We here at The Varsity headquarters have spilled a lot of tuition-levied ink on the cultural condition of Advancement. Defined by possibly high on angel dust critical guru Chuck Klosterman in a 2004 Esquire column, Advancement is the act of an "Advanced individual - i.e. a true genius - (who) creates a work that 99 pecent of the population percieves as bad." Artists who fulfill expectations are considered "predictable" and ones that do directly the opposite of anticipated are "overt". The true genius is the one who transcends all expectations to subvert their artistic realm. Perhaps most importantly, Advancement bears no relation to the Generation X insistence upon "irony". This is why Flavour Flav can be considered Advanced but the show "Flavour of Love 2" is overt, at best.
The Varsity believes that Advancement is the only way to understand post 9/11 art (9/11 being the foundational event of the Advanced era). Think of the age we live in, the insistence upon "this is not a pipe" type self-refentiality in 00 music ("this is not a single", "this is not a lead singer", etc.), indie snobbering towards things that are actually good (like the band Jet) and nostalgia for the things we've never even experienced (television show box sets). Therefore as a kind of belated yet culturally imperative holiday treat, the Varsity brings to you a 2006 round-up of the most predictable, overt and Advanced artifacts in music, film and television. In 2006, the paperback version of "Lunar Park" by Bret Easton Ellis was Advanced, Bob Dylan's Alicia Keyes shoutout in "Modern Times" was overt and Britney Spears lady-garden flash was, contrary to popular belief, predictable. Mini-hamburgers are now post-modern and the jury is still out on Harmony Korine.
Year of Advancement - Music
Predictable: "Sam's Town" by The Killers
In the much anticipated follow up to "Hot Fuss", Las Vegas' most famous Mormons don't necessairly do what was expected (i.e. more New Order) but instead take an even more predictable road, trying to emulate the Boss. While this does not discount the awesome power of single "When You Were Young", the rest sounds like half-founded regurgiations, like Bruce singing in the shower with even lazier instrumentals.
Overt: "Love" by The Beatles
Sound engineer Sir George Michaels creates new Beatles songs by layering on old ones, achieving a creepy effect for the soundtrack to a new Cirque Du Soleil show. The effect is "Yesterday" with guitar solos from "Abbey Road", recognizable starts and endings from other Beatles tunes restructured into others. Disjointed, bizarre - and it doesn't even work.
Advanced: "Ys" by Johanna Newsom
A title inspired by a mythical city in Brittany, "Ys" is only 4 tracks that average 11 minutes in length. Newsom's voice sounds like a haunted mountain woman on the brink of schizophrenia, and the hushed orchestral and jazz-tinged instrumentals compliment her harp playing expertly. Both child-like and utterly experienced, "Ys" is most Advanced because it echoes everything else unique - "Astral Weeks" by Van Morrison, "Pet Sounds" by The Beach Boys and probably 2006's "The Eraser" by Thom Yorke. The complicated histronic lyrics only add to the equation of sheer madness.
Year of Advancement - Film
Predictable: "The Departed"
Big stars, typical scruffy cop dialogue about cocaine and the employment of cell phones as a major plot device. While Martin Scorcese delivers an edgy, well-paced thriller that will actually keep you guessing, it doesn't "depart" from any thrillers he's made before it, even when "copping" from the original Hong Kong film. As usual, Jack Nicholson plays himself.
Overt: "Snakes On A Plane"
The internet takes over, as snarky responses from disenfranchised bloggers made up false dialogue for a film about snakes originally titled "Pacific Air Flight 121". What results in a film trying too hard to appease people who have already made all the jokes they can think of while drunk.
Advanced: "Stranger Than Fiction"
Not just because Will Ferrell is an excellent dramatic actor. Not just because the meta-narrative aspects of the screenplay deconstruct themselves. Not just because Spoon's score is probably only three songs. "Stranger Than Fiction" is the most Advanced film of the year because every aspect of the film is meticulously orientated towards exploration of the concept of narrative film itself.
Year of Advancement - Television
Predictable: "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" (runner up, "Ugly Betty")
If you've seen one Aaron Sorkin show, you've seen them all: characters walking and talking down hallways all to excessively boring effect. And this time, it's "funny".
Overt: "Survivor: Cook Islands"
In the 13th season of what felt like 100, producers divided up the reality show cast into teams of black, white, hispanic and asian members. What could have been an interesting anthropological endeavor ended up in reality show cliches. In the end, the same Survivor shanangins continued (alliances, humilation for chocolate bars, etc.) and an Asian dude won the cash.
Advanced: "Lost" (Season Three)
Whoa - there's another island attached to the previous island and the Others have cable?! The flashback structure of Lost and the duplicity of its characterization continue to make this show the most Advanced on television. Destiny, action and meaning of love are subverted to the landscape of a giant fated island in the middle of nowhere, where mysteries pervade and polar bears roam the earth.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Friday, December 22, 2006
Something I wrote in Grade 12
This is reactionary opinion piece on the Avril/Good Charlotte punk-lite fad of 2004. Blast from the past I know, but so was Grade 12 Writer's Craft.
