I'm just going to admit now that I've become a lazy friend. I totally blame technology. I no longer have to talk to anybody. I don't have to visit, have lunch, or even call. And yet, I'm probably better connected now and to more people than I ever was through my twenties.
Waaay back in the good old 90s, when I was young and carefree, I had about twenty friends. Ten, perhaps, that I would get together with pretty consistently. And five that I would talk to on a regular basis. Friendships required that little thing called time. If you called someone, it was either to make a plan to spend some face time together, or it was a twenty minute phone conversation in which you probably had some awkward pauses. If you were a lazy friend, you called when you knew the person wouldn't be home just so that you could say, "hey, sorry I missed you. Just calling to say hi. You don't need to call me back." Not that I ever did that...
Now? Well, now, we've got social networking sites. I joined MySpace back when everyone was joining MySpace and mainly used it for it's blog capabilities. Nothing much ever came out of the encounter (except, oddly, a date with a gamer), so after awhile, I got tired of it. And so did everyone else. Which is when the mass exodus to Facebook occurred. At first, I refused to make the move. Sure, my MySpace neighborhood was beginning to look like a Connecticut beach community in the dead of winter, but I had no desire to go to the Next Thing only to follow the tweens to the next Next Thing. No desire at all. But then my friends convinced me to start a blog here. And then my other friends (one of the five from those early-20s) convinced me to move to Facebook over Christmas. She said, "move to Facebook! Come on. Everyone's doing it. And the first hit is free!" No, actually, she didn't. She actually said, "you know who surfaced on Facebook? Jane Smith*! Oh my god. You've GOT to see her." And of course, you've got to be "friends" in order to see Jane Smith* so I joined.
The first thing that happened is that all my friends from my twenties found me. And right on their tails came everyone from high school. And then, people from grammar school! In fact, it was starting to get a little scary. (Especially when all those friends started to scan pictures from the mid-80s and started to tag me in them. Christ!) And the more "friends" I re-made, the more my curiosity grew. I started to go to people's pages and read their "walls" and their personal "info." And I especially enjoyed perusing their pictures. Those tagged photos on other people's pages are fabulous! It was like getting a real glimpse into their lives. Here, a photo wasn't cropped to the best angle, and a staged smile became a laugh, double chin and all. It was like being a Peeping Tom -- but with permission! And when I wasn't stalking these people, I was cyber "chit chatting" with them. These are people I haven't spoken to since 1991 -- and barely spoke to them then -- and now we're posting comments on who we want to win So You Think You Can Dance. (Go, Evan!)
The thing I've noticed the most about cyber-friendship is: If I'm a good friend with you anyway, technology is just making it easier to be "together" more often. My best friend from high school and I are currently playing a Scrabble game through the internet. My best friend from New York and I text each other every Wednesday night while watching that above mentioned dance show with our passionate opinions. (Go, Evan!) And while I'm not in Connecticut, I know when my brother is feeling a little depressed by the comments he posts on his wall and that maybe it's time for a phone call.
Psychologists continue to debate the merits of technology on personal connectedness and relationships. But for me? There's no debate about it. I might be a good friend, but I'm a fantastic techno-friend. And if that's true for everyone then I think we'll all be OK.
*name changed to protect the guilty.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Independence Day
"So, Independence Day is kind of a big deal, huh?" asked my Aussie friend.
"Why do you say that?" I replied.
"Well, I was just at the supermarket and a random lady said to me, 'happy Fourth of July.' And I realized that everyone seems to be into it. I just wonder why."
I did not explain to him that the lady was probably hitting on him, but I did try to explain that Fourth of July is a big deal in America in a no-big-deal way. It's not like Christmas where there is expectation or family obligation. It's not one of those fake holidays that we say is a holiday but is really just a religious ceremony run amok or, worse, a made up one that necessitates a costly brunch. It's the nation's birthday, a honest-to-goodness national holiday, one that every American can celebrate without thinking about displaced Indians or the segregated south, and a day that is usually given off to all but the cops, firemen, and medical professionals. And its a day to eat hot dogs, drink beer, and watch fireworks. Maybe hit the beach. For the most part, it's pretty mellow and you can celebrate it -- or not -- any way you choose. It's a nice holiday, stuck way out here in the summer. What's not to like about that?
