I didn’t own cassettes. Genius child that I was, I was into reading, playing outside and begging my parents for cable.
We were sitting in my uncle’s living room in Lahore (Pakistan) and my cousin and I were trying desperately to find something in common with one another. I was there for the summer. We were stuck with each other, after all.
He was a boy. I was a girl. He was Pakistani and I was American. He was 11 and I was 8.
So far, not so good.
His eyes lit up, “Do you like Michael Jackson?”
“Sure,” I said.
He smiled and ran to his room. He entered the room with a battered cassette tape in one hand and a little red boom box in the other. He popped in the cassette. “Billie Jean” blared from the grimy speakers.
We sat and listened and smiled. “What is he saying?” my cousin asked.
“Ummm, he’s saying that Billie Jean isn’t his girlfriend. That she’s just someone he knows. But nobody listens and everyone keeps saying she is.”
“Ohhh,” he said in deep thought. And, then, we both giggled. Because, we were kids and you’re supposed to giggle at that sort of thing. “Do you have this cassette at home, in America?”
“No.”
“What cassettes do you have?”
“I don’t have cassettes.” He raised his eyebrows in a way that clearly indicated that this surprised him. After all, American kids were supposed to have everything, right?
I smiled feeling a little embarrassed at my complete lack of coolness.
“OK, then” he stopped the tape player and carelessly tossed the cassette towards me. “You can have this one, then.”
I held it in my hands and felt a surge of excitement. For some reason, we didn’t have a problem coming up with things to talk about for the rest of the summer.
Later that evening, I sat in the guest room of my uncle’s house and listened to this little piece of America that my Pakistani cousin had given me earlier that day. It was the beginning of something deep. Something that makes me smile every time I hear “Thriller” or “P.Y.T.” When I got back to the States, I listened to the tape with my brother and we memorized all the songs.
After that summer, I scrimped and saved every nickel I got so that I could go out and buy more music like this. No matter how vacuous or how inane pop music became, I couldn’t help myself. I loved and still love pop music. Even in the 90s, when we all wore flannel and contemplated the darkness of the journey between late adolescence and adulthood, nobody changed the station if a good 80s pop song was on.
Pop music. It was an escape. It was lightness in a world that can often be a little too dark. It was joy in a world that could be a little too painful.
It was my piece of American poetry. And it began with a little bit of Michael.
Michael Jackson was undoubtedly a flawed man. Undoubtedly. If the allegations that had been brought up in the past regarding his relationship with children are even remotely true, his musical genius doesn’t excuse that depravity. He was a victim of his own genius and a prisoner of his own fame in a lot of ways.
Regardless, though, in my mind I don’t remember Michael Jackson as the American pop icon or accused pedophile.
To me, Michael Jackson is a cassette tape that someone who started off as a stranger and became a brother handed to me in an act of friendship almost 25 years ago.
He’s the commonality in a conversation that Tariq and I, who grew up on opposite sides of the world, share in our childhoods.
He’s one of those links that, because of his music’s ability to transcend borders and language, binds Americans to everyone else.
I’d also like to take a moment to acknowledge the death of the lovely Farrah Fawcett who taught those of us born before 1980 the special and unforgettable brand of American beautiful that can be achieved by a large round brush, a hair dryer and massive quantities of hair spray.
I used to collect Disney villain figurines, until they started getting silly.
And by “silly” I mean male.
Self proclaimed post feminist status aside, I assert that real fairy tales, at least the good ones, have female villains.
The later Disney villains, like that guy from Beauty and the Beast or the one from Pocahontas, are just not scary enough. Scar from Lion King? Although quite evil and crush worthy given the Jeremy Irons voice over, he still doesn’t hold a candle to the lovely ladies who ruled the empire in the early years of Disney animation.
The exception to this rule would be Jaffar from Aladdin. For a few reasons, but mostly because he has a turban. Also because let’s face it, he was a little effeminate. He was basically a queen with facial hair.
The traditional symbolism in fairy tales revolves around the juxtaposition not just of good and evil, but of purity and impurity (both of the soul and the physical). They also reveal the traditional view that life is polarity… that there is good and there is evil and that little exists between them.