Punk Rock is “like totally, oh my god!”
Punk rock is dead. Punk rock is alive. God, what the heck is punk rock coming to now anyways? I for one, am sick of every single 13 year old I meet singing the praises of the Clash, The Sex Pistols, and other trendoids like The Ramones and Rancid. When I was 13, I didn’t know anything about music, and that was the point. You aren’t supposed to. Adolescence (particularly early – the kind in which you alienate your entire being to become your friends) is a time of self-discovery. That is when you dye your hair pink, get that tongue pierced, and start dating the biker down the street. However, 13 year olds aren’t this cool yet. They aren’t supposed to know anything at all, which is precisely why they are essential to society. The purpose of these ignorami is to guilt trip their parents into buying every single crappy thing marketed on MTV under the sun. Sometimes I think that pre-teens are the only reason the economy still exists. So, when I see these know it all youngsters walking down my school hallways in Sex Pistol t-shirts exclaiming “Ashley, Sid Vicious like totally didn’t kill Nancy, they were so in love” it really pisses me off. How any girl in braces and a training bra can relate to a lousy musician who died of a heroin overdose is beyond me. Way beyond.
It is arguable that the punk rock lexicon has died since its advent in the early 70’s…leaving modern day society to cough up musical hairballs in reminiscence. Joey Ramone is dead leaving only a New York city street corner in his wake, Joe Strummer has passed onto the great rock festival in the sky, and ultra-horrible heartthrobs like those two insufferable front men of “Good Charlotte” (they’re super cute and twins!) have become the new “Backstreet Boys”. (While the real boy-bands, the ones who should be in the hearts and souls of prepubcents dry up in rehab nursing away their hangovers in big fat royalty checks…and Paris Hilton. And don’t even get me started on Justin Timberlake; the less said about that frat boy posing as Al Green, the better.) Suddenly all I see are twelve year olds head banging away to lyrics like: “He’s just a boy and I’m just a girl/Can I make it any more obvious”. Is Avril Lavigne really as punk rock as her fans dictate? Do striped ties and sideways trucker hats an instant delinquent make? And will these idiots ever actually listen to the bands they claim to love? It seems that the only thing more annoying than these wannabe punk rockers (the kind of morons that want to emulate heroin addicts, yet can’t go out past 9:30 on a school night), are the sincere punks. You’ve seen the type before – 35, balding on top but covers it up with a “Black Flag” baseball cap bought from the back cover of “Guitar Player”, insisting, “punk rock can change the world, man”. Punk rock may be trendy, it may be fun to listen to after you’ve done a lot of coke, but I don’t see how playing “Holidays in the Sun” and smashing your Fender strat can get South African rebels to stop trading AK-47’s to 5 year olds.
I mean, I like The Ramones as much as the next person. If I see someone in a CB-GB tank top, I can actually place the reference. But I don’t live my life by the music, and I don’t intend to rip up my Gap cablenecks and place safety pins strategically down the sleeves to suddenly become an individual. Mostly modern punk rock seems like an empty façade, a marketing tool for us jaded Gen Y’s, tired of Britney yet not ready to progress to Joan Jett. Let is be known that Richard Hell didn’t safety pin his Fruit of the Loom whites because he thought “Seventeen” could do an interesting fashion spread with the cast from “That 70’s Show”. The man didn’t own any other clothes! These idiots nowadays don’t realize what punk rock truly means. (If it does, in actuality, mean anything at all.) They can wear all the striped ties and sideways trucker hats “Urban Outfitters” has in stock. They may scream the values of The Clash to the rooftops if they want to, but they aren’t going to impress skeptics like me. (Not that they even care, which now that I mention it, is oddly punk.) While I do believe that music could save the world if it wanted to, I think that BMG is probably more concerned with selling another 8 billion records. The music business is just that – a business, and this “new punk” trend we are seeing is just a stupid way to make more 13 year olds feel cooler and accepted. Don’t fit in at school kiddies? All those horrible demands of homework and school dance-a-thons stressing you out? Well here you go, a Simple Plan record and a wristband to make you feel at ease. These new “pop punk” records just aren’t Joe Strummer approved. And don’t think for a minute that the cool kids are going to accept you instantly once you don the appropriate Sex Pistols t-shirt bought on sale at Hot Topic. Punk rock isn’t a safety net for the unloved, just a holding area for every freak and weirdo in the tri-county area. Avril Lavinge doesn’t give a hoot if your friends don’t want to sit at the same lunch table with you anymore; she just wants your money for her stupid merchandise, and a check for your eighty-dollar concert ticket. And that pin-straight hair and Rancid patches don’t impress her all that much either. But you know, thanks for trying. It’s really cute how you are trying to learn “Skater Boi” on the guitar and all.