He still didn't really understand why we celebrated, but allowed that perhaps it's because we fought for our independence rather than just waited around for Great Britain to get tired of us and hand it over around WWII (unlike some other colonies. Ahem). The reason for this discussion, of course, was because I wanted to do something in recognition of the Fourth and all my American friends already had some kind of plan in place. So, I called the Aussie. Seriously, what the hell would he be doing? And, as luck would have it, he was available. So I invited -- let's call him -- Hugh out to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
"The cemetery on the Fourth of July?" You ask. "Yes," I say. Every summer, the Hollywood Forever Cemetery opens up its gates on Saturday night and Los Angeleanos gather to watch movies under the stars. It's kinda like the drive-in without the cars or Byrant Park without the chairs. You're encouraged to get there early, bring a picnic, and listen to the DJs while getting drunk. Well, they don't encourage you to get drunk -- or high -- but some people do and are by time movie starts rolling at 9PM. But if you can deal with a hipster ratio of 30% and remember to bring a blanket, it can be a good night out. This past July 4th, they were screening Jaws. Yay! If you remember anything about Jaws beyond the line, "You're going to need a bigger boat", you may remember that the shark appears in the waters around Cape Cod over Fourth of July weekend, and the mayor and the chamber of commerce freak out that they are going to miss out on all the tourists' money if they close the beaches for the weekend. So, they don't. (Insert Jaws theme music here.) Hugh, being Aussie, was up for it (Aussies are generally up for anything. Amiable lot, those Australians). So, I packed up my blankets, stuck my Christmas champagne in the freezer, popped out to Gelsons for some fruit, cheese, and crackers, and changed into some jeans despite the ridiculous hot weather (L.A. is, at heart, still a desert and the temperature drops dramatically after the sun goes down).
Hugh had not been to the cemetery before and vaguely recalled hearing something about the movie-thing that was held there. I explained that I tend to opt out now. Over the three years I've lived in L.A., it's become more crowded, with less serious film viewers, and more serious hipsters who treat it like a night out at The Rocky Horror Picture Show. (I heard the screening of Pee Wee's Big Adventure was a virtual bake out.) But, since it was July 4th, I hypothesized that most people would be attending either the numerous public fireworks spectaculars or more numerous private beach/pool parties, and therefore, it was probably the best night to pop in to the movie. Plus, having lived near the cemetery, I knew it was superbly located to view a few fireworks spectaculars around town, notably the ones from Universal and Paramount Studios and whatever it is that happens over there in Pasadena. As far as I was concerned it was win-win.
We got there in plenty of time to bicker about parking and claim a spacious spot on the lawn. We weren't very close to the screen, and the audio was terrible, but we didn't have an obstructed view and that's got to count for something. We popped open the champagne, laid out the cheese and crackers and chatted about nothing for two hours. It was warm out. A beautiful California night. People were in good spirits, and the champagne relaxed me and made me happy. The DJs were spinning obscure 70s music that Hugh seemed to recognize, and I enjoyed people-watching until the dusk and I put my sweater on. At some point, the DJ put on a Jackson 5 song and the people cheered. So, he put on two more songs from two other MJ eras before it was almost dark. And when the sun went down, he played "Thriller." People cheered louder and sprang up, sponteanously bursting into dance. Other people raised their cell phones to take pictures, and I, well, I wished that there was a way to bottle the feeling that raised up around and inside of me, but instead all I could do was to tell myself "remember this."
Jaws, of course, was fantastic. It's one of those movies that I see something new in every time I watch it. (Dear House viewers: "That's some bad hat Harry" comes from Jaws. Who knew?) And while Roy Scheider desperately tried to convince the mayor to close the beaches, fireworks lit up the night sky around us.
I don't think there's a way to explain to foreigners why Americans like the Fourth of July. (I'm not even sure that we all do.) But what I can say about it is that, for the most part, most of us like to do something on the Fourth. However, there is no "right way" to celebrate the holiday (like Thanksgiving or Christmas) and there's no rule about who you're supposed to spend it with (hello, Mother's Day). Independence Day is a true holiday from all the rules that govern our lives. It's right there in the title. And however you choose to celebrate it -- or not -- at the end of the day, there will be fireworks. What's not to like about that?
"Why do you say that?" I replied.
"Well, I was just at the supermarket and a random lady said to me, 'happy Fourth of July.' And I realized that everyone seems to be into it. I just wonder why."
