beer on the menu. Actual beer. I jokingly asked if we could take a couple of Corona’s on the ride. I expected laughter, and a resounding “NO” as a response, but was startled to hear the woman behind the cart say, “Of course you can.” Despite the fact that it was only 10:30 am, we purchased two beers and, after almost accidentally joining a Spanish-only tour, finally settled down for a ride. The tour of the studios was great, my favorite ride of the day (and not just because of the beer). The facts about movie making were fascinating. For instance, did you know that in old westerns, they built doorways smaller than normal in an effort to make the cowboys look bigger and more imposing? Conversely, they would build other doorways on a smaller scale in an effort to make the women seem tiny and more like damsels-in-distress. Anyway…There’s something sort of cool about sitting just yards from the famous town where from The Mummy was filmed and seeing the lake where Showboat was shot. You would be looking right at The Bates Motel from Psycho, and notice in the background the set of Whoville from Jim Carry’s The Grinch. The special effects displays were also really amazing. We were caught in a flash flood, got stuck underground during an earthquake, were almost taken out by King Kong (who was breathing banana breath), and were nearly attacked by JAWS (who, incidentally, has been lit on fire to spice things up a bit).
The Studio Tour deposited us right in front of another refreshment stand, where we purchased two frozen margaritas and went on our way. That was pretty much how the rest of the day progressed. Margarita, ride, bathroom…Margarita, ride, bathroom. It was like Vegas, but without the gambling. For some reason, in this little pocket of Los Angeles, we were allowed to walk around consuming alcohol right out in the open. It was splendid. Perhaps it’s just the tequila talking, but never in my life have I been to an amusement park, or any performance or public event for that matter, where the staff was so accommodating and personable. The rides turned out to be pretty much as we had expected, but the lines were short, and, thanks to the staff, we bounced from ride to ride effortlessly:
ET’s Adventure: Sadly, this ride was a horrible disappointment. ET was one of the first movies I ever saw in the theater, and I was really excited to get to see him in the flesh, or the plastic, or whatever he is made of. Kristin had also promised me a crazy surprise at the end of the ride. After giving my name to an usher who programmed “Jennifer” into a computer, I hoped the surprise would be that ET would tell me in his halting Speak-N-Spell voice that he loved me and wanted to phone home or something like that. Unfortunately I was in for disappointment, as the ride turned out to be a shorter, less exciting version of “It’s a Small World.” Now, if you have ever been on “It’s a Small World,” you should know how hard it would be for something to be LESS exciting than that particular ride. The surprise at the end also turned out to be a bust. Somehow the girl taking names neglected to enter mine in properly, and everyone in our car got to have ET say goodbye to them except for me. I felt slightly rejected after the ET ride.
Backdraft: The Backdraft attraction’s tagline should actually be “A Pyromaniac’s Dream Come True.” Basically it’s 15 minutes of really cool special effects with fire. Lots and lots of fire. During the final scene it got so hot in the room, and the smell of fuel was so permeating, that I couldn’t help but wonder how setting off explosions a mere 10 feet from 100 people could possibly be legal. The best part of Backdraft however, was the staff working the line. We weren’t allowed to bring our margaritas into the building, and they let us sit on a lovely bench to the side of the line until we finished…then they just let us get back in the front of the line. It was as if our drinks were the equivalent of having VIP passes at a concert. It was wonderful.
The Special Effects Stage: Good experience and cool special effects, but unfortunately I had missed the restroom stop prior to the show, and spent the majority of the performance wishing that it would end. Note: If you are consuming alcoholic beverages at a rapid rate, DO NOT deviate from your schedule of Margarita, Ride, Bathroom, lest you ruin your good time.
Animal Planet Live: I came into this performance expecting ferocious crocodiles and roaring lions and tigers, and was slightly disappointed to find out that the most exotic animal appearing that day was a domesticated orangutan wearing a tutu. Ho Hum. Fortunately, the emcee, a gorgeous animal trainer from LA, was so engaging that I quickly forgot about my expectations and focused all my attention on his khaki-clad body.
We paused on our way to Terminator: 3D, to pose for pictures with Captain America, Spongebob Squarepants, and Curious George. I’m pretty sure Mr. Squarepants tried to grab my ass, but he could have just lost control of his strange swinging arms. I can’t figure that Spongebob guy out. We asked one of the park employees what his deal was, and after a lengthy explanation came away with the knowledge that he was A: Made of a kitchen sponge, B: Had square pants due to the fact that he was a square kitchen sponge, and C: Lived under the water with his friend who was a starfish. This explanation left me more confused than when I simply thought he was a square yellow man.
Terminator2: 3D: A fabulous way to end the day. This show is marvelous from the moment you step into the staging area. Upon entering the room, a hilarious announcer informed us that we were all supposed to be attending a presentation at “Cyberdyne Systems,” the evil company that we all remember fondly from the Terminator movies. The “presentation” is taken over by that scary guy from Terminator: 2 who is made of liquid metal, and Arnold comes to save the day. All of this is performed with combination of live stunts, and an intricate 3D movie. It was so good (and scary) that I screamed loudly several times.
After T2, we were wiped. The combination of a countless number of margaritas, several churros, and a long day of walking led to one thing, and one thing only: Bedtime. As we walked out of the park, we were stopped by The Blues Brothers. The Dan Akroyd character told us that he needed to stop us because, “Rumor had it that we’d been causing a whole heck of a lot of trouble.” “Is this true?” he asked us. “Absolutely,” we replied. “Fair enough,” he said, and sent us on our way. As I walked up to a refreshment cart outside of the studios and realized that margaritas were no longer an item on the menu, I became sad. After a day at Universal Studios, it’s easy to forget how oppressive the real world can be.
The No-Talent Show - Surreal Life / Episode 4 By Jen
Many apologies for not summarizing last week's episode of The Surreal Life. Surprisingly, it turns out that I actually do have a social life, and I was at a friend's birthday party during the majority of the show. I did however manage to catch a short glimpse while I was getting ready to go out. This unfortunately happened over a week ago, and the only thing I seem to remember was the baffling visual of Hammer and Webster sitting chummily on a rock together, surrounded by what appeared to be tents.
From this I deduced that:
A: They roomies were on a camping trip.
And
B: I didn’t miss much.