Punk doesn’t mean anything, but it also means everything. Music like “I want to be sedated”, is not exactly Dylan but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t merit a certain tangible value. Will critics years from now still adore The Ramones? Of course they will. But will they revere all these new fads – the Avrils and Good Charlottes of our society, the post-punk post-pop post-everything and post-nothings of our current musical environment? I doubt it. Children loving punk rock is just as sad as 12 year olds claiming Tupac as their personal salvation. I don’t care what suburban high school you go to kid, you sure as hell don’t need a bulletproof vest to get you through your morning Algebra class.
I guess it’s kind of a mixed blessing, this new punk trend bludgeoning mixed media. On one hand, you get a whole lot more Johnny Rottens running amok through the halls on skateboards, the screaming 3 chord songs their excuse for not throwing garbage into the wastepaper basket. More low rise cargo pants, and creeping Converse shoes with new-wave shoelaces are appearing on 13 year olds – who by all accounts should be wearing miniskirts and tube tops right about now. These anti-Britney’s may be good for the school dress code, but are they typical? Does Britney stick her tongue out rebelliously at principals, giving the middle finger out of bus windows? Do these punk-rock children annoy the hell out of modern civilians like you and me – wishing we could listen to our Sigur Ros albums in the library at peace? At least punk rock poster boards play their own instruments (sometimes), write their own music (maybe) and pick out their clothing (with the help of a personal assistant). At least 8 year olds loving the Clash, is one step in the right direction, a way to limit the Christina Aguilera’s of the industry forcing them to buy nipple broaches and hot pants before they even get a chance to properly fill them out.
Still, I can’t stop hating every smug faced child with a tie I see. I still can’t stop wanting to murder these hordes of acne-faced hooligans, running around the mall like Avril did in her last video, clogging up HMV with their skateboards and rainbow wrist bands. Checking out every biography of the Clash from the library (got to earn that street cred before the kid next door does!) before I can. These insolent little twerps, our “new hope” for the future, our future lawyers and doctors and McDonald employees running running running, in the same bright red Converse sneakers I own, buying out all the CB-GB t-shirts before I can even try one on in size medium, and then unimpressed when I play “Sheila is a punk rocker” over the morning announcements. Maybe punk rock can save the world; maybe it is salvation for the human race in portable disc format. But it still doesn’t stop me from wanting to slap irritating infant terribles wearing kohl eyeliner, a la Avril. It doesn’t hamper my urge to throw textbooks at poseurs, dressed in punk attire, their tongue rings joining harmoniously in front of my locker as I drag my trumpet out for morning band practice. I, for one, can’t wait until 70’s funk comes back into vogue. (You’ll know by the new “Cosmogirl” with the headline “Funk is the new punk y’all!”) Ha ha kids! Just try wearing 18-inch platforms during your mandatory gym class volleyball games.
Punk Rock is “like totally, oh my god!”
Punk rock is dead. Punk rock is alive. God, what the heck is punk rock coming to now anyways? I for one, am sick of every single 13 year old I meet singing the praises of the Clash, The Sex Pistols, and other trendoids like The Ramones and Rancid. When I was 13, I didn’t know anything about music, and that was the point. You aren’t supposed to. Adolescence (particularly early – the kind in which you alienate your entire being to become your friends) is a time of self-discovery. That is when you dye your hair pink, get that tongue pierced, and start dating the biker down the street. However, 13 year olds aren’t this cool yet. They aren’t supposed to know anything at all, which is precisely why they are essential to society. The purpose of these ignorami is to guilt trip their parents into buying every single crappy thing marketed on MTV under the sun. Sometimes I think that pre-teens are the only reason the economy still exists. So, when I see these know it all youngsters walking down my school hallways in Sex Pistol t-shirts exclaiming “Ashley, Sid Vicious like totally didn’t kill Nancy, they were so in love” it really pisses me off. How any girl in braces and a training bra can relate to a lousy musician who died of a heroin overdose is beyond me. Way beyond.
It is arguable that the punk rock lexicon has died since its advent in the early 70’s…leaving modern day society to cough up musical hairballs in reminiscence. Joey Ramone is dead leaving only a New York city street corner in his wake, Joe Strummer has passed onto the great rock festival in the sky, and ultra-horrible heartthrobs like those two insufferable front men of “Good Charlotte” (they’re super cute and twins!) have become the new “Backstreet Boys”. (While the real boy-bands, the ones who should be in the hearts and souls of prepubcents dry up in rehab nursing away their hangovers in big fat royalty checks…and Paris Hilton. And don’t even get me started on Justin Timberlake; the less said about that frat boy posing as Al Green, the better.) Suddenly all I see are twelve year olds head banging away to lyrics like: “He’s just a boy and I’m just a girl/Can I make it any more obvious”. Is Avril Lavigne really as punk rock as her fans dictate? Do striped ties and sideways trucker hats an instant delinquent make? And will these idiots ever actually listen to the bands they claim to love? It seems that the only thing more annoying than these wannabe punk rockers (the kind of morons that want to emulate heroin addicts, yet can’t go out past 9:30 on a school night), are the sincere punks. You’ve seen the type before – 35, balding on top but covers it up with a “Black Flag” baseball cap bought from the back cover of “Guitar Player”, insisting, “punk rock can change the world, man”. Punk rock may be trendy, it may be fun to listen to after you’ve done a lot of coke, but I don’t see how playing “Holidays in the Sun” and smashing your Fender strat can get South African rebels to stop trading AK-47’s to 5 year olds.
