YOU
SEE TOMATO, I SEE POTATO
The sheer notion of subtext even existing is absurd. I realized
this my Freshman year of college when the TA who taught my English
101 class devoted the semester to uncovering the hidden meaning
of Hollywood blockbusters like Terminator and Die
Hard. Then I had to come home to hear one roommate tell me
that Star Trek: Voyager is really about gay men on an
“adventure cruise” and another roommate tell me the
new Pearl Jam song is really about being addicted to crank (yeah,
right!). I refuse to believe that James Cameron’s fear of
technological progress inspired him to create a film to express
his concerns or that Die Hard was as successful as it
was simply because the screen writer had created an archetypal
villain/hero conflict designed to appeal to man’s primal
instincts and furthermore to America’s moral majority. It
was the explosions and the guns.
Anyone can take something that already exists and make inferences
and implications that suit their argument. Subtext is simply one
person’s lack of anything better to do and need to feel
intelligent, so rather than create any views of their own, they
look for what isn’t there.
So, I will now reveal to you the true meaning of Win Ben Stein’s
Money.
This quiz show is supposed give contestants an opportunity to
win wads of cash, right? More likely, it’s a cry for help.
It’s obvious to anyone who wants to see it that
the show actually represents the dysfunctional family unit. There
are a group of rival siblings (the contestants) all desperately
trying to gain the approval of their father (Ben Stein). And the
father will have nothing to do with them if they can’t live
up to his expectations, gleefully booting them out on their own
if they can’t cut it. Finally, one child, who despite having
surpassed his siblings still feels isolated and unable to freely
communicate with his dad (hence the isolation booth), has one
last chance to earn his father’s respect, but can only do
so by shaming the father of his proudest trait, intelligence.
Then there’s the mother (Jimmy Kimmel) who leaves the repressive
family because she feels her life lays elsewhere (on The Man
Show and Fox NFL Sunday and later Jimmy Kimmel
Live). So the father remarries a similar looking partner
(the other Kimmel) in a desperate attempt to recapture the good
times. Try as she might, this new mom can never replace the original.
The kids know it, the dad knows it, and I think she knows it too.
So eventually, the family crumbles (gets cancelled) and is replaced
by Beat The Geeks (which is, by the way, really about
the socialist theory politic).
- Robert Jenks 
AN OPEN
LETTER TO JOEL STEIN
About a year ago I made mix-CD composed of songs
about the moon. Almost all of them had the word “moon”
featured prominently in the title or chorus. I’d also like
to think that an underlying theme of celestial mystery ran throughout
the CD (except, maybe, for the 4 minutes of “Rodeo Moon”
by Toby Keith). I even downloaded a picture of the moon from someplace
called www.moonsociety.org (apparently devoted to colonization)
and put it in on the cover along with the title “Tune River”.
But a day after sending the CD, I was eating dinner when I realized
I’d forgotten an essential song by neo-folkie Josh Ritter!
Convinced I would never forgive myself, I smashed a plate and
screamed, “I don’t care what you will say in an article
a year from now Joel Stein, mixing CDs is my art and I will never
give up!”
A year later, Joel Stein wrote an article for Entertainment
Weekly declaring that custom mix CDs were just about “trying
to look cool” and that even good mixes were “inherently
evil”. He said he was fed up with all the custom mix CDs
he was getting from friends for holidays. Respectfully, maybe
it is Joel’s choice of friends he should be disgusted with,
not with this new age of musical liberality. If his friends are,
as he says, just “dragging MP3s from column A to column
B”, then he certainly has a right to be sickened. I don’t
know what software they’re using, but I sure as hell don’t
use dragging or columns, much less the inferior-quality of MP3s.
I’m guessing that if these friends of his were to make a
moon CD, it would consist largely of Pink Floyd, REM, and Creedence
Clearwater Revival.
