Watching any award show can be frustrating—they’re long, they’re tedious, and there are too many commercials—so I’m not going to make this intro any longer/more frustrating than it is already.
Moonlight won the Oscar for Best Picture. End of Sentence. Let that be the end of the sentence.
Moonlight, the story of a black, queer man growing up in Miami, won the Oscar for Best Picture. Yes.
To change the headline, to say “HOLLYWOOD SCANDAL: STEVE HARVEY MOMENT AS MOONLIGHT ACTUALLY WON THE OSCAR” is to take away from this moment. This very important moment.
In a year and time when the rights and bodies of LGBTQ people are being arbitrated over, when people of color are being targeted, when minorities are being further marginalized, let us not sully this moment. Moonlight, an exceptional film, won. It won.
In their speech, Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty touched upon diversity, boldness and strength represented in artistic works. Those are very important lodestones for us to carry with us into this next year—a year that has been marked by several different upsets of various sorts. La La Land, despite whatever accolades it deserved, wasn’t a movie that represented all of that. That doesn’t mean that it wasn’t imporant. But it’s like how 25 won “Album of the Year.” It shouldn’t have.
“Of the Year” should indicate something that encompasses the entire year. And in the same way that Lemonade touched upon Blackness, womanhood, police brutality, and politics—Moonlight did that. And in this moment, in this time that is so fraught with chaos and darkness and meanness, it is such a relief that there is some recognition for the accomplishments and contributions of black and queer artists.
I think it’s a tough act to balance art with artists. It was tough to see Casey Affleck take the Oscar for Best Actor. Especially in this year, it is tough to watch men who have accusations of sexual assaults leveled against them receive widespread validation.
It was tough to see that as much progress the Oscars made this year—Mahershala Ali won Best Supporting Actor as the first Muslim Actor to win an Oscar, Viola Davis won her first Oscar for Best Supporting Actress and is the first Black woman to win an Oscar, Emmy and Tony for acting, obviously Moonlight, and more diversity in the nominations—we are still affirming white men with allegations of sexual assault.
Maybe Casey Affleck truly had an amazing performance, but what does it say about us that we validated that? That if your performance is good enough, we’ll forget those three instances of assault? That if you have enough money, not even a Pussygate scandal will cost you the Presidency?
On another note, Patricia Arquette pointed out that her sister, trans actress Alexis Arquette, who passed away in September of 2016, was not included in the “In Memoriam” at this year’s Oscars. And unfortunately, when talking about what the wider public can do for trans youth on the Vanity Fair Post-Oscar livestream, Arquette was cut off to make way for Jon Hamm & Co. talking about licorice (unclear). So I did a littleresearch—you can donate to the ACLU, donate your money or time to the Trans Lifeline, get involved at your local level, and be vocal about support for trans rights.
Sometimes validation comes from the top, but most importantly—and most crucially—it comes from the roots, from the people, from us. On a $1.6 million budget, Moonlight grossed $25 million world-wide. Gavin Grimm, a young trans student from Virginia, is bringing his case to the Supreme Court. Change happens, great things happen, from the ground up. Small things become big things, and then those things become world-changing.
(i tried to make the header look like a golden plaque? idk don’t judge)
I’m not a music journalist, so I can’t give you all the deep tea on the Grammys, or what each award stands for. I actually didn’t watch the awards show because I don’t have a TV and honestly I can find the performances later. Isn’t that what’s most important?
Rolling Stone released an article, “Grammys 2017: Who Will Win, Who Should Win” by writer Keith Harris, that’s really helpful in understanding the individual nuances of each category.
There are essentially only a few categories that anyone is/should be interested in. “Album of the Year,” “Song of the Year,” “Record of the Year,” and “Best New Artist.” There are other ones: “Best Solo Performance,” “Best Pop Vocal Album,” and on and on until the only person left standing is CeeLo Green because apparently he’s a robot now.
The way Rolling Stone broke it down for the first three categories is this. “Album of the Year” relates most to album sales. “Song” is about the written-ness, and “Record” relates more to performance and singing. In each of these, it was a toss-up between Beyoncé and Adele for Lemonade and 25, respectively.
Adele ended up sweeping all three, with Beyonce winning “Best Urban Contemporary Album” (before the cameras were rolling, apparently they hand out a bunch of awards because the Grammys are long enough as it is).
If we’re going by the Rolling Stone outline, then it makes sense that 25 won Best Album. It sold 3.38 million in the first week of its release; 17.4 million copies in 2015; 20 million copies sold total. That’s, like, historic. So Album of the Year; that makes sense.
And if “Song” relates more to the written, then Adele wins that too. She writes all her own stuff (probably with some help) but whatever. She wrote “Hello.” Yes, done.
