I do not envy the writers of Rescue Me. For 6 seasons they’ve had a male lead whose only significant acting experience is The Thomas Crown Affair and Operation Dumbo Drop. Since season 1 the plot lines have become so intricate and tangled that it wouldn’t surprise me if Denis Leary appeared as himself during an episode, paying a visit to cheer up Tommy Gavin. And lest we forget the prompt they got the first day “Self-destructive firefighter struggles with his own demons against the backdrop of a post-9/11 New York City and FDNY.” What a dream job; write about America’s most recent national tragedy while making the flawed main character a member of our country’s most sacred civil service profession.

Understandably, the show lost its way a little bit after the first season. It became less about the job, and more about Tommy Gavin, the sarcastic alcoholic we all love despite his twin-tower size deficiencies as a human being. In seasons 3 and 4, the show devolved to a softcore porn starring Denis Leary. Every episode another gorgeous woman was inexplicably fighting for the attention of drunken, already married, Tommy Gavin. Everything Tommy did was an act of selfish gratification, only mitigated by the occasional bout of self loathing.

This season opens up with [SPOLIER ALERT] Tommy recovering from the gunshot wound he received from his Uncle Teddy during the season 5 finale. Tommy has several new pitfalls to maneuver around this year, and fortunately, none of them have involved Tommy Gavin’s withered Irish ass having sex. When he leaves the hospital he comes home to find that his oldest daughter has taken up the family pastime: drinking herself into oblivion. Franco has made himself a fixture in the family during Tommy’s absence, endearing himself to Janet. Lou is forced to deal with health problems stemming from his weight. The firehouse is threatened with the axe due to budget cuts. Oh, and did we mention that Tommy went to Hell when he died momentarily on his way to the hospital? Well, he did and it makes for some pretty interesting conversation.

Sure, some things haven’t changed at all. Tommy is still a struggling alcoholic, Janet is still a hypocritical bitch, Sheila is still bat-shit insane, and sexual relationships still provide a majority of the dramatic fodder. Peter Gallagher guest stars as a priest who provides Tommy, and the show, with some balance and good advice. With all these elements, the show should see its best season so far.

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Besides revealing that the AP photo staff has probably multiple people on the reality TV beat, Wednesday’s New York Times article on the genre by Television Critic Alessandra Stanley rested on the affirmation that, while sounding a bit like “a knell of civilization’s end,” the content of reality TV is nothing new and needn’t cause “panic.”  It also seemed written by someone making sure her audience knew she was smarter than her subject matter.

Stanley manages to use a handful of obscure, three- and four-syllable words, reference Jacqueline Kennedy’s “cultural artifact” of a hat, draw a comparison to a Gelett Burgess poem, classify MTV as “horative,” and refer to Jersey Shore as a “Bart-Simpsonish tonic” to a more boring reality show. (One of those three-syllable words is “odalisque,” which Stanley uses to describe the figure of Kim Kardashian, who has Armenian heritage.  Is that racist? Sexist? Or just another chance to prove she knows more than just this basal form of television?)

Odalisque

Odalisque?

The core of Stanley’s thesis is that reality shows are born from the same desire that the society pages once fulfilled.  Celebutantes are nothing new, Stanley intimates. Those people, like Kardashian, were famous for being famous a hundred years ago.

Stanley’s foci aim at primarily two shows (or groups of shows): Jersey Shore and Kim Kardashian’s various reality ventures.  Herein lies the problem.  Stanley is writing about two different sub-genres of reality TV: original and extra crispy (fried twice?).  The original (including: Jersey Shore, The Real World, Survivor, Bachelor) are shows that take laypeople, place them in extraordinary situations and record them, making them famous.  Extra crispy (including: Keeping up with the Kardashians, Being Bobby Brown, Paris Hilton’s My New BFF)—VH1 calls this “Celebreality”—gives television shows to people who are already famous precisely because they are famous, even if they’re only famous for being famous.  Follow?