This point of view fascinates me because it’s very different than what I believe. The difference exists, I assume, because existentialism and relativism were being born when these movies were first made. As a child born in the late 20th century, they were well grounded, or well on their way ot being so, in the American psyche when I happened on the scene.
Additionally, the female villains also fascinate me because women often play central roles in the discussion of what is pious versus that which is sinful in my heritage (and among those discussing my heritage). Another dichotomy: paramount importance and unabashed objectification.
Anyway, I started collecting the villain figurines when I was 13 or so. I think I realized early on that life isn’t exactly the way it is in fairy tales (or in family room discussions). I would look at these little statues and admire how beautiful they were. How determined they were in getting what they wanted at all costs. How completely irreverent they were regarding expected mores and behavior.
And as I considered the costs for their determination and irreverence, I reveled in the depth that those struggles represented. I pondered over the truth of the consequences presented.
Snow White, Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, they remain unchanged and exist as eternal virgins.
The queens, the stepmothers, the evil fairies, though? To me, they blossom in each telling of the story. Every visit exposes a new layer, a new motivation, perhaps even a new explanation for me.
Unlike their virginal victims, they’re twisted, varied, glorious, flawed… human.
We went to Sand Key this weekend, about five minutes away from Clearwater Beach. Mostly, I loved not having to clean anything except sand of off my feet for 36 hours. The beach was nice, too.
Interestingly, on the way there, I saw a Ford F150 with the license plate “VIJAY” on it.
Tariq and I pretty much acted like morons trying to get a photo of said license plate. We’re planning to send it to the Guiness people (record, not beer) for submission to one of two categories:
* Only redneck in the universe named Vijay OR
* Only Indian guy in the universe who drives a Ford F150
So, here’s a meme about high school. Happy snoozing.
1. Did you date someone from your school senior year? No.
2. Did you marry someone from your high school? Dear. God. No.
3. Did you car pool to school? If by “car pool” you mean bum rides of off all of my friends because I didn’t turn 16 until a full semester into our senior year, then yes. All the time.
4. What kind of car did you drive? 1990 Ford Probe
5. What kind of car do you have now? This question is an entire blog post in itself. But, for brevity’s sake, let’s say a BMW 328i.
6. It’s Friday night… where were you (in high school)? At a football game pretending to watch and be interested in said game.
7. It is Friday night… where are you (now)? A dinner party pretending to be interested everyone attending said dinner. Calm down. I’m not talking about you. Just those other losers I hang out with.
8. What kind of job did you have in high school? Surf shop. Yeah. I know. It really is as ridiculous as it sounds.
9. What kind of job do you do now?Job? Pfft. Jobs are for losers.
10. Were you a party animal? Oh. Yes. Yes, I was.
11. Were you considered a flirt? Yes. No. I don’t know. I just loved attention. Of any kind.
12. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Hahahahahaha. Ahem. Nnnoo.
13. Were you a nerd? If by “nerd” you mean smart to the point of such intimidation that my name might have been left off of several key parties during high school, then, yes. If by “nerd,” you mean pocket protectors and such, then, emphatically, no.
14. Did you get suspended or expelled? Suspension and expulsion are for people too dumb to avoid getting caught.
15. Can you sing the fight song? No.
16. Who was/were your favorite teacher(s)? Mr. Crile. History. The most lovely man on the planet. I pray for him almost every day. He was that amazing.
17. Where did you sit during lunch? We were allowed to leave campus senior year, so technically? I sat on the beach. For the rest of the day.
18. What was your school’s full name? Spruce Creek High School
19. When did you graduate? 1993
20. What was your school mascot? The Hawk
21. If you could go back and do it again, would you? Hell. No. Unless I could take all the lyrics of every Top 40 song written in the last ten years with me. And the script for Batman Returns. And the schematics for the iPhone.
22. Did you have fun at Prom? No.
23. Do you still talk to your prom date? No. Way.
24. Who was your best friend? Lisa S. and Maria D. We’re still very good friends. If you could have a “best friend” and still be considered a grown up with a real life, then we’d still be “best friends”.