I mean, I like The Ramones as much as the next person. If I see someone in a CB-GB tank top, I can actually place the reference. But I don’t live my life by the music, and I don’t intend to rip up my Gap cablenecks and place safety pins strategically down the sleeves to suddenly become an individual. Mostly modern punk rock seems like an empty façade, a marketing tool for us jaded Gen Y’s, tired of Britney yet not ready to progress to Joan Jett. Let is be known that Richard Hell didn’t safety pin his Fruit of the Loom whites because he thought “Seventeen” could do an interesting fashion spread with the cast from “That 70’s Show”. The man didn’t own any other clothes! These idiots nowadays don’t realize what punk rock truly means. (If it does, in actuality, mean anything at all.) They can wear all the striped ties and sideways trucker hats “Urban Outfitters” has in stock. They may scream the values of The Clash to the rooftops if they want to, but they aren’t going to impress skeptics like me. (Not that they even care, which now that I mention it, is oddly punk.) While I do believe that music could save the world if it wanted to, I think that BMG is probably more concerned with selling another 8 billion records. The music business is just that – a business, and this “new punk” trend we are seeing is just a stupid way to make more 13 year olds feel cooler and accepted. Don’t fit in at school kiddies? All those horrible demands of homework and school dance-a-thons stressing you out? Well here you go, a Simple Plan record and a wristband to make you feel at ease. These new “pop punk” records just aren’t Joe Strummer approved. And don’t think for a minute that the cool kids are going to accept you instantly once you don the appropriate Sex Pistols t-shirt bought on sale at Hot Topic. Punk rock isn’t a safety net for the unloved, just a holding area for every freak and weirdo in the tri-county area. Avril Lavinge doesn’t give a hoot if your friends don’t want to sit at the same lunch table with you anymore; she just wants your money for her stupid merchandise, and a check for your eighty-dollar concert ticket. And that pin-straight hair and Rancid patches don’t impress her all that much either. But you know, thanks for trying. It’s really cute how you are trying to learn “Skater Boi” on the guitar and all.
Punk doesn’t mean anything, but it also means everything. Music like “I want to be sedated”, is not exactly Dylan but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t merit a certain tangible value. Will critics years from now still adore The Ramones? Of course they will. But will they revere all these new fads – the Avrils and Good Charlottes of our society, the post-punk post-pop post-everything and post-nothings of our current musical environment? I doubt it. Children loving punk rock is just as sad as 12 year olds claiming Tupac as their personal salvation. I don’t care what suburban high school you go to kid, you sure as hell don’t need a bulletproof vest to get you through your morning Algebra class.
I guess it’s kind of a mixed blessing, this new punk trend bludgeoning mixed media. On one hand, you get a whole lot more Johnny Rottens running amok through the halls on skateboards, the screaming 3 chord songs their excuse for not throwing garbage into the wastepaper basket. More low rise cargo pants, and creeping Converse shoes with new-wave shoelaces are appearing on 13 year olds – who by all accounts should be wearing miniskirts and tube tops right about now. These anti-Britney’s may be good for the school dress code, but are they typical? Does Britney stick her tongue out rebelliously at principals, giving the middle finger out of bus windows? Do these punk-rock children annoy the hell out of modern civilians like you and me – wishing we could listen to our Sigur Ros albums in the library at peace? At least punk rock poster boards play their own instruments (sometimes), write their own music (maybe) and pick out their clothing (with the help of a personal assistant). At least 8 year olds loving the Clash, is one step in the right direction, a way to limit the Christina Aguilera’s of the industry forcing them to buy nipple broaches and hot pants before they even get a chance to properly fill them out.
