"The Back Flip in the Long Program"

With the close of every Winter Olympics comes a difficult period of adjustment in which we must deal with the fact that we have become over-saturated with detailed knowledge about a wide variety of winter sports. It is not so much the over-saturation that is difficult, but rather the reality that the bulk of this knowledge is going to collect dust for another four years (by which time we will have, of course, forgotten it, and thus need to be saturated again--so perpetuating the cycle). In the spirit of milking our newfound, collective status as Winter Olympic Experts just a little longer, I thought I would dedicate this post to the explication of a beloved idiom that my friends and I developed a few years back while sitting in a pub and watching (what else?) an international figure skating competition. Here it is:

"back flip in the long program"

Origin: In women's figure skating, back flips are verboten. Not really sure why; if anyone has some insight into this, I'm curious. Quite possibly the issue is an aesthetic one. At any rate, if a female skater performs a back flip in international competition, she is disqualified. At one time, there was a French skater named Surya Bonali who always seemed to come up short in the medal department, but had a kick-ass back flip (bear with me here, the point is coming). I seem to recall that on the particular day my friends and I happened to be watching Bonali skate on television, she had a messy fall partway through her long program that would have put her out of medal contention. But she finished the program with a back flip and so was disqualified instead of having to face the indignity of placing fifth (or whatever it was).

Usage: "Back flip in the long program" can be used to describe any situation in which someone purposefully screws themselves over to avoid embarrassment/failure. It's like, you know you're going down anyway, so you compensate for your shortcomings by grabbing an alibi.

Painful personal example: Back in grade 8, I went to all the school dances, hoping that the boy I had a crush on would ask me to dance. But whenever the d.j. threw on a slow song (Stevie B.'s "Because I Love You (The Postman Song)"--aaahh! again, the parentheses!--still has some particularly bitter associations for me) , I wouldn't hang around the edges of the gym, waiting for the invitation to dance that I knew wasn't coming. Nosirree--I bolted out to the hall with my friends, where we made sarcastic comments about all the dorky people who were sentimental and sappy enough to actually dance to a slow song to begin with. A clear-cut case of back flip in the long program. Had I stayed in the gym, I, like Surya Bonali, would have only had to face my disappointment head-on. Better to disqualify one's self with flair.

So there you have it. I encourage you to go forth and use this turn of phrase whenever you believe it is apt. Just remember, if you actually pull too many back flips in the long program, you'll never make it to the podium. And yes, that can be construed as a sexual metaphor.

Studies in Skid Culture #2

Re: The Skids in the Hall 23/02/2006

I am adding this post to my newly begun collection of Internet references to skid culture:

Fries with Gravy: Metal Skids Unite!

Note that G'N'R is key. More to come...

Of Pop Grammatology

While writing yesterday's post, I was reminded of one of life's great mysteries (as opposed to Father Dowling's Mysteries) that I really really really wish someone could solve and that is this:

What the hell is up with song titles with embedded parentheses?

Examples:

I'll Be Loving You (Forever)
(You Got It) The Right Stuff
Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)
(I've Had) The Time of My Life
All Night Long (All Night)
(Everything I Do) I Do It For You
(Can't Live Without Your) Love and Affection
Get Up! (Before the Night Is Over)
(It's Just) The Way That You Love Me
My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)
Whoomp! (There It Is)
I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)
Sweat (A La La La La Long)

And the list (not to mention, the beat) goes on. Perhaps the part in parentheses is secondary, like if you were writing up the song in a magazine article or high school essay (eg. 300 words on "Why I Think Nelson Is The Awesomest") you could drop that part if there wasn't enough room to print it. This makes sense in some cases, but not in others (ie. "Whoomp").

I will say that in the instance of Meatloaf's "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That), the parentheses actually make sense grammatically. If I'm not mistaken, words in parentheses should be either explanatory or qualifying (props to the Oxford Dictionary of Current English). The qualifying thing definitely explains the Meat Loaf song, and also "I'll Be Loving You (Forever)" (those New Kids weren't going to be tied down). But the rest, not so much. (It's Just) and (I've Had)? Which episode of Schoolhouse Rock were these people toking up to?

Whether arbitrary or artistic, the only people worse than pop music songwriters about deliberately reckless punctuation are deconstructivist theorists, but their thing tends to be more the "/" than parentheses. Maybe there's some kind of punctuation turf thing going on here, I don't know. But somehow, some way, I am going to (get to the bottom of this).