I did however have the misfortune of catching this week’s episode. For your reading displeasure…a short summary:
Their day began much like any day you or I might have. The roomies shared a cup of joe, and opened up their tailor-made tabloid newsletter to find out how they were to spend their day. “The Surreal Life Gazette” (or whatever it is called) told them that they were to organize, sell tickets to, and perform in, a wacky talent show that was going to be held at the mansion…all proceeds of course going to charity. (The charity likely being “Washed-Up stars in need of cash.”) Apparently, the “winner” of the talent show would win a secret prize!! Shortly after they received this news, a van pulled up to take them all to Hollywood so that they could push their tickets on unsuspecting passers-by. Six out of the seven roomies hopped out of the van, and shamelessly and enthusiastically hocked their wares. Vince Neil appeared to be the sole member of the group to realize that selling $10 tickets to a talent show is slightly demeaning. Instead of selling his tickets like the rest of his idiotic roommates, he simply went to a nearby ATM, took enough money out of his account to cover his required contribution, and gave his stack of tickets to a bunch of kids who seemed super-stoked to be given tickets from Vince Neil of Motley Crue.
After completing their sales, the roomies returned home to rehearse, and came to the startling realization that, with the exception of Vince and possibly Hammer, none of them actually had any talent. Webster at least had the intelligence to realize this, and when told by Andrea Zuckerman to just have “fun with it,” responded with:
"It's supposed to be for fun and humor. I don't find it fun, and I don't find it humorous."
That pretty much sums things up.
The rehearsal went on. Brande asked Webster for advice on how to breakdance, Andrea practiced her kazoo, Jerry wrote a poem, Hammer made dinner, and Corey got totally dissed by Vince Neil.
Corey, we found out, is in a band…a band that apparently had just released a record…and Corey was hell-bent on using both the show AND Vince Neil to shamelessly promote his new album. While Corey was rehearsing his song, he asked Vince to sing BACK-UP for him. Not only did he ask Vince Neil, lead singer of Motley Crue, to sing BACK-UP, he also had the nerve give him advice on HOW to sing back-up for his pitiful little song. Vince declined. Vince also declined Corey’s offer to play harmonica while Vince performed the song that he wrote for the talent show. This made Corey sad, and he stomped off in a huff saying: “Forget about this stupid talent show. I’m planning a wedding…that’s what’s real.”
God he’s an idiot. I hate him so much.
The audience, largely consisting of young street kids and disoriented tourists (who probably thought they had purchased tickets to Universal Studios or something), arrived and took their seats.
Brande opened the Talent Show with gusto, displaying the always popular talent of “Wearing a Cheerleader’s Uniform while Breakdancing.” It was difficult to watch. She should have just stood on stage in a bikini. It would have been far less embarrassing for everyone.
Next, Andrea Zuckerman played “While the Saints go Marching In” on the Kazoo. She was backed up by Jerry and Brande, who marched in place in the background while wearing short skirts and feather boas. It was horrific. I was too mortified to sit through the entire thing, so I went out on my balcony and plugged my ears.
Corey Feldman’s band,”The Corey Feldman Band,” performed next. Corey sang a god-awful song entitled “I Believe Again," a song whose lyrics seemingly were written by a three year old. Vince Neil DID end up singing back-up to Corey, but he looked rather reluctant about the whole thing. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he was somehow blackmailed or physically threatened into performing. He looked scared.
Next, we were introduced to “Clive Rufus Brown” (aka MC Hammer). Apparently Hammer didn’t want his reputation tarnished by the talentless buffoons he was performing with, and decided to create an alternate identity for himself. Clad in a white terry cloth robe, a black wig, and a purple pimp suit, he gyrated around the stage, yelping and shouting unintelligible syllables. So far, it was the best performance of the evening. Webster joined him on stage and danced about while Hammer repeated over and over again: “Manny Mo is in the house, Manny Mo is in the House.” This was a big hit with the audience.
Jerri read her poem. It was not good.
Vince Neil performed the finale; a song entitled “The Surreal Life Blues.” Compared to the other performances of the evening, his was a masterpiece. Best of all, the lyrics made fun of all his roommates:
Jerri's making a cocktail. In Australia there's nothing to drink.
Brande is a lifeguard. With that rack she'll never sink.
Gabby's in the kitchen, and how she likes to rock!
Hammer he's a preacher. He likes to hear himself talk.
We got the blues - The Surreal Life blues.
Manny says he's a fisherman, but he shouldn't use it for his life.
Corey's getting married, but he hasn't told his wife.
Well I'm in Mötley. There's nothing left to lose.
Sitting in a jail I call The Surreal Life blues.
Does anyone else smell a Grammy???
Naturally, the audience voted Vince Neil the winner of the contest, and he was awarded a huge bedroom in the house, all to himself. You could see the sweet look of relief on his face. I can’t even imagine how horrible it would be to share sleeping quarters with Corey Feldman.
Next week:
The kids go carousing in Las Vegas, and Vince tells someone to f*&K off!! I for one hope it's Corey.
Just a mere three days ago I professed my excitement over of one of the many, many reality TV programs gracing the airways this week. The Surreal Life premiered last night, and turned out to be everything I could have ever imagined it to be....and way, way, less.
For those of you who haven't been living on planet earth (or those of you who simply don't suffer from serious reality-tv addictions like myself), The Surreal Life is one the latest reality tv shows, and can simply be described as "The Real World" meets "The World of Washed-up Celebrities Attempting to Capitalize on their Former Stardom in One Last Pitiful Gasp." It's brilliant.
Let's meet the cast:
Corey Feldman
Former star of such great films as Goonies, Stand by Me, and The Lost Boys, Corey now dedicates his life to being a colossal asshole. Though being a colossal asshole is quite time consuming, Corey somehow manages to find time to insult and offend almost everyone around him. He is also is a self-proclaimed sex-addict. Lucky for him, his fiancé lets him sleep with other women, as long as she is in the room. I hate him so very much.
Vince Neil
Lead singer for Motley Crue and Dr. Feelgood himself, Vince Neil has spent his life as THE bad boy of rock n' roll. Vince has seen and done everything, and is nonplussed by the actions and antics of his new roommates. He's jaded, he's cool, and he's my favorite cast member.
Emmanual "Manny" Lewis..aka Webster
Webster looks exactly the same as he did when he was nine years old, but slightly chubbier. His adorable looks have been preserved as if he's been kept in some sort of child star time capsule for the past 25 years. That, combined with the high-pitched squeal he lets loose every two minutes, frightens me to my very core.
MC Hammer
Former rap superstar MC Hammer now spends the majority of his life away from the spotlight, preaching to his church, spending time with his family, and recovering from serious bankruptcy. Though he seems like a genuinely nice guy, his tendency to break into Mr. T - like rants when he gets worked up is rather annoying.