Still, I can’t stop hating every smug faced child with a tie I see. I still can’t stop wanting to murder these hordes of acne-faced hooligans, running around the mall like Avril did in her last video, clogging up HMV with their skateboards and rainbow wrist bands. Checking out every biography of the Clash from the library (got to earn that street cred before the kid next door does!) before I can. These insolent little twerps, our “new hope” for the future, our future lawyers and doctors and McDonald employees running running running, in the same bright red Converse sneakers I own, buying out all the CB-GB t-shirts before I can even try one on in size medium, and then unimpressed when I play “Sheila is a punk rocker” over the morning announcements. Maybe punk rock can save the world; maybe it is salvation for the human race in portable disc format. But it still doesn’t stop me from wanting to slap irritating infant terribles wearing kohl eyeliner, a la Avril. It doesn’t hamper my urge to throw textbooks at poseurs, dressed in punk attire, their tongue rings joining harmoniously in front of my locker as I drag my trumpet out for morning band practice. I, for one, can’t wait until 70’s funk comes back into vogue. (You’ll know by the new “Cosmogirl” with the headline “Funk is the new punk y’all!”) Ha ha kids! Just try wearing 18-inch platforms during your mandatory gym class volleyball games.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Miss Amy Sedaris
Interviewing Amy Sedaris was the worst journalistic experience I've ever had. It was difficult, it was complicated and I think it was probably upsetting for both parties. As a huge fan of Strangers with Candy, her colloborations with her brother and basically everything the Sedaris family has ever created (including Paul's hardwood floors), I was absolutely floored to be able to interview Amy in preparation for Strangers With Candy. I begged the publicist to give me the green light for the Varsity and when the day came (taking an hour off work to prepare across the street), I thought it would be something important, life-defining, fulfilling. It turned out that Amy never answered her phone on the scheduled time. And let me tell you, after hearing "Leave a message and I'll never call you back" the 20th time, you start to wonder if journalism is something you were meant to do. Maybe you'd be best doing something else...like auto mechanics.
Regardless, I eventually got the opportunity to chat with Amy a few days later, the first of many interviews on an early Thursday. And it was terrible. I ran through all of my 20 questions in the first five minutes, out of sheer nervousness. Amy just wasn't giving me anything to work with. Exhausted, bored and generally confused - Amy was the burnt lightbulb after many electrician repairs...and it wasn't a gratifying experience for either one of us. Disapointing but it did teach me an important lesson: the people you idolize may not be all that amazing in real life. Anyways here's the article, published in the June 2006 issue of the Varsity (http://www.thevarsity.ca/media/storage/paper285/news/2006/07/24/ArtsCulture/Strangers.With.Attitude-2142683.shtml?norewrite200612220143&sourcedomain=www.thevarsity.ca ) - you'll have to ignore the comments, though. That's my younger bro's doing:
Amy Sedaris sounds exhausted. I don't blame her, considering that this is the first of 20 odd interviews she'll have to do today, which as a 45 year old celebrity on her first press junket for her first film, Strangers with Candy: the Movie can be more than a little exhausting. And yet, she's answering my increasingly nervous, increasingly uneasy questions almost cavalierly, rejecting my questions with flippant replies of "I don't know" and "maybe" with an air of ease. So maybe Amy's good at being the anti-celebrity.
For an actress who has worked with J-Lo and Sarah Jessica Parker (Sedaris has had bit roles on Sex and the City and in The Wedding Planner), Amy has carved out a niche for herself in the competitive world of stardom.
"It's difficult for me to answer that question", she replies when I ask her where she would sit at the Hollywood lunch table, after all Strangers with Candy is set in a high school. "I don't even think I'm on the radar. I don't know anything about Hollywood," she halfheartedly confesses.
But perhaps that's true. Sedaris hails from Raleigh, North Carolina where she originally planned to graduate from high school and then work in a women's correctional facility. It was her star-bound brother David Sedaris (an American essayist known for his hilarious tales inspired by his crazy childhood upbringing) who convinced Amy to make the leap from prison guard to improvisational theatre. Soon after Amy landed a steady gig with Chicago's revered Second City sketch-com troupe. It was at Second City that Sedaris met her future co-stars of Strangers with Candy, Paul Dinello and the now incredibly influential Stephen Colbert. Together, the trio worked on the sketch comedy show Exit 57 (search for it on Youtube and find an awesome sketch featuring Dinello and Colbert making out) and eventually created the cult hit Strangers with Candy for Comedy Central. Sedaris explains the three of them have been working together for 20 years, which is no easy feat.
For those not familiar with Strangers with Candy, the series chronicles the life of Jerri Blank, an ex-con/junky/prostitute (how's that for a COV?) who returns to her old alma mater, Flatpoint High, to start her life over. During the show's 3 year run, Blank learned many important lessons, like how having an eating disorder will give you more attention from family members, or what to do when people from your past (like illegitimate children) return to remind you of the person you once were. Strangers with Candy was a twist on the traditional after-school genre, playing up the saccharine values of the American dream while ridiculing them for all they're worth. There was a humanity to Jerri Blank that made you look forward to seeing her ruin her life time and time again. As Amy explains to me over the phone, "I never play anyone who doesn't like themselves."
here's a silence now on the other end of the line. Finally something I can work with. "That's really interesting Amy�" I reply. "I don't know, maybe", she says. And with that, the inner psychology of Sedaris' erratic character persona is dismissed in under a second.