I did not explain to him that the lady was probably hitting on him, but I did try to explain that Fourth of July is a big deal in America in a no-big-deal way. It's not like Christmas where there is expectation or family obligation. It's not one of those fake holidays that we say is a holiday but is really just a religious ceremony run amok or, worse, a made up one that necessitates a costly brunch. It's the nation's birthday, a honest-to-goodness national holiday, one that every American can celebrate without thinking about displaced Indians or the segregated south, and a day that is usually given off to all but the cops, firemen, and medical professionals. And its a day to eat hot dogs, drink beer, and watch fireworks. Maybe hit the beach. For the most part, it's pretty mellow and you can celebrate it -- or not -- any way you choose. It's a nice holiday, stuck way out here in the summer. What's not to like about that?
He still didn't really understand why we celebrated, but allowed that perhaps it's because we fought for our independence rather than just waited around for Great Britain to get tired of us and hand it over around WWII (unlike some other colonies. Ahem). The reason for this discussion, of course, was because I wanted to do something in recognition of the Fourth and all my American friends already had some kind of plan in place. So, I called the Aussie. Seriously, what the hell would he be doing? And, as luck would have it, he was available. So I invited -- let's call him -- Hugh out to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
"The cemetery on the Fourth of July?" You ask. "Yes," I say. Every summer, the Hollywood Forever Cemetery opens up its gates on Saturday night and Los Angeleanos gather to watch movies under the stars. It's kinda like the drive-in without the cars or Byrant Park without the chairs. You're encouraged to get there early, bring a picnic, and listen to the DJs while getting drunk. Well, they don't encourage you to get drunk -- or high -- but some people do and are by time movie starts rolling at 9PM. But if you can deal with a hipster ratio of 30% and remember to bring a blanket, it can be a good night out. This past July 4th, they were screening Jaws. Yay! If you remember anything about Jaws beyond the line, "You're going to need a bigger boat", you may remember that the shark appears in the waters around Cape Cod over Fourth of July weekend, and the mayor and the chamber of commerce freak out that they are going to miss out on all the tourists' money if they close the beaches for the weekend. So, they don't. (Insert Jaws theme music here.) Hugh, being Aussie, was up for it (Aussies are generally up for anything. Amiable lot, those Australians). So, I packed up my blankets, stuck my Christmas champagne in the freezer, popped out to Gelsons for some fruit, cheese, and crackers, and changed into some jeans despite the ridiculous hot weather (L.A. is, at heart, still a desert and the temperature drops dramatically after the sun goes down).
Hugh had not been to the cemetery before and vaguely recalled hearing something about the movie-thing that was held there. I explained that I tend to opt out now. Over the three years I've lived in L.A., it's become more crowded, with less serious film viewers, and more serious hipsters who treat it like a night out at The Rocky Horror Picture Show. (I heard the screening of Pee Wee's Big Adventure was a virtual bake out.) But, since it was July 4th, I hypothesized that most people would be attending either the numerous public fireworks spectaculars or more numerous private beach/pool parties, and therefore, it was probably the best night to pop in to the movie. Plus, having lived near the cemetery, I knew it was superbly located to view a few fireworks spectaculars around town, notably the ones from Universal and Paramount Studios and whatever it is that happens over there in Pasadena. As far as I was concerned it was win-win.
We got there in plenty of time to bicker about parking and claim a spacious spot on the lawn. We weren't very close to the screen, and the audio was terrible, but we didn't have an obstructed view and that's got to count for something. We popped open the champagne, laid out the cheese and crackers and chatted about nothing for two hours. It was warm out. A beautiful California night. People were in good spirits, and the champagne relaxed me and made me happy. The DJs were spinning obscure 70s music that Hugh seemed to recognize, and I enjoyed people-watching until the dusk and I put my sweater on. At some point, the DJ put on a Jackson 5 song and the people cheered. So, he put on two more songs from two other MJ eras before it was almost dark. And when the sun went down, he played "Thriller." People cheered louder and sprang up, sponteanously bursting into dance. Other people raised their cell phones to take pictures, and I, well, I wished that there was a way to bottle the feeling that raised up around and inside of me, but instead all I could do was to tell myself "remember this."
Jaws, of course, was fantastic. It's one of those movies that I see something new in every time I watch it. (Dear House viewers: "That's some bad hat Harry" comes from Jaws. Who knew?) And while Roy Scheider desperately tried to convince the mayor to close the beaches, fireworks lit up the night sky around us.