Brande Roderick
Former playmate of the year and Baywatch star, Brande now spends her days...um...well...being blond with big boobs? She also seems to have an unnaturally close relationship to her dog. She's boring. Next please!!
Gabrielle Carteris
Andrea Zuckerman faded from the spotlight immediately following her departure from 90210. They claim she is the host of her own talk show "Gabrielle," but I work in TV, and have neither seen nor heard of such a show...ever. I was once the host of my own talk show too. It was called "Teen Talk," and was produced by my best friend in the eight grade. It was likely seen by more people that "Gabrielle," seeing as I forced all my friends and neighbors to watch it on a regular basis.
Jerri Manthey
Former star of "Survivor: The Australian Outback," and former Playboy Playmate, Jerri is trying to stretch out her 15 minutes of fame as long as is humanly possible. She is a self-proclaimed "bitch," and strangely enough is one of the most likable cast members.
And so it begins...
Corey arrived first, kissed his fiancé (who is WAY too good looking for him) goodbye, and then promptly entered the house only to immediately call her and tell her how much he already missed her. Vince Neil arrived next, dropped off his stuff, popped open a beer, and plopped down on the couch. Webster, Hammer, Brande, and Andrea Zuckerman arrived in rapid succession.
Hammer and Webster immediately initiated a disturbingly close friendship and agreed to share a small orange room. Hammer got the top bunk. All joking aside...MC Hammer is actually sleeping on the top bunk of a bunk bed. While unpacking, Webster pulled a People's Choice Award out of his suitcase and began polishing it. Hammer laughed, reached into his own suitcase, and trumped Webster's People Choice Award with one of his very own Grammy's. The two new BFF's giggled, and prominently displayed the awards on a shelf in their room.
As the roommates gathered around the table for a meet and greet, they realized that they were still missing one member of the group. Despite the 700 pictures of her scattered about the house, it still took all of their collective brain power to discern that the last roommate would be Jerri Manthey from Survivor. This incensed Corey Feldman for some reason, who stated over and over that she was not "one of them," and did not belong or deserve to be on the show. They were, after all, big superstars, and Jerry was just a contestant on a reality show. Um, Corey? NEWSFLASH!! YOU are a contestant on a reality show.
As the roommates got adjusted, a small envelope containing $500 for groceries and supplies magically appeared, and the group decided to make a trip to the supermarket. Andrea Zuckerman lovingly prepared a specific list of food and supplies that they would need in order to survive the two weeks. Sadly, and despite all Andrea's motherly good intentions, when the group arrived at the supermarket the list was forgotten altogether and the organized shopping trip quickly became a wild free-for-all. Each roommate took a cart and barreled around the store, tossing food and supplies into their carts willy nilly as if on a celebrity version of Supermarket Sweep. Ten frantic minutes later, they all met at the cash register and spent about sixteen hours figuring out what they should and should not buy. Corey was a horrible nuisance, constantly yelling and bitching about the fact that he was a vegetarian and he could starve (STARVE!!!) if they didn't purchase him the proper food. While all this was going on the other supermarket patrons stood around, mouths agape, murmuring to each other and remarking on the ridiculousness of the scene. One women's cell phone conversation was overheard. "It's MC Hammer and Webster," she said with a disgusted and perplexed tone. "It appears that they're fighting with Corey Feldman about what groceries to buy."
Upon the roomie's return to the manse, the real fun began. Corey and Andrea had a knock-down drag-out fight about vegetarianism. Corey's argument made so little sense that I find it difficult to even convey, but I will try. The short and long of it was that he was a staunch vegetarian for moral reasons and NOT health reasons. He thinks animals should be loved and petted and not killed EVER, for any reason. He then proceeded to tell Andrea that she was basically a horrible animal killer. She was surprisingly gracious, brushed it off, and told him that he was welcome to his opinions. She then noticed his shiny leather shoes, and asked him how he rationalized wearing leather if he was a vegetarian for "moral" reasons.
"Leather," he screamed, "Has NOTHING to do with being a vegetarian for moral reasons." "Plus," he explained, "they were a gift, so it doesn't count."
"A gift?" Andrea asked with a condescending note in her voice. "How about if I give you a big fat steak as a gift, then will you eat it?"
"IT'S NOT THE SAME!!" Corey whined, and stomped off to call his fiancé for what seems like the 100th time that day.
I'm liking Andrea more and more. I actually thought she was being rather generous offering him a steak. At that point in the show all I would have been willing to offer him as a gift would have been a big fat kick in his gigantic head.
Jerry Manthey of "Survivor" showed up soon after the argument. She was greeted with lukewarm hellos from her fellow cast members. Corey made it a point to be excessively rude, seemingly following her around for the sole purpose of putting her down and making her feel like a "lesser" star. Brande, Jerri's fellow Playboy Playmate, was the cattiest of the females...stating that she was incredibly disappointed that the seventh roommate was a "nobody."
After a touching heart-to-heart in the living room, followed by a chorus of Kum Bah Yah...the roommates went to bed and the world was at peace for eight hours or so.
They next morning the roomies got up and discovered that the "Surreal Life Fairy" ( aka the producers of the show) had left them a "Surreal Life Newsletter" and several pans of brownies. The "Surreal Life Newsletter" kept them abreast of the goings on in the house, and basically spread gossip in the manner of the National Enquirer. The headline of the newsletter screamed "Brande says, "Jerri Manthey is NO Robin Givens." Huh? I must have missed something because I have no idea what that means. I don't feel so bad, because it didn't appear that the roommates knew what the headline meant either. It certainly sounds scandalous though doesn't it? One of the other "stories" in the newsletter was entitled "New Roommates give Brownies to Neighbors."
About 10 minutes later, somebody said, "I have a great idea! Let's go deliver brownies to the neighbors."
What followed was one of the saddest, most pathetic scenes I've ever borne witness to. The seven roommates marched along the street, pounding on doors, and thrusting plastic pans of brownies in the faces of their wealthy neighbors, many of whom sensibly did not open their doors. Webster and Hammer led the group, like two mismatched drum majors directing a band of nerds. I felt sorry for them. So sorry for them in fact that I could no longer watch, and changed the channel for about ten minutes to catch part of a rerun episode of Queer as Folk on Showtime.
After a healthy dose of gay soft porn, I was ready to return to our friends on The Surreal Life.