Jordan Knight: I'll Be Loving You (Forever)

I have never been able to explain how particular songs get stuck in my head at various points during the day and have ceased to be alarmed at the zany randomness of this phenomenon. So it was that around 10:15 am this morning I found the New Kids on the Block's "I'll Be Loving You (Forever)" looping incessantly through my mind. I actually haven't listened to this song nearly half as many times as most other women of my generation--not because I was not a consummate "New Kids" fan (had my life gone according to the master plan I devised at age nine, Jordan Knight and I would have now been happily married for approximately eight years, ten if the plan had involved getting married in Tennessee, which it didn't), but because I feared that by listening to my New Kids tapes too often, I might somehow damage them and suffer the horrible fate of never being able to listen to them again.

Despite my cautious listening habits, I did become intensely familiar with the entire New Kids canon. While I would not be likely to defend the artistic merit of many of their songs now that my pre-teen obsession with them is long past, I stand by the quality of Knight's solid interpretation of 1970s soul ballad style. His cover of the Delfonics' "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)" (a deep cut on the "Step By Step" album) is bang-on as far as vocal stylings go--the only problem is the late 1980s pop slickness of its instrumentals sadly pales in comparison to the rich, melodramatic strings of the original (which I intend to put on my turntable as soon as I complete this blog--damn, that's a good song).

The point is, however, that it is one of the gross injustices of the American music industry that Jordan Knight's singing career had to go down on the same ship as the rest of the members of New Kids on the Block. Thankfully, Donnie Wahlberg's acting career was somewhat salvaged, due to the near-miraculous comeback from early 1990s cheesedom pulled off by his younger brother. It hardly seems fair that a guy who went by "Markie Mark," hung out with the "Funky Bunch," churned out C + C Music Factory rip-offs and got famous on the gimmick of dropping trou with abandon now has an A-list movie career, while the very talented, and much classier, Jordan Knight is stuck playing this evening at the Blue Chip Casino in Michigan City, Indiana.

It seems to me that in certain situations, there should be a statute of limitations on boy band excesses. I would like to cite the Justin Timberlake precedent and argue that Jordan Knight has repaid his debt to popular culture and deserves to be redeemed. The guy can really sing--which is more than can be said for most pop idols, past or present. If you have any doubts, I can lend you my pristine New Kids cassette collection. Then again, I'd rather not. Just take my word for it. Oh yeah--and he's still pretty cute too.

The Skids in the Hall

At my high school, one of the most well-defined, and most populous, demographic groups was the "skids." Thinking back, it is clear to me that calling someone a "skid" was a highly offensive thing to do. I don't really know where the phrase comes from, but it is pretty obvious that it must be in some way derived from "skid row" and thus laden with derogatory class connotations. But I don't remember the "skids" being defined entirely according to class. And if you were a skid, it wasn't really an insult to be called one; skids frequently referred to themselves as such. All this does not exonerate the wrongness of the term--if any skids happen to be reading this blog, please take this as an open apology for any injury our collective use of this term caused you. That said, the origins and definition of the term itself deserve further exploration.

Strangely, the meaning that "skid" took on in my high school's vernacular are not easily located in dictionaries or even websites devoted to Canadian slang. Evidently, "skid" is a narrowly regional term, but I believe that the individuals to whom this term refers are far more ubiquitous. The fictional characters that most accurately capture the skid persona are Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar--no coincidence I'm sure, as Mike Myers must have known a few skids growing up in Scarborough, Ontario. To my memory, identifying characteristics of skids include the following:

Music tastes: Heavy metal (eg. Warrant, Motley Crue, Metallica), occasionally country

Dress code-Guys: Ripped jeans, metal band/beer t-shirts under plaid flannel long-sleeve shirt, wallet chain, frayed baseball cap with beer/agricultural product logo, tattoos

Dress code-Chix: Skin tight jeans, tall boots, cleavage-baring tops, large hoop earrings, leather bomber jackets, tattoos

Hair-Guys: Mullet

Hair-Chix: Mullet or big and long (a la Pam Anderson)

Vehicles: Trucks, ski-doos (snowmobiles), or most commonly, truck carrying ski-doo in back

