I decided to revist the olden days, through watching the WWF debut of Chris Jericho (my once-favorite wrestler) on (my now-favorite website) Youtube.com.  After watching, I couldn’t believe how I easily I was fooled into believing this claptrap.  Since I don’t have all day, lemme just point out a few of the most GLARING affectations, and my own perception of how they pander to the audience…

(In case you want to witness the phoniness firsthand, here’s the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFX7_4uTqhI&mode=related&search)

1.  “The Rock” (a man by the real name of Dwyane Johnson) refers to himself in third-person, with excessive arrogance and conviction (i.e. “Tonight…in front of all The Rock’s fans,  he will go ONE.ON.ONE..WITH THE GR8 ONE!”).  This is apparently done to satisfy and excite the audience, as enthusiastic applause follows his every sentence.

2.  “Y2J” Chris Jericho uses much of the same “rhetoric” the Rock used.  He also riled up the audience by announcing his arrival in third person, and even putting himself on “center-stage” (i.e. “RAW.IS.JERICHOO!!!!”).  He furthers the already superfluous pretension by declaring himself “YOUR NEW HERO!… MOST CHARISMATIC SHOWMAN…COME TO SAVE THE W.W.F.!… (blah blah blah)” 

3.  This is where the CLASH occurs, where two super-egos collide to verbally and (eventually) physically tear each other apart.  No way in real life, can two sane and sober people, who have just met get into such a rude, explosive and (not to mention) nonsensical altercation (i.e. Rock: “What is your name?” Jericho: “I TOLD you, my–” Rock: “IT DOESN’T MAAATTER WHAT YOUR NAME IS!”).

 So, in an almost-vain effort to try to make sense of all this nonsense, I believe that people in this business put up such ridiculous, provocative, harsh facades because we people, especially men, crave a good hardcore (not in THAT way..) soap opera.  We love seeing fights ensue, egos collide, and people getting hurt (as harsh as that sounds, I think we’re all, to some extent, sadists).

 Well, there was my two cents, take it for what you think it’s worth.

The show opens with a mixture of successful models both men and women getting acquainted. Two of the house members are having a political yet unintelligent debate consisting of slamming on the table and many curse words — mainly a brilliant and dramatic opener for a reality T.V show. This results in a fight between the two members involved, Andre and Daniel. Not to take credibility away from these brilliant models, but they are clearly putting on a show. Their expressions, words, and mannerisms are all clearly over dramatic in honor of the camera before them. Now I must admit if I weren’t fulfilling an assignment I imagine I’d be watching something else at the moment. Nonetheless I honestly found myself transfixed on the sheer comedic value in the show.

Ding ding ding! Let the battle of the bulge commence! The idea of this ingenious competition analogousness to that of Jeopardy is that contestants must answer the questions correct or face the catastrophic consequence of eating foods with high calorie content. The host ironically is Ben Stein, a brilliant man that reads off the nutritional values in each food to make the process that much more painful. On the flip side, when the contestants get the question right, they have the privilege of dining a piece of celery. One of the models admirably refuses to eat the cake and ultimately loses the competition. Another contestant puts his hands over his face as though he is in agony. All of these reactions, along with many others are clearly not genuine. It is just another reminder that when people are going to be watched by millions of people, they are going to act differently and truly put on a performance.

Well, alright, down to discussing this wasted half hour of my life. The supposed “concept” of this show is that VH1 has thrown a motley crue [sic] (don’t mind me, I’m trying to keep my mind on more interesting things) of “models” together in one house full of “crazy antics.” Basically, they have to compete in these precious “challenges” that - you guessed it - are about as challenging as 4th grade math. Oh wait, excuse me, sometimes it is fourth grade math….which they still answer correctly about 50% of the time mind you…just to keep the audience on its toes. There’s the customary disappointment when one of the most smartest (oops, Freudian slip) answers incorrectly (le gasp!), but this is the American public they’re trying to entertain here - it doesn’t take much to keep the sheep entertained on most occasions.

If Ebert stuck his thump up at this kind of crap, I think I’d have to break it. This kind of “entertainment” won’t satisfy anyone with an IQ above room temperature…

Well, that probably explains why America loves this stuff so much then.

If you like this programming, .

(more…)

All of a sudden all the world

is blonde. The Negro on my left

is blonde, his eyes are brimming

like a chalice, he is melting

the gold.

Beside me, passed out

on the floor, a novelist burns a hole

in my pants and he is blonde,

even the cigarette is. Some kind

of Russian cigarette.

Jean Cocteau

must be blonde too. And the music

of William Boyce.

Yes and what

comes out of me is blonde.