I don't know what I missed, and frankly I don't care. When I returned to the show, the roommates were readying themselves for some sort of dinner party. They arrived in the backyard, and found that the producers had prepared a lavish feast of sushi for the group. Hammer, Webster, and Corey were disgusted. Why were they disgusted you may ask? Well, this was no ordinary feast of sushi. This sushi was elaborately displayed atop a scantily clad, and very well endowed, Asian woman. Again you may ask....Why were those three men disgusted? Saki, sushi, and near nude females are usually not something that most normal men oppose to. It has been well established however that Hammer, Webster, and Corey are nowhere near normal. Not liking sushi, loving god and family, and not wanting to exploit women were some of Hammer's reasons for fleeing the scene and running back into the house. Webster was made so uncomfortable by the situation that he couldn't stop giggling like a hyena. He immediately joined Hammer back in their room. Corey also begged off, stating that he wasn't allowed to enjoy the company of another woman unless his fiancé was present. He also made it a point to let us know once again that he was a VEGETARIAN and couldn't have enjoyed the food anyway. (I swear, if I hear him say that one more time...) Always the hypocrite, two seconds later he let us in on the knowledge that if his fiancé WAS there, he would have been able to enjoy both the woman AND the food.
Corey's Rules of Vegetarianism:
Killing of animals is immoral and wrong. Addendum 1: You can wear leather if it is a gift. Addendum 2: You can eat meat if sex is involved.
Do I have that about right?
The four remaining roommate's attempt to enjoy their meal was thwarted by the three opposers, who, continuously throughout the meal, returned to the table to tell the diners how immoral and wrong it was to be gawking at a near-nude woman. These sentiments failed to ring true with me, as all three
naked-sushi opposers gaped and stared the "poor exploited women's breasts" during the entirety of their diatribe.
Some drinking happened after that, and some more fighting. Corey placed about 43 more calls to his fiancé, during the last of which he asked her to marry him on live TV during the last episode of the show. "Honey," he said, "Just think, our marriage will be seen by the entire world!"
Corey, I have some news for you..the "entire world" is a bit of a stretch. Keep acting as you have, you'll be lucky if all seven members of the cast show up for the ceremony.
The episode ended with what I'm sure was intended as dramatic revelation, but turned out to be nothing more than Corey Feldman trying to get some camera time. Corey gathered his roommates around and announced with gusto that he would be getting married on the show!!! Brande looked confused. Vince Neil yawned and popped open a cold beer. Hammer and Webster missed the announcement entirely as they had tucked themselves into their bunk beds promptly at 8pm.
The End.
Next week on The Surreal Life:
Some nudity may be involved, bikinis are definitely involved, and Vince Neil drinks more beer. Most importantly, someone makes Corey Feldman cry.
I will put myself through he pain of watching this show again for the sole purpose of finding out who caused Corey's pain. I plan to send that person a heartfelt letter of congratulations and thanks.
My name is Jennifer, and I am a reality TV addict. By Jen
I have been a reluctant, yet avid, fan of reality television since its onset many years ago. In 1992, I watched with innocent eyes as MTV premiered The Real World to skeptical audiences. Unknowingly beginning a trend that, 11 years later, has spiraled wildly out of control. I unfortunately have been caught like a deer in headlights for the entirety of this 11 year evolution. I watched each season of the Real World with religious fervor, and when MTV decided to add Road Rules to its reality repertoire, I jumped on the bandwagon without skipping a beat. Embarassed, I kept my addiction quiet, though it was quickly revealed that I wasn’t the only one watching. It soon became clear to producers that TV viewers as a whole seemed to be a voyeuristic lot, and it therefore came as no surprise when the major networks finally opened thier eyes and eventually picked up on the trend. With the premiers of such shows as Survivor and The Mole, reality television broke through into broadcast TV, and there was no stopping it. The onset of each new season brings us a seemingly endless supply of this increasingly sensational and entirely ridiculous world, and my addiction is constantly fed.
It was fed especially well last night.
JOE MILLIONARE WHO IS OUT FOR LOVE? WHO IS IN IT FOR MONEY? Romance and reality intertwine as 20 women travel to France for a whirlwind romance with a man whom they think is a dashing millionaire. What will happen when the truth is finally revealed that he is a just a regular "Joe" and his wealth is a facade? Will his true love accept him for who he is, or reject him in search of greener pastures? As this handsome, young, eligible man begins his search for "The One," he discovers which of these women are out for true love and which are just interested in his bank account in JOE MILLIONAIRE…
Will his chosen companion reject him once she learns the truth, or will true love win out?
Following ABC's wild success with The Bachelor, FOX too has decided to hop aboard the love train, throwing in the aforementioned exciting new twist to make things really interesting. In the premier episode last night, we met Joe Millionaire (aka Evan), and watched as he bumbled around his borrowed chateau, clumsily pulling the wool over the eyes of 20 gold digging women who were so busy mentally tallying up their fortune that they failed to notice that Mr. Moneybags didn't know his middle name, let alone how to properly mount a horse or waltz around a ballroom. After the end of a nauseatingly boring, yet strangely compelling hour, Evan narrowed down the field to a mere 12 ladies, a choice seemingly based solely on breast size. Next week...Catfighting and crying!! Meow! Sign me up.
Sad that you missed Joe Millionaire? Don't fret! Network television never disappoints! Premiering in the upcoming weeks are a whole slew of bad reality programs in which you can get your fix.
The Bachelorette
Not missing a beat, ABC picks up right where The Bachelor left off, with ...The Bachelorette. This gem of a show stars Trista, the rejected finalist from the first season of The Bachelor. She's not letting being dumped on national television get her down! Trista is "still single and optimistic about love," and looking to find a man. Good luck Trista. Good Luck. Hopefully one of the men you spend two weeks with will ask you to marry him and you will live happily ever after. Realistic AND romantic. Sigh.
Meet the Folks
Those crazy matchmakers at NBC are at it again. Meet the Folks is back, and badder than ever. Have you ever liked a guy, and thought to yourself, "Gosh, I really wish I could compete for his love with eight other girls, have frightening secrets revealed about myself on national television, go through a lie detector test in a scary basement, and then have his parents tell me that I am or am not good enough to be with their son." ?? Then this is the show for you. See the website for details about how you too can be humiliated in front of millions of viewers.
High School Reunion
Ever want to re-live high school for all eyes to see? Well the WB is letting 17 former classmates from the Oak Park/River Forest, Illinois Class of 1992 do just that on their new reality series High School Reunion. The tagline reads: 17 Former Classmates; 14 Days on an Island; 11 Lingering Crushes; 6 Old Scores to Settle; 5 Amazing Transformations; 3 New Loves; 2 Knock-outs; 1 Marriage Proposal.
I watched the premier. I saw: 1 day on the island, 3 makeout sessions, 2 dates, 1 breakup, lots of tears, 3 washed up jocks with beer bellies, receding hairlines too numerous to count, and a bunch poor saps willing to whore their lives out for a shot at being on national television.