But in either case, reality TV is nothing like looking in from the outside of high society—even the depths of high society.    Newbie stars like Snooki are propelled to fame, putting them at the same bars and parties as Kardashian and Paris Hilton, but we still only see glimpses of that side in the tabloids and society pages. Those media, as they always have, satisfy voyeurism.    That’s not what’s being satisfied when we watch reality TV—not precisely.  Unlike the crimes and romantic dalliances committed by these stars when the cameras turned on them have telescopic lenses, what we see on TV is a completely new kind of performance art, one that develops in real time.  One spurred by desperation and a desire to stay “relevant.”  One that makes up its relevance as it goes.

The cameras that record reality TV are welcome.  We like watching what people will do to keep those cameras there, not what they’re doing behind closed doors.

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I’ve been flipping back and forth between PBS, “Hoarders” , and something called “Hardcore Pawn” for about 20 minutes now. On PBS, Joan Baez is talking about some really heavy, sad stuff she remembers from the Vietnam/Cold War era.  Every time I stop on her, I giggle.  Sorry Joan.

Here are a few choice Baez-isms.

“I could feel my nightgown flutter…”

“It was the biggest carpet bombing that took place…”

“I couldn’t get enough of it.  I couldn’t stop screaming.”

“It went so deep.”

That’s.  What.  She.  Said.

Channel surfing is a lot like falling asleep reading Kafka (or Jedediah Berry); you don’t really know if what you just experienced was read or dreamed.

Between commercials, conflicting plot lines mashed together, genres separated by chasms, wits by the same, it’s easy to forget you’re in the middle of listening to a really sweet, uplifting, culturally-important woman when you’re also in the middle of listening to this guy scream at his security team:

"What is this, Candy Land?!"

And then argue with his kids about whether or not to buy a Jagermeister dispensing machine (Jagermeister dispensing machine owner’s pitch: “Yeah, you put a little Jagermeister in and you get a little bit of nice Jagermeister out.”).

If Joan Baez is culturally-important, this is culturally-impotent.  When you hop from the latter to the former and hear a middle-aged woman talk about fluttering nightgowns and carpet bombings, it’s nearly impossible for the reaction to be anything other than, “ohmigod, did she just say what I think she said?”

And then you realize she’s talking about the wind from explosions and explosions.

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I must admit, I was bad this week.  I didn’t adhere to my usually strict diet of trash, meaning: I didn’t watch much TV.  Instead, I holed up in my air conditioned bedroom and watched documentaries on my laptop.  Decidedly.  Not.  Trash.

Sorry.

But I knew I had a job to do, and I did get in a bit of “reality” TV this week, just enough to counteract the call to activism that the pro-weed docs (The Union, Grass) stirred in me and the drive to live the inspirational and pared down lifestyle of an adorable, old, art-collecting New York couple (Herb and Dorothy).  I’m none the more pretentious is what I’m trying to say.

The theme this week is “Jersey”.  New Jersey, that is.  “That’s not really a theme,” you might say, “it’s more like a setting.”  But you’d be wrong (especially because Jersey Shore takes place in Miami).  “Jersey” is a state of mind.  It involves screaming, hot tempers, frequent use of terms like “sleep with one eye open” or “watch your back,” overuse of the word “like” and/or a generally limited vocabulary, an over-exaggeration of one’s accent to the point that it requires translation [see figure A], gaudy adornment of one’s body (or baby) [see figures b and c], a puffed-up pride in one’s ethnicity (in this case, Italian), artificial darkening of one’s skin tone [see video], and a hyperbolic proclamation of devotion to one’s family, biological or otherwise.  In the last couple of years, this state of mind has contributed to the development of an entirely new sub-genre of “reality” TV.

And it’s probably exactly what you think it is.  Scenes like these (click to enlarge):

{figure A}

{figure B}

"yo ma, i got brass knuckles on my shirt ova heya" {figure C}

Supported by advertisements like this:

Last year, during the mass hoopla over the first season of Jersey Shore, Mike Bruno at Entertainment Weekly (who, as an Italian American, was offended) said,  “Reality television has a long history of exploiting idiots for viewers’ entertainment, and in many ways this is just more of the same.”

No shit, Mike Bruno.

