Daily affirmations of a word mercenary
Pop Vultura Category
What’s my skeleton in the closet? Pop culture. I’m facinated by pop culture. I like to pretend it’s a side-effect of my sociology degree: pop culture is an excellent barometer of where American culture is, since we seem to live on a steady diet of whatever entertainment crap we’re fed. The crap that’s popular tells you a lot about the people injesting it. But part of me thinks I just like it.
In 2000, I spent weeks researching boy bands, mostly The Backstreet Boys and Nsync, and wondering what it must feel like to be commodified that way. Imagine being a man nearing 30 (as Kevin Richardson, “the mysterious one” from Backstreet was at the time), seeing your face plastered all over products designed for girls young enough to be your daughter. What does it do to a man’s head to know that he’s being lusted after by girls so young that if their fantasies manifested, would be cause for his arrest?
“Madison Sapton wins a date with Kevin Richardson,” the headlines of the 9 year old’s fantasy would read. “Richardson arrested shortly thereafter.”
Granted, it’s hard to feel much sympathy for a manufactured pop star — and most people don’t. Few have wondered what it must be like to look over a merchandising managers shoulder and think “Jesus, that do rag they’re making with my face on it is HEINOUS!” But I think about these things all the time.
My mother, who lives in a media hole, has never understood my obsession with pop culture.
“There are people starving,” she would entreat me. “I can’t believe you want to talk about The Chipmunk’s Valentine’s Special when there are young women being sold into sexual slavery in the Philippines!”
My father and I, meanwhile, could wax on for days about Theodore’s weight issues and how it compared to America’s own increasing obesity. Young children need a chipmunk they can relate to, and Theodore’s paunch and Simon’s glasses provide all the comfort that young overweight, nearsighted, nitrous-huffing youth need.
My obsession with popular culture stands in firm contradiction with some of my other philosophies. I don’t own a television — and yet I’ll read obsessively about the latest boundary-breaking offense on reality television, and download Britney Spears most recent video off of mtv.com so that I can watch it at home. Despite the fact that I refuse to have my life owned by a television, my obsession with the television as a cultural barometer forces me to at least keep half-way abreast (half a breast?) with what America is watching.
It’s a strange neurosis, and I think it reeks of self-justification. Some of us mediaphiles (typically the overeducated ones) like to explain away our obsessions.
“What are you doing on the computer?” my husband will ask me.
“Um, just doing some research about the commodification of public personalities,” I stutter, as I madly try to close all the open windows filled with Justin Timberlake.
I try to think about these vapid things in a smart way. I scheme articles I could write about the commercialization of adolescent fantasy. I go for semi-academic musings about how long it will take Justin Timberlake’s audience to catch up with his music. These justifications are merely me trying to enable myself to follow my own pubescent obsessions.
The only television my mother ever watched with me was Beverly Hills 90210. I was the same age as the characters on the show, and mom and I sat down and watched it together when it first started airing — back when it was still a show with a moral at the end of each episode.
We watched the one where Brenda is jealous of Kelly’s cool mom, until it’s revealed around minute 42 that Kelly’s mom is an alcoholic. The show closed with a cast member earnestly looking at the camera and encouraging teens to reach out if they felt one of their parents had a problem with alcohol. I think a 800 number was given.
Afterwards, just as Aaron Spelling had intended, my mother and I had a little talk about alcoholism. It was a Very Special Episode, and my mother voiced her approval of the show.
Little did she know that over the four years of my (and the characters’) high school careers, Beverly Hills 90210 would devolve into a soapy sex-filled drama. People would get nose jobs! Virginity would be lost! Raves would be attended!
By the time I headed off to college, 90210 was a staple of my week, along with Melrose Place. My dorm mates and I would gather around the TV every week to cackle and gasp over the latest developments.
There were no morals at the end of these shows, unless you count such important messages as “Don’t fuck your roommate, or else the crazy bitch across the courtyard will, like totally flip!” or “If you drink the night before you have to work at the Peach Pit, you’re going to pay big time when Nat figures out you’ve been falling asleep on the job!”
My poor mother. This was not at all what she had intended. The only thing she managed to imbue me with was a stark skepticism of anything I saw on television. TV was the evil box that tried to make you buy things. It still is!
This was originally written a couple of years ago for a book proposal. The irony is of course that working for Movies.com now pop culture is my full-time job. It’s not so easy to justify pop cultural whorishness as some sort of high brow interest when I’m getting paid for it. Be careful what you wish for, kids!
Everyone loves Madge
15
Nov
2005
In: Pop Vultura
EW’s Popwatch rounds up what the critics are saying about Madonna’s new album … and it’s mostly positive. Note: “I don’t like cities, but I like New York/Other places make me feel like a dork” are indeed terrible lyrics, but the beats more than compensate. The continuously mixed tracks make it great for walking, working out, and of course (der!) dancing. I’m not a big Madonna fan, but this is definitely my favorite of her albums — better even than Ray of Light, which I really enjoyed mostly thanks to William Orbit’s involvement. Interested? It goes on sale today!
La Lohan:
25
Oct
2005
In: Pop Vultura
Her new song/vid is actually pretty emotive (and, yes, totally stuck in my head). I also approve of her dress-over-skirt look. It’s the natural evolution from dress-over-pants. Oops, I’m sorry … I’ll leave the fashion gab elsewhere. PS: Funniest one-line commentary on the vid: right here.
If the rest of Madonna’s new album sounds like this first single, I’ll like it.
… when you’re trying to listen to a song on your computer at work and you can’t figure out why your headphones are playing it so quiet, and you keep turning it up and turning it up, and then your coworker IMs you and asks why you’re listening to Christina Aguilera singing the national anthem, and then you realize that your headphones aren’t plugged in and you’ve totally outed yourself to the whole office.