The Surreal Life
Saving the best for last, I reveal to you...The Surreal Life. A brief description says it all:
The recipe for The Surreal Life is a simple one: Take seven bigger-than-life celebrities from every genre of the entertainment industry - rap music, heavy metal, feature films, sitcom, drama, and even reality television itself. Throw them together under pressure. Stir.
Trapped without transportation, cell phones or personal assistants, they must interact with each other, share bedrooms and bathrooms, do household chores, go grocery shopping and prepare meals together. The cameras never stop rolling, so the power struggles and personality clashes are all captured on film - along with the very real new friendships.
The familiar faces include:
MC Hammer, Emmanuel Lewis, Brande Roderick, Corey Feldman, Gabrielle Carteris, Vince Neil, and Jerri Manthey.
A group camping trip, "Naked Sushi" night, a softball game, a unique backyard talent show and a surprising Hollywood wedding ... it's all part of everyday life - and it's always surreal.
I have to give The WB the blue ribbon on this one. Never has a reality show combined everything I look for in bad reality television and thrown in washed up celebrities to boot. It's too good to be true. This is the ultimate, the best, the Sistene Chapel of reality TV. The possibilities are endless. Just imagine... What will happen if rap star-come-preacher MC Hammer has to share a bathroom with Motley Crue's Vince Neil? Will Webster get the top bunk or the bottom bunk? What will Playboy Playmate Brande Roderick wear to bed? Will Corey Feldmen get laid? Hopefully on January 9th at 9pm all these questions, and more, will be answered. I for one know I will be watching.
Still a fan of the old standards? Not to worry. In addition to all of these exciting new and innovative series, you can rest assured that you will still be able to view all your favorites. Survivor, Fear Factor, Big Brother, American Idol, The Osbornes...They're all returning once again to rot our minds and provide thrilling water cooler conversation. Best of all, and most important in my eyes, The Real World still continues to plug along in its unprecedented 12th season. Minus, of course, is any semblance of reality whatsoever. The time is long past when we witnessed roommates inhabiting sparsely decorated apartments and scraping together money for food. These new kids live in an Ikea showroom on the 20-something floor of a posh Las Vegas Casino. Their biggest hardship seems to be the fact that they stay out too late every night dancing, drinking,and media-whoring. In and of itself, that's not so bad, but their hangovers render them so exhausted that they are too tired to behave dramatically enough to merit extended periods of camera time.
In “The Day I Turned Uncool – Confessions of a Reluctant Grown-Up”, essayist Dan Zevin gives a witty account of his personal experiences with aging. Through twenty-four confessions ranging from “I take pride in my lawn,” to “Expanding my horizons isn’t worth the hassle anymore,” Zevin juxtaposes his adult days with a wilder, less responsible time.
Not your average adult, Zevin makes the clear distinction between “regular” grown-ups and reluctant ones. “Regular grown-ups lead regular lives,” he explains. “They fret about their 401(k)’s and lose sleep over their receding hairlines. They use words like ‘interface’ and ‘multi-task’, and they are not even kidding.” Zevin, a self-proclaimed reluctant grown-up who still wears sweatpants he owned in college, admits to such reluctant grown-up behaviors as hiring a cleaning woman, joining a health club, and going out for dinner as a replacement for going out. Each confessional chapter paints an amusing image of the author, who would rather walk his surrogate daughter, a labrador named Chloe, than visit his friends with children.
Zevin is a pupil of the world, bumbling his way through etiquette courses, wine tastings, and golf classes. “I liked Ben,” he says of his golf instructor. “He had a pleasant laugh and the patient demeanor of a special ed teacher. Which was a very good thing, since I was going to be his pupil.” In “Back to School”, he incredulously relates his first experiences as an adjunct instructor at a local college:
On my first day of school, the kid sitting next to me raised his hand and made the following inquiry: “Professor, does that count toward our final grade?” I, for one, was taken aback, not so much by the question, but by the odd understanding that it was being asked to me. He may has well have called me Your Honor, or Captain, or some other title best reserved for serious, responsible figures of authority. “Professor”? That would suggest I have something to profess.
But he does have something to profess. Not many people, reluctant grown-ups or “regular” ones, are as undaunted as Zevin by the beckoning hand of Father Time. His ability to laugh at his fears makes him fearless, and his humbling tales lessen any misgivings we readers may have about our own advent into adulthood.
Zevin spins his tales from suburbia in a manner to which anyone can relate. In “The Grass Is Never Greener”, he laments his codependent relationship with his lawn:
Whenever I am faced with a looming work deadline, I’ll seize the opportunity to procrastinate with a little mulching. The effect is a lot like doing laundry: it’s never what you should really be doing, but it makes you feel like a productive and worthwhile human being nonetheless.
You don’t have to own a lawnmover to nod your head in empathetic appreciation.
Zevin joins the ranks of a refreshing new breed of writers who straddle the worlds of non-fiction and fiction through their humorous memoirs. Like fellow essayists David Sedaris and Amy Vowell, Zevin showcases his talent for storytelling, cleverly introducing a motley assortment of characters from neighborhood handymen, passive-aggressive etiquette instructors, and anti-social dog-walkers.
In one of the most entertaining selections, “Not My Junior Year Abroad”, he visits his brother, who is spending a college semester in Spain. Suffering from an unfortunate eyeball injury, Zevin compares his experiences as an early-to-bed, visually-challenged adult traveler with embellished entries from his college journal. The adult-aged Zevin watches HBO in his hotel and soaks his eye in tea, while the college-aged Zevin pens idealistic prose from his semester abroad in Copenhagen. College Zevin’s marijuana-induced journal entries reveal the truths of life, (“NEIL YOUNG = GOD”), whereas reluctant grown-up Zevin’s do not carry the same zeal. “The most intense drug experience I’ve had in recent memory involved double-dosing on ibuprofen,” he admits, “which, incidentally, you’ve got to try if you – like me – have been jonesing for a mind-blowing anti-inflammatory.”
Readers looking for earth-shattering subject matter need not look here. Zevin admits to steering clear of politics, philosophy, and just about any topic other than sports and his dog. Although some may prefer more socio-political commentary from their reading list, in an age of global warming, imminent war, and human cloning, Zevin’s sophomoric confessionals offer refreshing asylum from the world’s problems.
Zevin’s anecdotes strike the perfect balance between realism and hyperbole. He challenges us to rage against the dying of our youth, and reminds us that although we all grow older, with the right attitude, we can remain young at heart. Despite the book’s title, Zevin’s uncanny ability to make us laugh at the absurdity of adult life makes him anything but uncool.