Beverages: Two-four

TV Programs: Pro wrestling, Baywatch, Cops

Leisure activities: Smoking, ski-dooing, field/pit parties, fornicating, fighting, vandalism

Celebrity mentors-Guys: McKenzie Brothers, Axl Rose

Celebrity mentors-Chix: Pamela Anderson, Lita Ford

What I want to know is, if there were/are individuals who more or less matched this profile at your high school, did/do they call themselves "skids"? If not, how are they designated? And if you yourself were a skid, did you wear the label with pride, or did you deeply resent it? The time has come for some serious inter/intra-skid dialogue, so crank some Ozzy, crack open some brews, pull up a seat by the bonfire and let it all out.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Bond Fan's Scorn

There is a lot of anger out there in the world, but little did I know until today how much of that anger can be attributed to the hordes of James Bond fans who are getting ready to boycott Casino Royale because of how un-Bondworthy they believe Daniel Craig (the new Bond) to be. An entire movement is mobilizing against the poor bloke on www.craignotbond.com. Sample withering criticisms include:

"the bottom of the barrel"

"skinny, craggy and wholly unimpressive" (craggy Craig! Sorry, it had to be done)

"extraordinarily less handsome and charismatic than any one of the men who played Bond"

And...

"a round 0 out of 10, a number that surely matches his moon-faced countenance!"

Ouch. Not since the debut of America's Next Top Model has such a sweltering blow been dealt to the age-old happy-fuzzy axiom "It's what's on the inside that counts." Apparently Bond is in the eye of the beholder. If the anti-Craig movement wins the day and forces Eon/MGM/Sony to re-open the casting call for the next instalment in the series, I believe they should look no further than Colin Farrell to re-vamp Bond for the next decade of the new millenium. Farrell shares many qualities with the current International Bond Standard (IBS), that being Sean Connery (no arguments accepted, challenges may be forwarded to the International Bond Tribunal in the Hague): both speak with sexy brogues, both are tall, dark and handsome, and both definitely have a way with the ladies. Farrell's casting would necessitate that a few small changes be made to the classic Bond persona: the vodka martini, shaken not stirred would be replaced by pints of Guinness, 007's suave, sophisticated Bondspeak would be infused with copious profanity, and he may become embroiled in more than a few pesky sex tape scandals. But having Farrell as the new Bond would re-vitalize the screen hero's image and perhaps do worlds of good for Anglo-Irish relations. And, I have no doubt, should the Bond fanatics behind the current backlash against Daniel Craig decide to attack Farrell, they would likely get as good as they gave, and then some. So there's my vote for who the new Bond should be. In the meantime, can someone give this Daniel Craig guy a hug? He has feelings too. After all, it's not easy being Bond...

Where's My Stash?

Much like the cropped mesh tank top, the mullet and tiger-striped Zubas pants, it seems like the moustache (or "stash," as it's colloquially termed) has become obsolescent from men's fashion. While we may not question the rightness of the former items' expulsion from the hip male's style lexicon, I believe the stash is a more complicated case and as such is deserving of a moment's reflection. Without a doubt, in its heyday, the well-groomed stash was a symbol of swashbuckling virility. Cases in point: Chuck Norris, Tom Berenger, Rob Reiner, Barney Miller, Mr. Kotter, Lionel Richie, Lanny McDonald, Larry Csonka...the list goes on. Of course, the ultimate Stash belonged to Tom Selleck as Magnum, P.I. (N.B.--I never really understood why Richard Dean Anderson didn't follow his lead where the stash was concerned, as it would have been particularly cool for MacGyver to have been able to pull the odd toothpick or safety pin out of his stash in a hairy situation). I believe the death knell for the stash sounded that fateful day in 2001 the world's other eminent stash icon, Alex Trebek, chose to lose his. True, he grew it back, and other prominent stashes, such as those sported by Prince and Victor on the Young and the Restless have never left us. But it seems to me that unless one sports an authentic, vintage stash (ie. one that dates back to circa 1987), one cannot now have a stash whose glory is not tainted by the trappings of post-modern irony (incidentally, "moustache" and "pastiche" sound a lot alike). Could the stash one day rise again? If so, who should be its saviour? Bono? (no--he has enough on his plate already) Prime Minister Stephen Harper? Simon Cowell? George Clooney? Hold the phone--there's an idea. Is there anything George Clooney can't do, really? He even gave the stash a trial run in O Brother, Where Art Thou? (and as I recall, it was pretty stash-tastic). Alright, I hereby leave it to George Clooney to single-handedly resurrect the stash to its former glory. If he could only manage to simultaneously banish the soul patch in the process, all would be right with the world.