In 2000, I spent weeks researching boy bands, mostly The Backstreet Boys and Nsync, and wondering what it must feel like to be commodified that way. Imagine being a man nearing 30 (as Kevin Richardson, “the mysterious one” from Backstreet was at the time), seeing your face plastered all over products designed for girls young enough to be your daughter. What does it do to a man’s head to know that he’s being lusted after by girls so young that if their fantasies manifested, would be cause for his arrest?
“Madison Sapton wins a date with Kevin Richardson,” the headlines of the 9 year old’s fantasy would read. “Richardson arrested shortly thereafter.”
Granted, it’s hard to feel much sympathy for a manufactured pop star — and most people don’t. Few have wondered what it must be like to look over a merchandising managers shoulder and think “Jesus, that do rag they’re making with my face on it is HEINOUS!” But I think about these things all the time.
My mother, who lives in a media hole, has never understood my obsession with pop culture.
“There are people starving,” she would entreat me. “I can’t believe you want to talk about The Chipmunk’s Valentine’s Special when there are young women being sold into sexual slavery in the Philippines!”
My father and I, meanwhile, could wax on for days about Theodore’s weight issues and how it compared to America’s own increasing obesity. Young children need a chipmunk they can relate to, and Theodore’s paunch and Simon’s glasses provide all the comfort that young overweight, nearsighted, nitrous-huffing youth need.
My obsession with popular culture stands in firm contradiction with some of my other philosophies. I don’t own a television — and yet I’ll read obsessively about the latest boundary-breaking offense on reality television, and download Britney Spears most recent video off of mtv.com so that I can watch it at home. Despite the fact that I refuse to have my life owned by a television, my obsession with the television as a cultural barometer forces me to at least keep half-way abreast (half a breast?) with what America is watching.
It’s a strange neurosis, and I think it reeks of self-justification. Some of us mediaphiles (typically the overeducated ones) like to explain away our obsessions.
“What are you doing on the computer?” my husband will ask me.
“Um, just doing some research about the commodification of public personalities,” I stutter, as I madly try to close all the open windows filled with Justin Timberlake.
I try to think about these vapid things in a smart way. I scheme articles I could write about the commercialization of adolescent fantasy. I go for semi-academic musings about how long it will take Justin Timberlake’s audience to catch up with his music. These justifications are merely me trying to enable myself to follow my own pubescent obsessions.
The only television my mother ever watched with me was Beverly Hills 90210. I was the same age as the characters on the show, and mom and I sat down and watched it together when it first started airing — back when it was still a show with a moral at the end of each episode.
We watched the one where Brenda is jealous of Kelly’s cool mom, until it’s revealed around minute 42 that Kelly’s mom is an alcoholic. The show closed with a cast member earnestly looking at the camera and encouraging teens to reach out if they felt one of their parents had a problem with alcohol. I think a 800 number was given.
Afterwards, just as Aaron Spelling had intended, my mother and I had a little talk about alcoholism. It was a Very Special Episode, and my mother voiced her approval of the show.
Little did she know that over the four years of my (and the characters’) high school careers, Beverly Hills 90210 would devolve into a soapy sex-filled drama. People would get nose jobs! Virginity would be lost! Raves would be attended!
By the time I headed off to college, 90210 was a staple of my week, along with Melrose Place. My dorm mates and I would gather around the TV every week to cackle and gasp over the latest developments.
There were no morals at the end of these shows, unless you count such important messages as “Don’t fuck your roommate, or else the crazy bitch across the courtyard will, like totally flip!” or “If you drink the night before you have to work at the Peach Pit, you’re going to pay big time when Nat figures out you’ve been falling asleep on the job!”
My poor mother. This was not at all what she had intended. The only thing she managed to imbue me with was a stark skepticism of anything I saw on television. TV was the evil box that tried to make you buy things. It still is!
This was originally written a couple of years ago for a book proposal. The irony is of course that working for Movies.com now pop culture is my full-time job. It’s not so easy to justify pop cultural whorishness as some sort of high brow interest when I’m getting paid for it. Be careful what you wish for, kids!
Everyone loves Madge
15 Nov 2005 In: Pop VulturaEW’s Popwatch rounds up what the critics are saying about Madonna’s new album … and it’s mostly positive. Note: “I don’t like cities, but I like New York/Other places make me feel like a dork” are indeed terrible lyrics, but the beats more than compensate. The continuously mixed tracks make it great for walking, working out, and of course (der!) dancing. I’m not a big Madonna fan, but this is definitely my favorite of her albums — better even than Ray of Light, which I really enjoyed mostly thanks to William Orbit’s involvement. Interested? It goes on sale today!
La Lohan:
25 Oct 2005 In: Pop VulturaHer new song/vid is actually pretty emotive (and, yes, totally stuck in my head). I also approve of her dress-over-skirt look. It’s the natural evolution from dress-over-pants. Oops, I’m sorry … I’ll leave the fashion gab elsewhere. PS: Funniest one-line commentary on the vid: right here.
If the rest of Madonna’s new album sounds like this first single, I’ll like it.
… when you’re trying to listen to a song on your computer at work and you can’t figure out why your headphones are playing it so quiet, and you keep turning it up and turning it up, and then your coworker IMs you and asks why you’re listening to Christina Aguilera singing the national anthem, and then you realize that your headphones aren’t plugged in and you’ve totally outed yourself to the whole office.
Hey there. I'm Ariel Meadow Stallings, a native Seattleite who's written my way up and down the Left Coast. Electrolicious is where I post daily randomata, but I also write for a living. My first book, Offbeat Bride, was published last year.
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