Crying on My Own Dime - With a Little Help From the White Rapper By GxxP
Disclaimer: I am not a film critic, nor do I play one on tv. I don’t know all the fancy tricks to keep a movie’s secrets intact while writing about it. So if you don’t want to know anything about 8 Mile, stop reading now. Bookmark the page and return after you’ve seen it too.
I almost never go to the movies, maybe because of how I feel right now after seeing 8 Mile. Of course I knew before the film began that there would be a rap showdown and that Em’s character Rabbit would triumph, but that didn’t make it any less wonderful when it happened. Formulaic? Maybe. Worth spending $10 and 2 hours of your life on? Absolutely.
What I liked about the film. For starters, Eminem is hot. I’m a fan but I don’t watch much television, so I never get to see Eminem in interviews. More to the point, I never get to see him just being a person – cracking jokes, feeling sad, being himself. And after all, this movie is all about Marshall Mathers being himself. His brooding silences, his raw talent, his tenderness – this is what makes him hot, much more so than a shirtless photo on the cover of Spin.
I was impressed by every character in this film. The supporting cast did a fantastic job, from the inspiring yet straying love interest Alex, to the wayward mother, her deadbeat boyfriend, Rabbit’s motley posse, and his best friend Fortune. When Fortune and Rabbit fought I felt genuine sadness, the sadness I’ve felt when I’ve misunderstood or hurt my own friends, or when they’ve done the same to me, no matter how good our intentions were at the time. In the end, Fortune was a true and forgiving friend, and the beauty and purity of unconditional friendship moved me.
I really liked that Alex was going to leave Detroit in the end, that Rabbit wore a tattered shirt and went back to work in the factory after the rap-off. I like that no one walked off into the sunset, because that’s the way life is, that’s REAL.
Which brings me to what I didn’t like about the film. I didn’t like that for the majority of the film I felt the hopelessness, the angst, the ennui of Rabbit’s life. Of course this only means that the film was doing its job, because those ugly moments are reality; it just happens to be the reality I don’t often think about. Those are the moments and the feelings that I tend to put aside – I mostly write about the funny nuances of life, because that’s the side of life I prefer to think about, the world I strive to live in. Humor is what gets me through watching loved ones suffer from cancer, friends dying, unavoidable wars brewing, the men I love not loving me back. Without humor, reality would tear me apart, and I’d be crying all the time like I was when I finally got home and was able to show my true reaction to the film. Maybe that’s why I don’t go to the movies very often – because there’s so much sadness in the world that it seems unnecessary to pay $10 to feel more of it.
Perhaps this film hit me at just the right time. Sure, it was just a movie, and a somewhat predictable one, yet I enjoyed – and didn’t enjoy – it nonetheless. Life is about all the things 8 Mile exposed – oppressive, suffocating sadness, and unadulterated, exalting happiness. One almost cannot exist without the other. The film made me want to write for a living, to send my essays to journals, websites, anybody who will give me a chance to speak. Rabbit's decision to pursue his rap career, and to do it on his own, is the artist’s way. And deep down we’re all artists, we just don’t always let that part of us out. This film reminded me how important it is to let the artists inside us shine. To be expressive, thoughtful human beings, not just in our songwriting or painting or writing or rapping, but in every aspect of our lives – even during those hours when we’re sitting in a cubicle and doing the last thing we feel passionate about, so that we can have homes to dwell in, food in our bellies, and experiences that become the fodder for our art.
That’s why I created this site, that’s why I carry a purple notebook with me everywhere I go. Even if what I write doesn’t seem like art to anyone else, it sure seems like art to me.
If Eminem can make me cry, what can I do to affect someone else, even if for a brief moment? And more importantly, what can you do? Just as Rabbit discovered, it’s best we go find out, rather than sit around talking about it. So take off those pen caps, check those mikes, and show me, don’t tell me, baby. Wurd.
We attended a Stevie Wonder concert last night. Well...actually, let me rephrase that. We were supposed to attend a Stevie Wonder concert last night.
A few weeks ago Gina IM'd me with some wonderful news. "STEVIE WONDER IS PLAYING AT THE BEACON!" she excitedly yelled at me in capital letters. "YOU'RE KIDDING ME!" I screamed back. Sure enough, Stevie Wonder and friends were playing on October 28th. Tickets were purchased, and my expectations were high. The lineup of acts included Stevie (of course), Faith Evans, Roberta Flack, and DMX...not too shabby. I had visions of Stevie sitting regally behind his piano, singing his heart out all the classics that I love. I pictured his "friends" joining in occasionally, mixing things up with interesting arrangements of "Sir Duke" and "Superstition;" DMX throwing down raps, giving props to the King himself. Unfortunately, upon our arrival at the Beacon, I realized that perhaps my expectations were too high.
As we walked up the stairs to the balcony, I spied a poster telling us that not only were the aforementioned performers going on last night, but we were also to be treated to performances by Montel Jordan and Naughty by Nature. I expressed to my fellow concertgoers a concern: Since there were so many acts on the bill, I was worried that there were only two possibilities. Either each performer would get only about 20 minutes for their set, or we would be there till about 4am waiting to see the (alleged) headliner, Stevie Wonder.
We sat down in our seats to the strains of Montel Jordan singing "This is how we do it." (A nice little blast from the past, but not exactly one of my absolute favorites.) Montel, clad in a tight sleeveless shirt and sporting a single spandex glove, bid us adieu, and the emcee ran onstage.
Rather than immediately introducing the first act, he treated us to the first of many diatribes regarding the coalition that had been the catalyst for last night's performance, the AEC (The Artists Empowerment Coalition). From what I gather from the countless lengthy speeches that were given throughout the night, the AEC is a group of musicians brought together to champion the causes of other musicians. I'm sure it's much more involved than that, but to be honest, largely due to the fact that I was so excited to see Stevie, the whole thing was completely lost on me. Finally the emcee stopped his speech and introduced the next act, Naughty by Nature.
Now don't get me wrong, ain't nothin' wrong with a little "OPP" or "Hip Hop Hooray" to get a party going, but for the life of me I could not recall any other hits that they could possibly dazzle us with. Sure enough, Naughty came out rapping "OPP," followed that up with about 10 minutes of filler, and closed (shirtless) with "Hip Hop Hooray." No surprises there.