Coincidence? I Think Not.

Over the past two weeks, I have purchased a slew of Jerry Bruckheimer films on DVD, including The Rock, Crimson Tide, Con Air, Armageddon, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys II and Black Hawk Down. Then, in today's mail, I received an envelope from the U.S. Marine Corps inviting me to train to be a Marine Corps Officer. Is it possible that Pentagon has joined forces with Amazon.com? Naaah...

One-Minute Sports Reel

Top 5 Winter Olympic Events that Likely Have Their Origins in a Dare and/or Freak Accident Someone Managed to Miraculously Survive and/or Norwegian Drinking Game:

1. Ski jump

2. Freestyle Aerials

3. Luge

4. Skeleton

5. Ice Dancing

The Mix Tape: A Dying Art

As a companion to my last entry, which addressed the proper selection of Valentine's Day viewing material, I would like to address the related issue of the proper selection of a Valentine's gift. The gift that I have chosen to feature may not be just the ideal Valentine's gift; it may in fact be the ideal gift for any and every possible situation. What is this magical object? The answer is none other than the mix tape. First off, I want to clear up any confusion regarding the mix tape's ontological status. A mix CD is not the same as a mix tape. They might seem like functional equivalents, however, as anyone who considers themselves a master of the mix tape craft will tell you, significant differences exist. Remember your Marshall McLuhan, kids: the medium is the message. Burning CDs is a fast and loose kind of process. Sure, you select the tracks and choose the order in which they'll play, but it's all over in a matter of minutes, and you don't have to listen to a single song that you've picked for your giftee. Now, dubbing a mix tape takes time, patience, and dedication, as you must not only select the songs, but cue them up and listen to them from start to finish, in real time, while the recording process takes place. It is this latter stage that keeps the dedicated coming back to the art that time is rapidly forgetting. Unlike burning a CD, or (the unthinkable) making an iPod playlist for your loved ones, making a mix tape involves taking the time to experience the musical memories that you wish to share with them. Indeed, by the time the tape's finished, you may even find yourself writing heartfelt liner notes inspired by the mix tape crafting process. Hopefully a few artisans will keep the mix tape alive in years to come. I suppose the real question is, will anyone still be able to play them? Oh well. It's the thought that counts, right?

Saving All My Love for You

Whether single or attached, the last way anyone wants to spend their Valentine's Day is in video store purgatory. Movies can provide fine holiday entertainment this time of year, however selecting the right combination of films is a task every bit as difficult as choosing the right shiraz to go with your $200 Valentine's dinner. In fact, it's more difficult, because there are so very many bad, bad choices to be made. So here is a menu of viewing options that, much like the wine list at the $200 dinner, will help you to choose high-quality products that will enhance your overall Valentine's experience:

(The list is comprised of films to be viewed in combination. Of course, they can also be viewed individually, but the richly satisfying interplay of flavors will be sarcificed.)

1. Valley Girl + Peggy Sue Got Married + Moonstruck
Young, vulnerable, dashing Nick Cage at his romantic comedy best. The "Melt With You" montage sequence in Valley Girl is one of the most get-you-right-here portraits of young love in contemporary cinema. Too bad Burger King had to go and totally ruin that song in one fell Whopper campaign swoop a few years back. But in 1983 it was pretty much perfect.

2. The Sure Thing + Say Anything
Young, vulnerable, dashing John Cusack at his romantic comedy best. It is my belief that amalgamating 1980s Nick Cage with 1980s John Cusack would produce the Platonic ideal of twenty-something man (and for this reason, their films should be required educational viewing for all males under the age of 18--along with Dirty Dancing, of course). The Sure Thing is a loopy, sometimes tasteless sex comedy, but it packs a heartstring-pulling emotional wallop in one of its final scenes via Lionel Richie's Penny Lover. And as for Say Anything, it's the It's a Wonderful Life of Valentine's Day. Watch and learn, boys, watch and learn.