A great mix CD should introduce the listener to new music but
with something slightly familiar mixed in. Just not “Bad
Moon Rising” or "Man on the Moon" familiar. Let
me say something about a CD I would make for Joel Stein, ignoring
for the moment the homo-erotic subtext of such an activity. I
would start him off with something he’s never heard before,
something spry but cynical, just like Joel. I would sprinkle the
middle with an odds-n-sods mix of indie-rock and almost-forgotten
70’s hits, plus just one traditional jazz song just to make
him wonder. Then, I would finish him off with a rousing number
by Alien Ant Farm, because I hear they really rock, and I want
Joel’s last memory of my CD to be “My belief in mix
CDs is restored and I’m sorry I… I can’t think
anymore, I’m too busy rocking!”
It is true that the nature of music has changed. People used
to associate the music on a record with the art on its jacket
and the feel of the bean bag while they were hearing it. People
used to associate the music on a CD, even, with the art in its
booklet and all the trouble it took to peel off the little silver
tab when trying to get it open for the first time. Now, it is
likely many people would only associate “Missundaztood”
by Pink with the “Gym Workout” playlist on their iPod.
I say, embrace this new age of portability and ease, but educate
yourself on the nuances of mish-mash, custom song collections
before going crazy with the new found power.
Personally, I would love for someone to give me a mix CD for
any holiday. Unless, of course, it’s all I get from that
person, in which case, they can stuff their cheap present where
the sun don’t shine, and I’m not talking about the
dark side of the moon.
-
Nathan Fuller
AN EVENING
WITH THE POPS
My dad came to town to visit last week, so as is
the tradition among two males with a thirty-five year age gap
and little, if anything, in common we saw a movie. At least that
way, we could attempt to bond by nudging one another in the ribs
with our elbows and saying, “I’m not seeing that,”
during the previews.
Eventually, we narrowed our choices to Identity and Bulletproof
Monk, or as my dad called the latter, “the sequel to
that Crouching Dragon movie.” I’m not sure if he even
recognized Chow Yun Fat, although I doubt it, since the only actor
he has ever recognized in the past is “Arnold Shwartzenhoggler.”
I imagine his confusion had more to due with “all the Chinese
guys flipping around” in the commercial which he said he
saw while watching golf.
After explaining to my father that Bulletproof Monk probably
wasn’t what he thought it was, we settled on Identity.
Being that it was a Friday afternoon, that the movie started in
half an hour and that I lived about 15 minutes from the theater,
I suggested that we should probably get going. Remember that time
frame because it comes into play two paragraphs down the way.
As we purchased the tickets, my dad explained to the 17-year-old
kid behind the window that the six-dollar price for a matinee
was “ridiculous” and in Dallas six bucks would get
you the ticket and a soda. I guess his complaint must still be
working its way up the corporate chain since prices haven’t
changed in the last two weeks.
We were in our seats for less than 3 minutes (I’m estimating
that on the basis I only saw one Sierra Mist word jumble pass
by of the 6 rotating ads on the screen). Then the previews started.
We sat through the standard five previews when my dad spoke in
what I call his “theater voice”. That is where he
leans over like he is going to whisper, then proceeds to increase
the volume of his voice as though I was still another ten feet
away rather than ten inches. “Sure am glad we got here an
hour early!” he sarcasitcated in my face. In his mind, arriving
on time is as the opening credits are coming to an end. I imagine
it’s that same mentality that might result in a hypothetical
and completely freaked out ten-year-old wandering DFW airport
in tears when my… I mean, the ten-year-old’s plane
arrived 20 minutes early. It probably also explains his confusion
over Bulletproof Monk and every other movie he as ever
tried to describe having only seen five second clips while checking
to see if the commercials are over as he flips back to the Kemper
Open from C-span.
A bunch of other stuff happened that evening, but I’m getting
a little sad thinking about that 10-year-old boy, so at this point…
whatever. I assume anyone who has read up to this point has only
done so because they saw this was the last paragraph and figured,
“What the hell. I can make it.” It’s for that
stick-to-it-iveness that you deserve a big finish. You really
do.
- Robert Jenks
|