Except, are they being exploited?  Or do they know exactly what’s going on?  The second seasons of both the aforementioned MTV’s Jersey Shore and Bravo’s The Real Housewives of New Jersey have both gotten underway.  If it could be said that the stars’ idiocy had been exploited during their inexperienced freshman seasons, it’s true that now, they are in full control of how their idiocies are wielded.  Kind of.

On both shows characters–and I think we can use that word in both definitions–have either gotten a taste of fame or, if they are not actually members of the cast but have inserted themselves in the life of one or more cast members, are chasing after it.

Never has the latter been more true that with Kim G., a fifty(sixty?)-something, wealthy nut job who has “played both sides of the fence”, in “reality”-speak.  She became “friends” with Danielle, a cast member of RHONJ and then “threw Danielle under the bus” after Danielle told her this:

Danielle is disliked by all other members of the cast because she was once, in their words, a “prostitution whore,” plus some other stuff about her being a con artist. The fact that she hangs out with this guy can’t help:

proud parolee

Kim G. told one of these cast members that Danielle wanted to smell her mom (translation: look for her biological mother) and Danielle found out.  When Daniel confronted Kim, Kim G. flipped out and this happened:

What are “fakon square tits?” you might think, “breasts made of vegan meat substitute?”  No no.  That’s just the exaggerated accent I mentioned earlier.  Kim G. actually said, “fake and square tits.”

Fame is a bitch prostitution whore.  It makes well put together middle-aged women into sadistic, twisted bitches.  Daniel was wrong about one thing when he said, “Kim showed her true colors.”  These shades of Kim never would have developed had she not been subjected to the artificial TV lighting.  Integrity is not printed with archival ink.

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We read a lot. Here’s what we think you should be reading this week.

Seven Years as a Freelance Writer, or, How To Make Vitamin Soup

Central Midfield Role
He’s not a tackler, nor is he a creator. He doesn’t score many goals – in fact, he rarely looks to get into the box. So what does he does a central midfielder do in 2010?

We Are All Snooki
Snooki, Franco, & Lady Gaga representing the “performance artist.”

The ecstasy of influence: A plagiarism
An oldie but goodie from one of our recent favorites about writing and influence, plagiarism, tribute, and attribution.

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If you’re like me and missed How I Met Your Mother the first time around, Lifetime’s website presents you with the chance to catch-up on old seasons (now on Season 4).

In addition, in case you missed the premiere, Season 8 of Project Runway started last week – (OMFG, Casanova?!) – and you can watch that or their newish original series, Drop Dead Diva, which may be the best (most girlie?) lawyer show on television right now.

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My parents used to attempt to limit my television intake.  Right through high school, they would yell down the stairs at me when they heard the set click on.  When I was nineteen and on a lazy hiatus from college, they’d do the same.  In their opinions, hours during which you are physically idle should be spent on more phrenic pastimes, like reading books laced with boderline-racist suppositions for what really happened to the Native Americans (sorry Mom and Dad, it was on the coffee table last time I was there).  So when I finally moved out, I was free to gorge myself on all the television I wanted. I’ve spent at least a couple of hours almost every day since doing just that. Trust me. I’m an expert.

One of the reasons my mother gave me to explain their unjust and completely atrocious not-that-much-TV rule, at least up until I was twelve or so, was the proverbial “It’ll rot your brain.”  And whenever she said it, I felt universally justified, ’cause I knew even then that’s just something parents say because they’ve heard people playing parents say it on sitcoms.

In fact, television itself, especially the constantly evolving medium of “reality” TV, is a perfect place to see people acting like people they’ve seen on TV: incorrectly parroting cliches, projecting stereotypes on themselves, churning out rote advice that would help no one, things like this.  It’s a subtle art, picking up on these things, one that requires deft avoidance of manipulation, a constant awareness of influence (in the forms of cameras, editing, adrenaline, what have you), and a penchant for schadenfreude.  Judging by ratings, lots of people think they like it, but a taste for trash is an acquired one. Once you realize it’s garbage, it doesn’t go down easy.  This is what Mom and Dad never understood.