3. Sixteen Candles + Pretty in Pink + Some Kind of Wonderful
In the 1980s, John Hughes made more than his fair share of contributions to the canon of teen romantic comedy classics and it is impossible to watch these films too many times. Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink both of course feature the feisty Molly Ringwald triumphing over adversity to win the fantasy boy of her dreams. But they also feature the bittersweet musings of the young men whose hearts she lays waste to in the process: the Geek (Anthony Michael Hall) and Duckie (John Cryer). Hence the inclusion of Some Kind of Wonderful in the mix: just when the melancholy induced by the first two films gets to be too much to take, you get to see Keith (Eric Stoltz) break quirky sidekick Watts' (Mary Stuart Masterson) heart, only to recant when he realizes what he's been missing. Stellar soundtracks for all three as well.

4. Peggy Sue Got Married + Chances Are + Big
Should the Nick Cage, John Cusack or teen love combos suggested above not meet your tastes, the more nuanced category of 1980s romantic-comedies- involving- time- travel-and/or-reincarnation might hit the spot. For the merits of Peggy Sue Got Married, see #1 above. Chances Are is a screwball romp that features surprisingly delightful chemistry between the dreamy Robert Downey, Jr. and the always fabulous Cybill Shepherd. And Big, well, it's exhibit A for why Tom Hanks should never have stopped doing comedy. With respect to both Chances Are and Big, it's best not to dwell too long on the full implications of the age and body-shifting plot twists, as they are indeed kind of creepy in terms of sexual dynamics. Just go with it and let the soaring Cher and Peter Cetera "Chances Are" theme carry you away on a crest of romantic bliss.

5. Say Anything + Singles + Jerry Maguire
The first of two auteur-based combinations on the list, this one provides a definitive collection of Cameron Crowe's sentiments on romance through the ages, from high school to mid-life-crisis. I personally admire this triology because these films wear their hearts on their sleeves. They are cinematic kryptonite for cynics and are thus routinely shunned by hipsters. But in the game of love, you've got to play to win and Mr. Crowe shows us all how to put it out there. Coincidence he's married to Nancy Wilson of Heart? I think not.

6. Reality Bites + Before Sunrise/Before Sunset
In the 1990s, love, along with every other emotion, was shot through with angst and Ethan Hawke was the gorgeous, skulking, greasy-haired embodiment of this. In Reality Bites, he and Winona Ryder became the decade's quintessential couple. In Before Sunrise/Before Sunset, he and Julie Delpy bring one of American cinema's all-time best romances to the screen, right up there with It Happened One Night and Annie Hall, in my opinion. Definitely required Valentine's Day viewing.

Still undecided? Perhaps one of these last three more eccentric combinations will appeal:

7. Bonnie and Clyde + Badlands + True Romance + Guncrazy
Fugitive couple crime films are hot. There's more carnage than comedy, and happy endings are not an option, but when it comes to raw sexual energy, few mainstream Hollywood films can compete with this rock'n'roll sub-genre. Just don't try any of the illegal stuff at home.

8. Romeo + Juliet + Moulin Rouge
If you're having trouble feeling any emotion in your hardened heart these days, these two selections from Baz Luhrmann's opus are guaranteed to beat your sentiments back into shape. You might have trouble closing your eyes, sitting still, or breathing normally afterwards, but this can be easily remedied by taking two Nora Ephron films before bed on a full stomach.

9. Rocky + The Karate Kid
Since this Valentine's Day coincides with the XX Winter Olympiad, you may be feeling like less movie romance and more athletic ass-kicking. Rocky and The Karate Kid are glowing illustrations of why pure love is more powerful than steroids.

Made in the U.S.A.

Lest it be assumed, based on my last three posts, that my pontifications are limited to 1980s pop culture and do not span into the present, I have chosen to devote today's entry to my favourite current television show, MTV's Made. For the uninitiated, Made is a "reality" tv show with the ostensible goal of helping average American teens realize their dreams, while of course having fun and coming to an easily-encapsulated-in-fifty-words-or-less sense of self-knowledge along the way. Here is a sampling of a few choice episodes:

• the sensitive jock who wants to become a ballet dancer
• the shy tomboy who wants the female lead in the school play
• the band geek who wants to be crowned a pageant queen
• the skinny nerd (male) who wants to join the wrestling team
• the skinny nerd (female) who wants to be a cheerleader
• etc., etc. (for more examples, visit MTV's hopelessly unnavigable website).
  