Sedaris has had a long history of playing people who, while having high self-esteem, are incredibly hideous both on the outside and on the inside. Among her regulars is the character "Piglet" which she performs with her nostrils taped to her forehead, giving her the appearance of a barnyard animal. "Piglet" always unleashes a frantic stream of swear words at the audience, and attacks the world in a series of different ways. But Amy has also played it straight, acting for instance, as David Spade's stalker on TV's Just Shoot Me and as a key witness to on Law and Order.
"Do you like pretending to be other people?" I ask Amy, twisting the coil of the phone chord around my finger like a vise. "Yeah" she offers. "Because it seems like you spend, you know, a lot of time inside your own head�", I say. "I guess so�but probably not more than other people", she replies. More silence. I'm sweating bullets. "And do you, you know, like being inside your own head?", I press. "Well, where else am I going to be?" she shoots back. Ouch.
And so we soldier on, Amy's voice sounding increasingly more distant from her St. Christopher street apartment in New York City (she's lived in New York for 12 years and "likes it a lot"). She tells me that she takes on projects which sound like they could be interesting. If it's somebody else's work then she's adamant about only taking a small role because "I don't want to have any responsibility. But it's my own work then I want to be heavily involved."
In both the television and film version of Strangers with Candy, Sedaris is certainly a key player, heading the film as the main protagonist, a member of the writing team and apparently working through an increasingly frenzied publicity schedule to promote it. "What are you going to do next?" I ask her, completely in vain. "I don't know�I'm looking forward to taking some time off so I can go on vacation�maybe to the beach", she replies. Wow.
It's funny that a woman so animated on her regular David Letterman and Conan O'Brien appearances can sound so lifeless in conversation. Amy is known for her high manic energy, gushing with Dave about her new imaginary boyfriend Ricky, recipe for her famous line of cupcakes and detailing her life as a single woman with a pet rabbit to feed, Dusty. As she runs from one side of the stage to another, jumping out of her seat only to change personas and voices, the audience is amazed at the level of charisma and personality Amy can interject in a room. "You sound exhausted", I say to Amy over the phone. "I am", she replies.
Little Miss Brantford
As seen in the current/wonderous issue of the Innis Herald!:
When I was 9 years old, living in Brantford, Ontario (Canada’s capital of teen pregnancy and birthplace of the telephone!), I wasn’t very cool. I was the kind of kid who tried to star in the school play and run for class president, but ended up spending a lot of time reading alone at recess instead. I would spout $40 words in class, sing loudly in the church choir, but forget to hand in math assignments. I didn’t fit in. And because of this fact, I was always searching for ways to stand out.
About halfway through Grade Four, signs were posted in the Brantford Mall advertising the first annual “Little Miss Brantford Beauty Pageant”. The grand prize would be a $50 gift certificate to the Brantford Mall (which held a Biway and Bulk Foods at the time) and the honorary title of being Little Miss Brantford for a whole year, complete with a hypoallergenic sash and crown. Searching for Sultana raisins in Bulk Foods with my mother (life’s rough when you’re 9 years old), I saw the sign and was floored. My mother grudgingly agreed to let me participate in the pageant, visions of Jon Benet Ramsey dancing in her head.
Filling out the application form (my “greatest dream” at the time was to win an Academy Award in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion – I recited my impromptu speech and my mother would critique it, reminding me to thank my agent), I thought about my glimmering future as a pageant queen. First I would slaughter the competition at the Brantford contest, and move on to win the title of Miss Brant County. On I would go, netting the title of Miss GTA, Miss Ontario, to finally, blowing kisses to each of my fifteen boyfriends in the audience, winning Miss Canada. The world would be my oyster. It didn’t matter that my current best friend was my 6-year-old brother, too stymied by my control of the remote to ever complain that I was making him try on cardboard tiaras.
On pageant day, my mother fluffed my thick brown hair out to Joan Crawford-like proportions and gave me a Dynasty-era green velvet dress to wear, purchased at the mall’s Biway. I admired myself in the mirror and reviewed my lyric sheet of “Colors of the Wind” for the twentieth time. I was in it to win it. But backstage, my stomach grew tense. Standing next to me were the girls I was afraid to speak to in gym class. Tall, blonde, thin, with strictly “colors in the border”-type personalities, these were the girls I had to turn rope for when we played double dutch at recess. That is, when I wasn’t reading copies of “Sweet Valley High”, exiled to my place next to the swing set.
The judges were also pieces of work. One woman I remember had nails so long they began to coil over in curls, painted bright coral pink. A man (who I would later find out was in fact, the manager of Bulk Barn) looked like he had gotten lost on the way to Mark’s Work Warehouse next door. And the audience, mostly pageant mothers and my own, holding my brother (wearing a baseball hat this time) on her lap, looked both worried and excited for their insecure preteens, sweating onstage under the hot lights, set up in the Brantford Mall food court. Onlookers ate corndogs and observed, patting their newly pregnant bellies in amazement.