25. What did you want to be when you grew up? Rich. And beautiful. And famous. And unemployed. So, I guess I wanted to be Paris Hilton. Without the unwitting foray into the world of porn.
26. Any regrets? Yes. I thought too much of others and too little of myself.
27. Biggest fashion mistake? The I.B. Program. No. I didn’t misunderstand the question.
28. Favorite fashion trend? Pegged jeans.
29. Are you going to your next reunion? Not likely.
30. Who did you have a secret crush on? I was a very open person. I, unfortunately, had no secrets.
31. Did you go on spring break? I lived ten minutes from Daytona Beach. Spring Break? Try March-May every year since the eighth grade.
Hmm, am I the last blogger on the Internet to find out that Jon Stewart schooled Jim Cramer of CNBC’s “Mad Money” on Thursday night?
(Yes, hello, pregnant women have a hard time staying up after 9:30p.m.).
I only know because Tariq forwarded me an e-mail in which my hero (Jon Stewart) decimated his hero (Jim Cramer).
Now, I know why people watch sporting events.
There’s an incredible rush that comes from a vicarious victory, even if it is a moral one, that can only be displayed in moments such as these.
If you, like me, live under a rock you can go here for a quick update.
I don’t necessarily agree with the contention in that article that Stewart failed to “deliver a knock out punch.” Considering that Stewart proves generally amiable towards his guests, I thought he handed Cramer’s head to him on a platter. Plus, Jon wasn’t funny, at all. This added to the decimation.
Angry Jon Stewart, by the way, is extremely uncomfortable.
Remember a few years ago when Stewart went on “Crossfire”? He was funny and poignant.
The tone with Cramer on Thursday night was completely different, but the message was essentially the same.
“You’re hurting America.”
Despite my hero worship of Mr. Stewart, I have to wonder if he’s not being too idealistic, and, in many ways, if his thoughts don’t reflect the general idealism with which Americans view the responsibilities of “the media.”
We feel victimized. We rant about their negative influence. We complain about the selective nature of their reporting. We casually glance over the obvious fact that if a news station is live seventeen hours of the day that there may not be enough time to actually check on the facts associated with the headline.
In the end, aren’t we’re responsible for what we choose to believe?
How is blaming CNBC for duping the American people out of researching their investments and economy not a twinkie defense?
Is Jon Stewart right? Yes, in the ideal sense, I think he is.
But he’s arguing an antiquated concept. He’s arguing for an unbiased media whose priority is delivering accurate information to the population.
We have got to rework this definition. For the past fifteen years, since I started caring about the news, I’ve noticed that the priority lies squarely within entertainment value. Accuracy of information has played a secondary role in these matters. This is why hardly anyone watches PBS and CSPAN.
It’s all about advertisers and ratings. Couldn’t we just deal with the reality of our television media instead of waiting around for the real media to show up? This is our real media.
(Incidentally, we should also stop confusing commentators with journalists. We really should know better. Peter Jennings? Journalist. Keith O.? Commentator).
It’s time to grow up, America, and realize that we can’t fully rely on our television to tell us how to invest, who to vote for and what to think. We, gasp, have to do it ourselves.
This might translate into a personal shift in priorities. It might mean we’ll have to write a senator for clarification. Read several papers instead of one. Watch CSPAN.
The way I see it, it’s either that, or stop blaming the media for not protecting us from all the bad things we think are happening to us and actually take responsibility for our unquestioning and childlike acceptance of televised information.
Nonetheless, I did love Stewart’s performance on the show. I’m a big believer in discussing how the world should be. Even if the chances that it will ever be that way prove slim.
My favorite part was when Jon Stewart, in uncharacteristic seriousness, vented “I can’t reconcile the brilliance you have with the intricacies of the market with the crazy bullshit you do every night.”
A friend on Facebook reminded me that when we were kids we used to watch “The Monkees” religiously every weekend.
Though the show was produced in the 1960s, it experienced something of a revival in the 80s on MTV. I know the Monkees were a Beatles knock off, and didn’t play their own instruments until the 70s, but I loved them, anyway.
And I love this song. It’s still one of my favorites.