In each episode, the protagonist is a wholesome, down-to-earth, more or less emotionally stable kid. Of course, these kids have a few problems, but that's why they're on Made--so that MTV can whip up a 28-day, action-oriented solution to their teen angst that, if successful, will help them to disavow the realities of adolescence and adopt a perky, all-American, can-do attitude the likes of which we haven't seen in TV teens since The Brady Bunch went off the air.

So how does this mythical journey unfold, you ask? Here's a brief synopsis of the narrative arc that characterizes most episodes of Made, accompanied by my notation of the various blatant fallacies embedded within it:

1. We meet the teen/hero. Teen does not fit in at school, as evidenced by the fact that they do not belong to the "popular" crowd [blatant fallacy #1: entry to the popular crowd = instant happiness]. We get a glimpse of the "in" crowd, which is contrasted with the teen's friends. We are asked to empathize with this teen's feeling that his or her high school experience is in some way deficient. This feeling is frequently compounded by there being a big brother or sister in the picture who is perfect in every way and rubs this in with our teen/hero at every opportunity [I must confess, the bitchy blonde big sisters are my favourite, but that's probably because I never had one].
2. The teen/hero identifies a goal that they have . They believe that if they could somehow meet this goal, they will be able to have a beautiful, fulfilling high school experience [blatant fallacy #2: there is no such thing as a beautiful, fulfilling high school experience].
3. The teen/hero meets their Made coach. This individual is an expert in the field associated with the teen's dream and has been assigned to basically kick his or her ass repeatedly over the course of one month in order to ensure that dream gets realized (kind of like Mr. Miyagi, but sadly minus the Buddhist enlightenment factor).
4. The teen/hero's road to success is a rocky one. Along the way, they usually build up enough confidence from the progress they're making towards their goal to think that it's a good idea to ask out somebody who's way out of their league [blatant fallacy #3, and damn, is it a pervasive one: it is never a good idea to ask out somebody who's way out of your league]. This pretty much always crashes and burns [which sort of acknowledges the reality of blatant fallacy #3]. Further conflict ensues when the old, uncool friends start getting pissed that the teen/hero not only wants to ditch them, but has solicited the help of a national TV show to do so. Family conflict may flare up as well, particularly in situations where the parents were slackers/nerds in high school and feel threatened by their progeny's quest to better themselves.
   
5. The teen/hero finally (like in the last 5 minutes of the show), takes a test that will determine whether or not they have met their goal. And here's where it gets super-interesting, in my opinion, for a mainstream American tv show: the teens usually FAIL! OK, they don't totally fail. The band geek won Miss Congeniality, the skinny nerd (female) made the junior varsity cheerleading team, the shy tomboy got a speaking part in the play. But they aren't blazing success stories either--especially in a country where world-class figure skaters, Democratic presidential candidates and that Bo Bice guy from last season of American Idol are berated for coming in second in their respective arenas of competition. [NB: Now, with Canadians it's a different story. We're willing to designate friggin' national holidays for people who come in fourth.] At any rate, Made tries its darndest to gloss over the fact that its protagonists come up short in their quests to attain their goals [which brings me to blatant fallacy #4: it's not about winning or losing, it's about how you play the game. Yeah, right. Jerry Bruckheimer ain't never making your biopic if you believe that kind of claptrap].

As with any kind of journey (except for "Journey," who will be the subject of a later entry), lessons are learned along the way. Here's a few that I gleaned for myself from repeated viewings of Made:

1. Popular girls are nice.
2. Popular guys are nice.
3. Pageants, especially the mettle-testing swimwear competition, can be the answer to one's self-esteem problems.
4. Forcing oneself to conform to dominant notions of gender identity that feel completely and utterly foreign to one's self isn't as bad as feminist theorists make it out to be. Especially if there's a chance it'll impress a boy.
   
5. High school can be fun--you just have to have the right attitude and a willingness to repress certain personality traits.

Perhaps what I like best about Made is how it makes a highly persuasive case that this is how the American high school experience should be: everyone can participate, everyone can get along, everyone is entitled to social climb as high as is decently possible, everyone can have a great yearbook photo, everyone can be a team player, everyone can love high school from the bottom of their hearts if only those hearts are open to the possibilities of personal betterment. What's that? You disagree? Sounds like somebody needs an attitude adjustment! You'd better sit yourself down and watch a few more episodes of Made.