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In Memoriam:

Steinbrenner on Seinfeld Part 1

Steinbrenner on Seinfeld Part 2

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No, James Cameron has nothing to do with this one, thank Zeus’s beard. Check out the Emmy Award winning anime on which M. Night Shyamalan is basing his newest labor of arrogance love and you won’t be disappointed by the clever dialogue, excellent pacing and plot, and truly unique storytelling, or you’ll have all the tools you need to call bullshit on Shyamalan’s adaptation due out July 2nd in effing 3D.

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Perception is a funny thing. While going for a jog this morning I caught a glimpse of myself in the store window. Son of a—Is that what I look like running? Up until that point my mental projection of how I looked running was cool. Instead, according the antique shop store window, I looked like an old wounded hippo. I looked fatter than I thought I was. I looked way uncool. Like the total opposite of cool. My wrists were limp, hands flopping up and down like I had rubbed novacaine all over them, my back arched like I was 9 months pregnant, my belly protruding out like I was 6 months pregnant, and a look on my face like I hadn’t taken a shit in 9 1/2 weeks. My running stride looked like it belonged to Lawrence Welk. I came to the realization as I turned home that I ran like I was completely out of shape and it was mostly because I am. When I got home, I looked at myself in the mirror, turned this way and that and thought I looked normal. It became clear to me that maybe I didn’t look weird running, maybe it was the window acting like a funhouse mirror, distorting my image. But what is most frustrating is that it’s really impossible to know without simply asking someone, “Hey, do I look weird when I run?” And even then you can’t entirely trust their answer, they may be lying to make you feel good or terrible. Truth is, it seems like our perceptions of ourselves are crisp, clear, stable, definite. But they’re not. They’re gray, fuzzy, indefinite. All it takes is one sideways glance in a semi-reflective store window to prove that. Though I’m sure that never happens to you because you know, you’re hot and shit. But obviously, your perception of Mac is much different than most everyone else’s. I know this because everytime I mention to people that your dating Mac, most don’t believe me. I have to look it up on my iPhone for them and show them. The most typical response is WTF! I won’t lie, that was my first response, but I now understand it. He’s an interesting, out of the spotlight dude. That can be comforting, especially when you’re blowing up and shit.

M.I.A, Born Free from ROMAIN-GAVRAS on Vimeo.

M.I.A.‘s newest video, Born Free, is receiving a lot of attention, a lot of criticism, much Mac a few years after Ri¢hie Ri¢h. Here’s a brief recap of some of the most interesting comments, opinions, and critiques of the video.

The Huffington Post:

MIA released her new video for ‘Born Free’ on her website Monday, and it’s not easy to watch. The video shows U.S. soldiers rounding up redheaded men and boys and bussing them to the desert where they are brutally beaten and killed. Whether it’s a comment on the absurdity of genocide (of which MIA saw plenty during her early childhood in Sri Lanka) or a challenge to the idea of “other” in Arizona’s immigration law, it is startling even in the context of recent genre-bending music art-films.

The Romain Gavras-directed short is so gruesome (or political) that YouTube pulled it from airing in the U.S., and MIA took to Twitter to rail against her record label, Universal Music Group.

From the New York Times (This profile by Lynn Hirschberg deserves a critique all of its own and is given a pretty good one by Andrew Potter of Macleans):

Unlike, say, her performance at the Grammys, which was a perfect fusion of spectacle (a nine-months-pregnant woman rapping in a see-through dress) with content (Maya’s fervor was linked to the music), the video for “Born Free” feels exploitative and hollow. Seemingly designed to be banned on YouTube, which it was instantly, the video is set in Los Angeles where a vague but apparently American militia forcibly search out red-headed men and one particularly beautiful red-headed child. The gingers, as Maya called them, using British slang, are taken to the desert, where they are beaten and killed. The first to die is the child, who is shot in the head. While “Born Free” is heard in the background throughout, the song is lost in the carnage. As a meditation on prejudice and senseless persecution, the video is, at best, politically naïve.

From The Independent:

These days, every week seems to bring another music video that pushes at the constraints of taste and decency. Most recently, the promo for MIA’s forthcoming single “Born Free” has dominated column inches.