I don't think there's a way to explain to foreigners why Americans like the Fourth of July. (I'm not even sure that we all do.) But what I can say about it is that, for the most part, most of us like to do something on the Fourth. However, there is no "right way" to celebrate the holiday (like Thanksgiving or Christmas) and there's no rule about who you're supposed to spend it with (hello, Mother's Day). Independence Day is a true holiday from all the rules that govern our lives. It's right there in the title. And however you choose to celebrate it -- or not -- at the end of the day, there will be fireworks. What's not to like about that?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Michael Jackson Memorial
Yeah, alright, I'm going to do it.
I just got the newest Entertainment Weekly, which is being called a "Special Tribute Issue", and you can probably guess that Ed McMahon is not on the cover. Neither is Farrah Fawcett. In fact, according to the Letter from the Editor, there are four different covers of this special issue -- to be collected, of course -- and all of them are graced with a photo of Jacko. (I have the "Thriller" cover, in case you are collecting and got the Jackson 5 picture. The bidding starts at $5.) The news about Michael has been non-stop, and while I know the rest of you in the country are probably suffering from MJ fatigue, try being here in L.A. where the circus is 24-hours. They just announced the funeral arrangements. Supposedly, there's going to be a public viewing at the Staples Center (seating capacity: 20,000) with Reverend Al Sharpton presiding. And the in the center ring, for your enjoyment...
Facebook has a lot to say on the matter, too. People my age and older are a bit shell shocked. But the younger generation, the ones that grew up with "Wacko Jacko" are being their annoying cocksure, jaded selves, writing things like, "I'm glad he's dead! He was a perv!" and "Everybody is pretending they were, like, this HUGE Michael Jackson fan. Hypocrite!" They kinda don't get that it's not about Michael Jackson as much as it is about us. I mean, he's dead, what does he care? We're the ones that have to live with the knowledge that our Pop Icon, our Elvis, our Marilyn, our Warhol just died! What the hell does that mean for us? That we're -- *gulp* -- old? It is very important that we blame this death on his multiple surgeries and copious meds, otherwise, any of us can drop at any time! Now is the time to panic, people!
OK, maybe panic is not the best way to deal with the death of a Pop Icon. Public mourning is fine (even if you are crowded around the wrong star on the Walk of Fame). Joining a Michael Jackson fan club on Facebook is fine, too. Hanging out at the Apollo all night dressed as MJ might be a bit extreme, but whatever gets you through it. I will not be attending the funeral on Tuesday. Instead, I'll share with you here, in the safety and comfort of my blog, the way I remember Michael Jackson:
It is 1983. "Billie Jean" is at the top of the charts. I am ten-years old and just starting to get into pop music. I had heard that Michael Jackson is going to be on the Motown 25 anniversary special. I'm tired, but I stay up just to see Michael because I know everyone is going to be talking about it at school the next day. Finally, after the commercial break, Michael Jackson is introduced and he's wearing a fedora, a white sparkly glove (?), and white sparkly socks (!). It's just him on the stage. He sings. He dances. I'm slightly bored by it all until about the mid-point when Michael spins around and starts to glide backwards. It lasts for a moment, but I am surprised. No, astonished. I pop off of the couch and look around the living room. I am alone. I call for my mother, but she's busy somewhere else in the house. I watch the rest of the performance with my eyes glued to the television willing him to do it again. He doesn't. Later, I try to explain it to my mother. I try to recreate it on the kitchen's linoleum floor. I can't, and she doesn't seem to get how incredible it was. I wonder if I'm the only person to witness it.
Of course, that was the moonwalk and, television being television, a few million other people saw it, too, and were just as astonished. But, hey, I was ten. I wouldn't learn about the power of television or even lip-syncing and choreography until years later. But that night? That is what I'm thinking about now. And the moonwalk just leads to other great childhood MJ memories like the debut of the John Landis "Thriller" video which MTV hyped and promoted just as much as the new Transformers movie. And my best friend Jill P. who had all the dolls and the red leather jacket and the glove and then moved away to Florida. Getting the Thriller cassette for Christmas right alongside with my new cassette player. And these are just a few.
Stephen Colbert recently said on his show, "people's memories of Michael Jackson now seem to stop around 1989 as if we've taken a collective hit to the head." Well, sign me up as one of the amnesiacs. Mostly since I stopped paying attention to MJ around the time Bon Jovi hit big. But that doesn't mean that I can't still mourn the guy now. Or, more precisely, what he meant to me. As a friend of mine aptly put it, "I feel like a piece of childhood died right along with him." Exactly! So, rest in peace, Michael.