I watched a bevy of border-colourers recite their practiced lines about who their “favorite person” was (Jesus, obviously) and what their favorite thing was to do (rhythmic gymnastics). My palms began to feel gooey as I watched the judge with the coral talons awkwardly enter scores on pink “Little Miss” judging stationary. And then it was my turn. I felt as sweltering as the corn dogs I could see rotating at the food stand next to me. For the first time in my life, I wished I were eating a corndog instead of standing onstage.
Coral talons took the mike. “Contestant Number 5”, she announced, in a clasped voice. “What is your favorite day of the year?” This was easy. My mother and I had practiced this one while I was supposed to be studying for a test on roman numerals. “My favorite day of the year – “, I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “is Remembrance Day. Remembrance Day is my favorite day of the year because it is the day that brave soldiers died in the war. They gave so much for our country so that we could have the kind of autonomous (cha-ching!) lifestyle that we do today. And – “, I gave another pause, tension growing like kudzu, “it’s also my birthday.” The room erupted in applause. Just wait until I perform Pocahontas, I thought to myself. Those border-colourers had better watch their backs.
Time passed, rhythmic gymnastics were performed and eventually it was down to the final three: myself, and two of my most feared competitors, Sara and Kara. In Grade 4, there was a table of girls that sat together, trading in pencil crayons and stuffed animals for secrets about training bras and foreplay. The thing that made these girls the most powerful girls in all of Grade Four (they were basically “The View” of Cedarland Public School) was the fact that all their first names ended in an “A”. Sara, Tara, Kara and Tina (the exception) excluded me, an “R” from their table, forcing me to sit with all the other alphabetically undesirable. While these were not the same girls, the fact that they had what I didn’t already made me uneasy.
Sara, Kara and myself formed a little semicircle in the middle of the stage, trying to dodge the jabs of the coral taloned judge as she explained the events that had occurred today in the Brantford Mall food court. “Now we have three contestants left”, she announced dramatically onstage. “But only one can become Little Miss Brantford.” She held the envelope in her hands as I made eye contact with my mother who gave me a little conspiratorial wink. If I won, I told myself, I would be a role model for girls who read every recess. Maybe there was room in this world for young girls who couldn’t jump rope properly, who preferred the world of Sweet Valley High novels bought at garage sales and the companionship of a 6-year-old boy to reality. Maybe I really was Little Miss Brantford. Talons opened the first pink envelope. “And the second runner up is – Contestant Number Five, Little Miss Chandler Levack!” Pity applause was given out to Little Miss Congeniality as I received my second runner up prize, a $10 gift certificate to Bulk Barn (my Mom looked appeased) and a cheap plastic picture frame featuring a smiling girl who looked nothing like the savior I wanted to become. Sara and Kara moved closer to center stage as I moved father back. I can’t remember who won.
On the drive home, my mother tried to console me while I slunk low in my seat, $10 worth of Smarties melting in the sun of the Ford Windstar dashboard. “It’s because you weren’t ten”, my mother explained. “Both those girls were ten, I asked their mothers.” I shook my head, big pin curls practically smacking me in the face. “Anyways, it’s not the end of the world. You wouldn’t want to be Little Miss Brantford. Look what happened to that poor Jon Benet. Do you want to be murdered and found in our basement?” my mother added for good measure. I looked over at my brother, who stared at me from the back seat. “Am I ugly?” I asked him. He shrugged. I slunk back down and shoved another handful of Smarties in to my mouth. I could only wait for next year. Already my mind was reeling; as I pictured myself in the sash, standing victorious over all the Kara’s in the playground. I would be a year older, taller, prettier, a real Little Miss.
When I was 9 years old, living in Brantford, Ontario (Canada’s capital of teen pregnancy and birthplace of the telephone!), I wasn’t very cool. I was the kind of kid who tried to star in the school play and run for class president, but ended up spending a lot of time reading alone at recess instead. I would spout $40 words in class, sing loudly in the church choir, but forget to hand in math assignments. I didn’t fit in. And because of this fact, I was always searching for ways to stand out.
About halfway through Grade Four, signs were posted in the Brantford Mall advertising the first annual “Little Miss Brantford Beauty Pageant”. The grand prize would be a $50 gift certificate to the Brantford Mall (which held a Biway and Bulk Foods at the time) and the honorary title of being Little Miss Brantford for a whole year, complete with a hypoallergenic sash and crown. Searching for Sultana raisins in Bulk Foods with my mother (life’s rough when you’re 9 years old), I saw the sign and was floored. My mother grudgingly agreed to let me participate in the pageant, visions of Jon Benet Ramsey dancing in her head.
Filling out the application form (my “greatest dream” at the time was to win an Academy Award in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion – I recited my impromptu speech and my mother would critique it, reminding me to thank my agent), I thought about my glimmering future as a pageant queen. First I would slaughter the competition at the Brantford contest, and move on to win the title of Miss Brant County. On I would go, netting the title of Miss GTA, Miss Ontario, to finally, blowing kisses to each of my fifteen boyfriends in the audience, winning Miss Canada. The world would be my oyster. It didn’t matter that my current best friend was my 6-year-old brother, too stymied by my control of the remote to ever complain that I was making him try on cardboard tiaras.