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

When I was in the third grade, there was no slumber party contraband hotter than Dirty Dancing. Some girls in my class had parents who banned them from watching it. Other girls--the Dirty Dancing pushers, if you will--had parents who not only let them watch it, but willingly rented it for sleepover exhibition. Talk about badass! At any rate, by year's end, every single girl in the class had seen the movie at least half a dozen times. Now, normally I do not ascribe to the tantalizing, Althusserian notion that when a person watches a Hollywood movie, he or she soaks up its ideological poison like a sponge. But I make an exception when it comes to the reception of Dirty Dancing among pre-teen girls circa 1987-1988. That movie f***ed with our heads, man, and here's why: it propagated the idea that every girl deserves, nay, has the God-given right to find a man who can dance. More specifically, a man who can dance like Patrick Swayze.

After being indoctrinated with this fallacy at a young age, I entered my teen years outfitted with fantasies of having the time of my life practicing lifts in a lake at sunset, or mambo-ing into the spotlight with a dance partner every bit as talented (and looking every bit as hot in black polyester pants and a cummerbun) as Swayze's Johnny Castle.

Sadly, after a few junior high dances, the reality began to sink in that I'd been duped. Not only do very few men dance like Johnny Castle; the vast majority of men hate dancing, period. Except for spit-swapping slow songs, and the odd fool-proof, family- reunion- calibre standard (eg. "Y.M.C.A."...insert Sideshow Bob shudder...), most guys wouldn't get out on the dance floor unless their lives depended on it (as in, "Alright, we'll spare you--but only if you can shake it like Beyonce").

The worst part is, most guys I know think that not dancing is a good thing. For some bizarre reason, they think that not dancing and "looking cool" trumps making an effort and looking like a dork. But they're wrong! One need look no further than Patrick Dempsey's tour de force solo number in Can't Buy Me Love as evidence of the fact that it's all about the "E" for Effort when it comes to impressing girls on the dance floor.

There are, of course, guys who love to dance. However, they're in the minority as far as I can tell. And so it is that women the world over become harshly disillusioned in their quest to find the Patrick Swayze to their Jennifer Grey. And men take the blame for only doing what they honestly believe to be cool. Sigh. Why couldn't my friends' parents have just gone and rented friggin' Howard the Duck instead?

Overworked and Undersaxed

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, I thought I should take a moment to observe one of the most glaring deficiencies of today's pop music: the dearth of sultry saxophone solos. Nothing sets the scene for romance like a smooth, seductive sax solo. Not to mention the fact that "sax" is one vowel away from "sex" (as are "six," "sox," and "sux"--but that's beside the point). So why is the sax solo conspicuously absent from pop tunes these days? To craft an unsubstantiated yet highly convincing answer to that question, we must first re-visit the sax solo renaissance that was mid-1980s pop music. A glance at Billboard's Top 100 of 1984 reveals a goldmine of sax virtuosity: Sade's "Smooth Operator," Wham's "Careless Whisper," Lionel Richie's "Hello," Billy Ocean's "Caribbean Queen"....But in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the sax solo entered its baroque phase. In other words, it got out of control and started to piss people off. Michael Bolton and Kenny G. are the standout figures in this controversial period and their overindulgence is largely responsible for the sax solo's virtual extinction from pop music today. But it's been a while, and time heals all wounds, and...well...all I'm saying is to give sax a second chance. Because when it's right, it's ohhh sooo right. You know what I'm talking about. If you don't, slide on Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" this Valentine's season and engage in a night of casual sax--no strings attached.

I Heart Billy Hicks

I dedicate this inaugural entry to one of the greatest characters of 1980s cinema, the one, the only Billy Hicks, as realized by Rob Lowe in the timeless classic, St. Elmo's Fire (dir. Joel Schumacher, 1985). Billy, I love your sexed-up saxophone stylings, your impeccable flair for skinny ties and turned-up collars, your ebullient promiscuity, and your zeal for all things "out of hand." You are a speaker of many truths, and despite what you say, you have the "right hair." I discovered these many charms of yours while in the midst of my mid-1990s adolescence and am so grateful that I did. I scrawled your wisdom on my binder in English class because there are fewer more powerful words for the young in Hollywood cinema as your poetic advice to Jules, spoken directly to the camera with a look of camraderie and condolence:

"We're all going through this. It's our time on the edge."

And it still is.

So Billy, this one's for you. Don't go changing just to please me.