(Oh, and, Madonna? Wherever you are, stay safe. Gen-X'ers are relying on you to reach a ripe old age, dear Material Girl.)
I just got the newest Entertainment Weekly, which is being called a "Special Tribute Issue", and you can probably guess that Ed McMahon is not on the cover. Neither is Farrah Fawcett. In fact, according to the Letter from the Editor, there are four different covers of this special issue -- to be collected, of course -- and all of them are graced with a photo of Jacko. (I have the "Thriller" cover, in case you are collecting and got the Jackson 5 picture. The bidding starts at $5.) The news about Michael has been non-stop, and while I know the rest of you in the country are probably suffering from MJ fatigue, try being here in L.A. where the circus is 24-hours. They just announced the funeral arrangements. Supposedly, there's going to be a public viewing at the Staples Center (seating capacity: 20,000) with Reverend Al Sharpton presiding. And the in the center ring, for your enjoyment...
Facebook has a lot to say on the matter, too. People my age and older are a bit shell shocked. But the younger generation, the ones that grew up with "Wacko Jacko" are being their annoying cocksure, jaded selves, writing things like, "I'm glad he's dead! He was a perv!" and "Everybody is pretending they were, like, this HUGE Michael Jackson fan. Hypocrite!" They kinda don't get that it's not about Michael Jackson as much as it is about us. I mean, he's dead, what does he care? We're the ones that have to live with the knowledge that our Pop Icon, our Elvis, our Marilyn, our Warhol just died! What the hell does that mean for us? That we're -- *gulp* -- old? It is very important that we blame this death on his multiple surgeries and copious meds, otherwise, any of us can drop at any time! Now is the time to panic, people!
OK, maybe panic is not the best way to deal with the death of a Pop Icon. Public mourning is fine (even if you are crowded around the wrong star on the Walk of Fame). Joining a Michael Jackson fan club on Facebook is fine, too. Hanging out at the Apollo all night dressed as MJ might be a bit extreme, but whatever gets you through it. I will not be attending the funeral on Tuesday. Instead, I'll share with you here, in the safety and comfort of my blog, the way I remember Michael Jackson:
It is 1983. "Billie Jean" is at the top of the charts. I am ten-years old and just starting to get into pop music. I had heard that Michael Jackson is going to be on the Motown 25 anniversary special. I'm tired, but I stay up just to see Michael because I know everyone is going to be talking about it at school the next day. Finally, after the commercial break, Michael Jackson is introduced and he's wearing a fedora, a white sparkly glove (?), and white sparkly socks (!). It's just him on the stage. He sings. He dances. I'm slightly bored by it all until about the mid-point when Michael spins around and starts to glide backwards. It lasts for a moment, but I am surprised. No, astonished. I pop off of the couch and look around the living room. I am alone. I call for my mother, but she's busy somewhere else in the house. I watch the rest of the performance with my eyes glued to the television willing him to do it again. He doesn't. Later, I try to explain it to my mother. I try to recreate it on the kitchen's linoleum floor. I can't, and she doesn't seem to get how incredible it was. I wonder if I'm the only person to witness it.
Of course, that was the moonwalk and, television being television, a few million other people saw it, too, and were just as astonished. But, hey, I was ten. I wouldn't learn about the power of television or even lip-syncing and choreography until years later. But that night? That is what I'm thinking about now. And the moonwalk just leads to other great childhood MJ memories like the debut of the John Landis "Thriller" video which MTV hyped and promoted just as much as the new Transformers movie. And my best friend Jill P. who had all the dolls and the red leather jacket and the glove and then moved away to Florida. Getting the Thriller cassette for Christmas right alongside with my new cassette player. And these are just a few.
Stephen Colbert recently said on his show, "people's memories of Michael Jackson now seem to stop around 1989 as if we've taken a collective hit to the head." Well, sign me up as one of the amnesiacs. Mostly since I stopped paying attention to MJ around the time Bon Jovi hit big. But that doesn't mean that I can't still mourn the guy now. Or, more precisely, what he meant to me. As a friend of mine aptly put it, "I feel like a piece of childhood died right along with him." Exactly! So, rest in peace, Michael.
(Oh, and, Madonna? Wherever you are, stay safe. Gen-X'ers are relying on you to reach a ripe old age, dear Material Girl.)
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