I liked this poem because I think it has more than one meaning to it because O’Hara kind of leaves it open for interpretation. I think that he was in a very good mood when he was writing it, using the blonde to represent brightness and happiness. Also I believe that he’s using the word blonde instead of sun or light or a word like that because he was seeing someone who was blonde at the time and that was his inspiration. He is so into this new guy that he’s with that he can see the good in everyone and in the line “passed out on the floor, a novelist burns a hole in my pants and he is blonde” O’Hara is even seeing the positiveness of a novelist who is passed out drunk on the floor by saying that he is blonde. While reading this poem, the word blonde seems to only be figuratively meaning good and positive things.

I think this is one of O’Hara’s hit or miss poems, the kind that evokes one of two reactions in people: the first being a delighted contentment, not needing any kind of explanation on the matter. The second (and probably more common) is closer to confusion. It’s not the most outlandish poem O’Hara’s written (Chez Jane, anyone?), but it seems to be just a random collection of the sights of the city, a sort of catalogue of landmarks and familiarities O’Hara would see every day on his lunch break…which I suppose is what the “art” in it is supposed to be? It’s debatable, as usual with O’Hara’s poems.

To be more fair, it might be more of an attempted escape from the unwavering reality of the city life for O’Hara, as the poem’s title seems to imply - O’Hara’s lunch break is supposed to be a relaxing hour when he can leave the city’s atmosphere and enjoy time off, yet even on his break he can’t seem to escape the familiar. Maybe a more satisfactory “step away from them” came in the form of the Hamptons for O’Hara…perhaps that is what he’s alluding to in this poem.

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying “Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are
only the second poet I’ve ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren’t you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can’t hang around
here all day.”
“Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal.”

“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt” the Sun said
petulantly. “Most people are up
already waiting to see if I’m going
to put in an appearance.”
I tried
to apologize “I missed you yesterday.”
“That’s better” he said. “I didn’t
know you’d come out.” “You may be wondering why I’ve come so close?”
“Yes” I said beginning to feel hot
and wondering if maybe he wasn’t burning me
anyway.
“Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you’re okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you’re different. Now, I’ve heard some
say you’re crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you’re a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You’ll
find that some people always will
complain about the atmosphere,
either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don’t appear
at all one day they think you’re lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don’t worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won’t be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes.”
“Oh Sun, I’m so grateful to you!”

“Thanks and remember I’m watching. It’s
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don’t have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we’ll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell.”

“Sun, don’t go!” I was awake
at last. “No, go I must, they’re calling
me.”
“Who are they?”
Rising he said “Some
day you’ll know. They’re calling to you
too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

This poem, out of all the O’Haras we have seen thus far, speaks the most to me. It’s so simple, and even a bit childish, but it seems as if it could have a deeper meaning than even the most complex of poetry. It appears to be a friendly conversation between two acquaintances, but in fact it is one schooling the other on the little things in life he is missing out on. The sun brings up the point of how living in the big city taints ones view, causing them to ignore the finer things such as just looking at the stars or rising with the sun. That in this fast paced life, no one can be satisfied with anything; they are always complaining about one thing or another. This has always been my take. I am not a city a person in the least. I feel that the skyscrapers and the immensely bright lights cloud a persons mind and obscure their view of what is really beautiful. Everyone in the city rushes around concerned only about themselves and their lives, paying no heed to what is around them. At the same time that all this is going on in the poem I a get a feeling that the sun is a higher being, a god figure of sorts. He talks about how he has watched O’Hara wherever he went, makes mention of the heavens and hell, and speaks of unknown people who are calling to him, and who are also calling to O’Hara though he doesn’t know it yet. The sun to me has always had a certain euphoria about it, as if it is more than what science depicts it to be. At times it can be warm, comforting, and inviting, but at others it can be just the opposite and offer nothing at all. Most people speak of the moon as the celestial body that is more than meets the eye because night it often associated with these types of ideas. By choosing the sun, O’Hara put a new refreshing spin on things, one that connected more with me, and got me thinking again about what might really be going on outside these walls of towering buildings.

In this Frank O’Hara poem, many different aspects of New York City are being described. He first sets a mood, discussing the dreary weather and compares it to the streets of New York; gloomy, overcrowded, and unwelcoming. He uses this as foreshadowing to the event of Lana Turner’s collapse. O’Hara describes the action and chaos that occurs in the city. The traffic full of people all trying to go somewhere different, and the large amount of parties that he has personally attended. He compares this to the the apects of California. Stating that “there is no snow in Hollywood, there is no rain in California”, O’Hara is relaying that New York is a much more upbeat town, with alot more action and adventure.