We were then treated to another emcee (possibly a politician) extolling the virtues of the AEC, and finally Roberta Flack was announced. I thought..."Okay, finally, here we go." Unfortunately for Roberta (and may I emphasize, NOT her fault), her performance was pretty bad. I don't know who or what to blame more. The faulty sound system? Definitely. The fact that her band was likely provided by the theater and had quite possibly never rehearsed with any of the performers? Of course. How about the fact that Roberta's back up singers were chatting amongst themselves throughout the entire performance? Roberta looked great, and could still belt it out, but unfortunately the feedback from the microphone was so horrible that it seemed to be causing her visible pain. The sound was so bad that she basically threw in the towel for "Killing Me Softly," leaving the audience to sing the majority of the song. I don't blame her one bit, we probably sounded quite good considering the fact that we didn't have the faulty sound system and half-assed back up singers to contend with. While we half-heartedly applauded as she left the stage, I felt bad for Roberta, but mostly just hoped that they could get their act together before Stevie went on.
When the next emcee was finished with his speech about the AEC, the next act was finally announced. I expected DMX or Faith Evans to follow, and was quite surprised when it became clear that Stevie Wonder was the performer he was hyping us up for. Stevie was led on stage to his keyboard and (after a quick little snippet about the AEC), began to play. On a positive note, he sounded as good as ever, and looked great. Mostly, I was awed that I was actually in the same room as him. Sadly, the positives ended there. The sound problems that occurred during Roberta's performance were largely fixed, but the performance itself was so disorganized that I found it difficult to even look at the stage. The main problem was that there were no fewer than 143 people joining him for his performance. It appeared that everyone, from the back up singers to the clean up staff, had somehow ended up on stage with Stevie. I like to think that Stevie gave them all permission to join him in his performance, but Gina wisely stated that it was entirely possible that they were only up there with him due to the fact that he couldn't actually see that they were up there with him. I felt as if Stevie had been taken advantage of. I had no doubt in my mind that all the backup singers and musicians (and Beacon Theater ushers) that had snuck on stage would all be going around bragging that they had performed with Stevie Wonder. Fortunately for the audience, an intelligent sound technician had sensibly turned off (or turned down) all the backup singer's microphones, so we thankfully could not hear what I'm sure was a horrendous cacophony of 143 voices singing along in unison. His performance was short, a couple of songs, and then a quick medley of some of his biggest hits. As he walked on stage I felt incredibly disappointed. There was a whole hell of a lot of buildup for just 15 minutes of Stevie Wonder. What was most disappointing was the the realization that came to me a few moments later when we saw that the concert was not over, and were floored to find out that Stevie Wonder was not the headlining act.
Faith Evans performed next, and she was fine, though the feedback problem seemed to have returned.... I wasn't really paying attention. I actually left during the middle of her performance and completely missed DMX. I just couldn't get over the shock that Faith Evans and DMX received better billing than Stevie Wonder. I wonder if perhaps this is the beginning of the end? Are eventually all the great performers going to be relegated to being sandwiched between a semi-washed up Hip Hop act and a gangster rapper? Who will be the next one to fall? Is Stevie's next stop going to be playing carnivals? I'd like to think that this is not so, and that perhaps Stevie was simply doing his duty as a musician by lending his well respected name to a cause that he felt strongly about. For the sake of all the great musical artists, I hope that it's the latter not the former. I have high hopes, but I did just hear some disturbing news from my mother after relaying this story to her. Apparently The Beach Boys recently performed at the Lynden County (population 8000) Fair this summer. Ouch.
Last night I had the good fortune of seeing Jason Mraz perform at Mercury Lounge. In addition to being Stevie's good friend, Jason is a very talented entertainer. Stevie had played Jason's music for me before, but my appreciation for it exploded upon seeing him live. His stage props are limited -- one guitar, one back up singer/djembe player (a curious character named Toca who sports a waist-long mane of black hair and wears sunglasses at night). These, and a perfect honey-sweet voice, are the only tools Jason needs to create a mosaic sound of folk-scat-pop.
Jason's songs are beautifully simple. His voice is gentle yet strong; his lyrics are poetic yet humorous. His "less is more" performance is replete with anecdotes between songs and playful bantering with Toca. With his red baseball cap atop his head and his Grand Old Opry t-shirt on his back, Jason looks a bit like the goofy kid that everyone loved in high school. And, according to Stevie, he was. Hopefully his label Elektra won't file him under "boy sensation"; with John Mayer and an enthusiastic gaggle of female devotees in attendance at Monday's show, one can see how easily it can happen. But Jason is so much more than a one-man-boy-band. He's an exceptionally talented artist who doesn't take himself as seriously as he takes his music -- important ingredients for a successful career, which Jason seems just on the verge of realizing.
Jason is touring across America now, and his studio album is scheduled for release on October 15. If you’re near a destination city on their itinerary, you are one of the fortunates who can experience both Jasons – the album Jason and the on-stage personality. Make sure you do both if you can.
Four or five years ago, when I first attempted to watch the HBO original series “Sex and The City”, I was bitterly disappointed with the program. I thought that the constant parade of bed jumping and label-whoring displayed by the characters on the show was a false representation of what life for single women in New York City is really about. Now, thanks to my friends (who more or less coerced me into giving the show a second chance), I can say that I am a regular viewer of the program. Unlike the show’s characters, I’m not a socialite, I don’t live in a fancy apartment or go to the Hamptons on the weekends, and I don’t have a zillion pairs of strappy shoes that I wear about town. I do however find striking parallels with some of the things that happen to the SATC gals and my own friends – contrary to my original impression, I think the show does a decent job portraying snippits of New York City living, the sex part and otherwise.
This season’s schedule was abbreviated, and as Sarah Jessica Parker’s womb grew they scrambled to tape episodes that wouldn’t show Carrie with child (what a doozie that would have been to work into the plot.) A shortened season warrants a shortened review, so here are my top-level thoughts on Carrie et al:
Carrie – Jen and I agree, Sarah Jessica is getting, for lack of a better word, a bit campy this season. Most of her lines seem to be delivered in anticipation of a ba-dum-dum-tsssssh. It’s as if she’s become a caricature of herself. Still, Carrie can be witty, charming, and in spite of her occasional neuroses (the Aiden episode? Yeeesh, that was painful), she’s an endearing character. Favorite moment – when she scared away Burger at the Gay-Straight wedding. When he meets her later on the dance floor, I found the moment, although a bit contrived, sweet. After having a recent brush with the butterflies myself, I can say that she portrays a hurt-before but head-over-heels-in-crush dreamer… perfectly.