Using the persecution of ginger-haired folk as a crude metaphor, the US-based artist has set out to make a point about how we treat minorities; but with the ensuing furore her video has become the latest to use infamy to raise its subject’s profile. The music video has returned to its position as a key tool in pop awareness-raising.

That may have seemed like a non sequitur, but hear me out. The problem with the above critiques, and many others I didn’t bother to post, is their perceptions of what normal is, or what music videos or what artists and art should do. Take a look at the language used above to describe the video (‘not easy to watch’, ‘so gruesome’, ‘feels exploitative and hollow’, ‘the song is lost in the carnage. As a meditation on prejudice and senseless persecution, the video is, at best, politically naïve’, ‘pushes at the constraints of taste and decency’, ‘Using the persecution of ginger-haired folk as a crude metaphor’).

There are several problems with these descriptions. The use of hyperbolic descriptors suggests that there is a cultural standard for violence in media. That is easy to say, but much much harder to prove. The violence seen on cable television shows such as Cops, Jerry Springer, CSI, and many soap operas varies enormously. Night time television is no different: take The Shield vs. Law & Order, or 24 vs. Monk. The point is there is no standard. But to argue that a video pushes the ‘constraints of taste and decency’ or to implore that it is ‘so gruesome’ assumes that it is somehow different than the norm. I maintain that it is not.

But let’s go along with the idea that the video offends some people’s sensibilities. What exactly is offending about it? The easy argument is the nudity and the violence. But these are things we encounter on a daily basis in our culture. Perhaps not always so explicitly, but it’s all around us nonetheless. Couple that with the fact that this video was not aired on cable television, but rather released only on the Internet which would require viewers to actively seek it out and minimizes the amount of chance encounters that might offend those with delicate eyes and stomachs. So to simply argue that its violence and nudity is offensive or too much to handle is a lazy critique. The video was not forced upon you and so you have the easy option to avoid such insensible material and remain in your fairytale world of Justin Bieber and Jonas Brothers wind blown beautiful hair and prepubescent cantors. Coincidentally, M.I.A. has been quoted as saying that she finds J-Beeb’s videos more violent and offensive than her own. That may sound crazy, but inclined to think she’s on to something. I did feel like my eyes were raped after watching this video.

I contend instead, that the reasons for hyberbolic critiques of M.I.A.’s video are actually rooted in a deep unease with oneself. Or more accurately the difference between how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us. The video depicts state sanctioned profiling, torture, and execution without trial. These actions have been committed by many governments in the modern history of our world. M.I.A.’s comment on it is not new. She is not alone in condemning such actions. So why are so many people still uncomfortable with the video?

Since 9/11 our citizens have displayed a sort of patriotism and nationalism that hasn’t been seen since World War II. We have enormous confidence that our way of life is the best way of life. Our form of democracy is the best way to govern. Our freedom is the only freedom to have. We are the city upon the hill. The shining white tower of the west. We have the audacity to call our president the leader of the free world. And so when Romain Gavras creates a short film that depicts U.S. government forces profiling and rounding up young male redheads and subsequently executing them, those who love our country blindly, without the courage or sense to question the actions of our government, feel threatened. Their complicity is called into question and their response is to condemn the critique as disrespectful, without taste, gruesome, metaphorically crude, or naïve. No, Mila, it is we who are naïve.

A Tangent: This video was made about a year ago, well before the Arizona legislature passed laws allowing police officers to ask for naturalization papers to prove citizenship, effectively enacting a pass law, creating a giant loophole that makes profiling far too easy. It is coincidence that the video’s release came during the heated debate over the validity of such legislation. But it does not mean the coincidence is meaningless. Perhaps it makes Romain Gavras rather prescient, aware of how superpowers operate to maintain their power, what steps they are willing to take to protect their livelihood.

Do I think the U.S. is guilty of the actions depicted in the video. Not quite. Do I think M.I.A. and Romain Gavras are accusing the U.S. of such things. Not quite. Does the video depict something outside the realm of possibility, something not capable of occurring on U.S. soil?  Not quite. And perhaps that is why we squirm a little when watching “Born Free.”

Perceptions. Funny, eh, Mila? If Mac breaks you’re heart, you know where to find me…

Yours,

Kiren

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