On pageant day, my mother fluffed my thick brown hair out to Joan Crawford-like proportions and gave me a Dynasty-era green velvet dress to wear, purchased at the mall’s Biway. I admired myself in the mirror and reviewed my lyric sheet of “Colors of the Wind” for the twentieth time. I was in it to win it. But backstage, my stomach grew tense. Standing next to me were the girls I was afraid to speak to in gym class. Tall, blonde, thin, with strictly “colors in the border”-type personalities, these were the girls I had to turn rope for when we played double dutch at recess. That is, when I wasn’t reading copies of “Sweet Valley High”, exiled to my place next to the swing set.
The judges were also pieces of work. One woman I remember had nails so long they began to coil over in curls, painted bright coral pink. A man (who I would later find out was in fact, the manager of Bulk Barn) looked like he had gotten lost on the way to Mark’s Work Warehouse next door. And the audience, mostly pageant mothers and my own, holding my brother (wearing a baseball hat this time) on her lap, looked both worried and excited for their insecure preteens, sweating onstage under the hot lights, set up in the Brantford Mall food court. Onlookers ate corndogs and observed, patting their newly pregnant bellies in amazement.
I watched a bevy of border-colourers recite their practiced lines about who their “favorite person” was (Jesus, obviously) and what their favorite thing was to do (rhythmic gymnastics). My palms began to feel gooey as I watched the judge with the coral talons awkwardly enter scores on pink “Little Miss” judging stationary. And then it was my turn. I felt as sweltering as the corn dogs I could see rotating at the food stand next to me. For the first time in my life, I wished I were eating a corndog instead of standing onstage.
Coral talons took the mike. “Contestant Number 5”, she announced, in a clasped voice. “What is your favorite day of the year?” This was easy. My mother and I had practiced this one while I was supposed to be studying for a test on roman numerals. “My favorite day of the year – “, I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “is Remembrance Day. Remembrance Day is my favorite day of the year because it is the day that brave soldiers died in the war. They gave so much for our country so that we could have the kind of autonomous (cha-ching!) lifestyle that we do today. And – “, I gave another pause, tension growing like kudzu, “it’s also my birthday.” The room erupted in applause. Just wait until I perform Pocahontas, I thought to myself. Those border-colourers had better watch their backs.
Time passed, rhythmic gymnastics were performed and eventually it was down to the final three: myself, and two of my most feared competitors, Sara and Kara. In Grade 4, there was a table of girls that sat together, trading in pencil crayons and stuffed animals for secrets about training bras and foreplay. The thing that made these girls the most powerful girls in all of Grade Four (they were basically “The View” of Cedarland Public School) was the fact that all their first names ended in an “A”. Sara, Tara, Kara and Tina (the exception) excluded me, an “R” from their table, forcing me to sit with all the other alphabetically undesirable. While these were not the same girls, the fact that they had what I didn’t already made me uneasy.
Sara, Kara and myself formed a little semicircle in the middle of the stage, trying to dodge the jabs of the coral taloned judge as she explained the events that had occurred today in the Brantford Mall food court. “Now we have three contestants left”, she announced dramatically onstage. “But only one can become Little Miss Brantford.” She held the envelope in her hands as I made eye contact with my mother who gave me a little conspiratorial wink. If I won, I told myself, I would be a role model for girls who read every recess. Maybe there was room in this world for young girls who couldn’t jump rope properly, who preferred the world of Sweet Valley High novels bought at garage sales and the companionship of a 6-year-old boy to reality. Maybe I really was Little Miss Brantford. Talons opened the first pink envelope. “And the second runner up is – Contestant Number Five, Little Miss Chandler Levack!” Pity applause was given out to Little Miss Congeniality as I received my second runner up prize, a $10 gift certificate to Bulk Barn (my Mom looked appeased) and a cheap plastic picture frame featuring a smiling girl who looked nothing like the savior I wanted to become. Sara and Kara moved closer to center stage as I moved father back. I can’t remember who won.
On the drive home, my mother tried to console me while I slunk low in my seat, $10 worth of Smarties melting in the sun of the Ford Windstar dashboard. “It’s because you weren’t ten”, my mother explained. “Both those girls were ten, I asked their mothers.” I shook my head, big pin curls practically smacking me in the face. “Anyways, it’s not the end of the world. You wouldn’t want to be Little Miss Brantford. Look what happened to that poor Jon Benet. Do you want to be murdered and found in our basement?” my mother added for good measure. I looked over at my brother, who stared at me from the back seat. “Am I ugly?” I asked him. He shrugged. I slunk back down and shoved another handful of Smarties in to my mouth. I could only wait for next year. Already my mind was reeling; as I pictured myself in the sash, standing victorious over all the Kara’s in the playground. I would be a year older, taller, prettier, a real Little Miss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