Miranda – Miranda has become my favorite. Perhaps it’s the brilliance with which Cynthia Nixon portrays her – I find her to be the most believable character on the show. I’m also a big fan of dry wit, and Miranda’s about as dry as the desert (I know, I was just there.) She definitely scores laugh out loud points with me every episode. But there is also a sadness to Miranda, as she develops into a caring mother while her friends struggle with the adjustment to having a baby around to spoil their good time. She had some challenging moments this season, but we’ve seen her successfully return to work, and even get laid a few times. Way to go, Miranda. Favorite moment – during one of their breakfast chats, she encourages Samantha to think of the baby carriage as a big purse. She was also quick to interject, while on the topic of sex – “Use a condom!”
Samantha -- For some reason, whenever I used to take those silly online quizzes about which SATC character you are most like, I would be paired with Samantha. Maybe it’s my liberal attitude towards sex and relationships that align me with the queen of the one night stand. Either that, or it’s the vibrators. Favorite moment – returning the Sharper Image neck massager. Up until this episode, I was going to write about a similar experience I had with a Brookstone “massager”. Thanks to this episode, I don’t have to. (Why won’t they admit the true purpose behind this product? WHY?! Pick up a Brookstone catalog and look at where the models are rubbing these items… their elbow, their neck, their back. Anywhere but where the product was designed to be used. It’s like Victoria’s Secret denying their catalog is for men. Wake up!)
Charlotte -- Charlotte has never been my favorite character, probably because I find her prim demeanor boring and two-dimensional. She’s always dreaming about romance and all the fluff that people like me are skeptical of. But this season, she turned herself around, and got a poorly dressed, sloppy, bad mannered bed buddy. Obviously this guy was her exact opposite, but her fears about being in public with him remind me of some anxious moments I’ve experienced before introducing Jerry and Stevie to guys I’m interested in (or just having sex with.) Somehow having good looking gay friends puts a lot of pressure on a girl to bring the hotties home. The boys have kept me in line… so far… but I can see how a guy like Charlotte’s can sneak in under the radar. Favorite moment – when she plants a kiss on Harry in his bedroom just moments after turning her nose up at his love den.
So that’s it, the highlights and the lowlights of Sex and the City this summer. Too brief for anything important to develop, it was a fun little season, and ended too soon. I just hope I don’t start watching the Anna Nicole Show now that it’s over.
The New York area has hosted an abundance of concerts this summer, and I’ve gone to every single one I could muster the cash for, usually with Jen in tow. Since June I’ve seen George Clinton, Morcheeba, Incubus, Moby, David Bowie, Eminem, Me'shell N'degeocello, The Roots, Outkast, Polyphonic Spree, Mary J. Blige, and more – everything from funk to glam rock to gangster rap. We have a few remaining concert tickets in our possession, but for the most part the summer concert series is coming to a close. It ended on a perfect note this Saturday in Prospect Park, and we, along with some drenched fellow music appreciators, were there to soak up the music and the rain.
The Celebrate Brooklyn benefit concert was somewhat ironically entitled the Unlimited Sunshine Tour, and featured Cake, De La Soul, some bands I had heard of (Modest Mouse, The Flaming Lips) and some that I had not (Kinky and the banjo-strumming filler act – I think they may have been called the Hackensack Boys.) The proceeds from the nearly $40 ticket price went toward supporting the free concerts and activities in Prospect Park throughout the year, so we felt good to be doing our part to keep events free for our fellow New Yorkers. Because it was raining on Saturday, Jen, her 19-year old sister Julia and I decided to arrive late to the show, rationalizing that if we were going to get wet, we’d prefer it to be while dancing to the bands we wanted to see the most. With hats on our heads and mini-umbrellas in hand, we set off for the Prospect Park Bandshell, and were blessed with overcast, yet dry skies, upon our arrival. The banjo boys were warming up the crowd before De La Soul. We surveyed the 4,000 person long line to the beer tent, concluded that we didn’t need a drink that badly, and found a place to stand before De La took the stage.
De La Soul played a decent enough show, but they’ve clearly lost a bit of vocal range since Me, Myself and I hit the airwaves back in 1989. (You know that Woa oh oh oh oh oh part? Well, they could only hit “Woa oh”, and left the remaining oh oh’s to the crowd. Not pretty.) It was fun but maybe I’m just an old fashioned girl that prefers a little live music at a concert rather than 3 guys walking back and forth across the stage. Regardless, the DJ spun all of our favorite old school tunes and the obligatory special guest sauntered in from stage right – in this case, Dres, the lead singer from Black Sheep, added some vim to the set. Still, it wasn’t quite as exhilarating as I’d expected, and by the end of it we decided to face the challenges of the beer line and get a bit of a groove on for the rest of the show.
When the Flaming Lips hit the stage the sun (what sun?) had set and the night sky was a perfect backdrop to their ironic style and unusual stage presence. The lead singer, Wayne Coyne, sported a tan fitted suit and clearly had a penchant for the macabre, as witnessed by the fake blood dribbling down his face during one of the songs (forgive me for not knowing the name of the song, but up until this show, I wasn’t much of a follower of this band.) He threw glittered confetti onto the stage and into the crowd, and an extremely close up camera attached to the mike stand allowed us to follow his every facial expression, which were varied and entertaining. Apparently the band had enlisted several people dressed as large animals, just like the ones you see at a kid's birthday party or an amusement park, who bounced around both sides of the stage and danced little jigs. We liked the chick and the cow, although the penguin, pig, and frog weren't bad. Between the animals, the dry ice, and the images projected on the huge screen behind the band, there was a lot to take in at this show. If that weren’t enough, they covered Can’t Get You Out Of My Head by Kylie Minogue, and the looping image on the video screen of a naked woman falling down just about summed up the empty repetitiveness of the song (although, I still love it. I really do.) The Flaming Lips were interesting, funny, and they sounded good too. I was pleasantly surprised.
By the end of their set, the skies had darkened and the rain was coming down. Hard, this time. Really hard. At least half of the audience split, and Jen, Julia and I conferred to discuss the options. Jen and I had seen Cake before, but it had been at Roseland, and the sound and the crowd had sucked so badly I had considered writing an apology to the band on behalf of all the bridge and tunnel assholes at the show, asking them to give New York another chance. It wasn’t necessary, since they were the brainpower behind the Unlimited Sunshine tour, and as the headlining act, they also had to deal with a torrential deluge during their show. Julia really wanted to see the band, and on a trip to the porta-potty, confided in me that the conditions at the show were superior to those of most fraternity parties she'd been to that year. I realized she was right, and we decided to stay. Our hats and umbrellas were no longer doing us any good – the rain was coming down so hard that even the inside of my closed purse was soaked (still is a bit damp in there… ugh.) Miraculously, the beer line