But “Record of the Year” should’ve at least gone to Beyoncé. I think that’s what’s so hard about Adele and Beyoncé. I LOVE BOTH OF THEM. Not even out of some deluded idea of “fairness” because—let’s face it—these awards basically mean nothing monetarily to these two queens. They’ll still be fucking incredible, no matter what some group of voters decides (there’s an allegory in there somewhere).
And this is the part that confuses me—does the voter group take into account public perception? Because of the two, 25 and Lemonade, the latter was more—in my small, tiny, chic opinion—the more influential. It brought police brutality into the national dialogue when Beyoncé wore a Blank Panthers-inspired outfit to the Super Bowl; when she released “Formation,” the music video of which invoked Hurricane Katrina, black womanness, police brutality, and Black Lives Matter. She did that.
It seems like that should be accounted for: the amount that Beyonce contributed to, affected and influenced our country’s dialogue about race. Lemonade was powerful in its own right—as a visual album and experience, and the songs that touched on the intersection between Blackness and Womanness—but it also impacted 2016 in a major way. A way that seems not to be recognized by the Grammy voters.
Adele, in her acceptance speech, said that Beyonce should’ve won “Album of the Year,” which maybe is true and is a nice sentiment, but kind of bullshit. I LOVE ADELE, so this is not shade, but there’s underlying condescension in the notion of “You should really won this (but I won this) but you should’ve!” I don’t think, honestly, Adele meant it that way, but actions speak louder than words.
Justin Bieber, Drake and Kanye West made the action to skip the Grammys, despite being nominated in several categories, because they felt the award show did not accurately recognize the contributions and accomplishments of black artists. According to TMZ, they thought it was kind of irrelevant. And after watching Adele sweep every category against Beyonce, I have to agree.
We’re in a tough place because it’s two QUEENS against each other, but Lemonade was iconic in 2016. Not just because it was good, but because it was important. And as heart-rending and evocative and emotional and lovely as 25 was, it wasn’t important and necessary in the same way that Lemonade was. There was pain in the voice of Adele, and in the eyes of Beyonce, when Adele dedicated her award to Beyonce. Because at the end of the day, they—and all artists—recognize the value and depth of each other’s art. Now if that could just be accurately represented, that would be killer.
I just need to reiterate that I love Adele, and writing this has physically hurt me, but I have to honor my truth.
ALSO CONGRATS TO CHANCE THE RAPPER FOR “BEST NEW ARTIST” YOU COMPLETELY DESERVE IT!
I was on “On The Verge” (Verge Campus’s radio show for BU) talking about college politics. It’s difficult being a celebrity journalist AND maintaining my personal/work life balance, but it’s so fulfilling.
Most of the people I know are queers, cynics and ladies (and some various combinations of the three) so I was largely unaffected by the Heterosexual Roman Triumph otherwise known as Superbowl LI. Super Bowl? Super-Bowl?
*googles it* Super Bowl. But now all I can see is “super bowl” like “Gee, what a great bowl!” And I don’t mean to brag, but I know my way around a super bowl. Have you ever been to Paint Your Own Pottery? I’ve been. Twice.
I watched the Super Bowl in the way God intended—I made Moscow Mules, ate dip and kept saying to my friends, “I can’t believe it starts at 6:30.” Because seriously, I get that it was in Houston, but that’s a long time. By the time 6:30 rolled its lazy ass around, I was two Moscow Mules-deep and had accidentally chipped my nail polish on a tooth as I vigorously ate a tortilla chip.
I first was very confused because my entire Twitter feed was just, “THE FALCONS WON THE POPULAR VOTE” and I had just woken up so the joke didn’t translate for me. But then I went on my Twitter moments and understood the ref. Funny (?).
I am very petty, so my immediate reaction upon waking up and finding out the Patriots had won was deep, unbending anger because that means that the annoying people I go to school with (i.e. everyone who isn’t a cynic, a queer or a lady) would be happy. I am very petty. If I were a Golden Girl, I would be Petty White. Also I’m very much over the Patriots doing so well. How can you root for someone like that?
Side bar: my mother expressly rooted for the Atlanta Falcons because she “loves an underdog.” So some of my pettiness is probably genetic.
While watching the game, I was overcome with confusion and I had tried to learn as much as possible before the game. I didn’t even make any jokes about the position “wide receiver.” But as soon as the game actually started, all my learning went out the window. First of all, I didn’t realize what I was watching was the game until about a minute into it. Secondly, it’s kind of impossible to figure out what’s the game and what’s just a replay. Like, are they trying to make it more confusing?
Thirdly, I find it offensive that they disregard time as a concept so flippantly. Sure, it says “20 minutes on the clock” but those 20 minutes could be forty minutes. They took a “break?” “pause?” “time-out” with three seconds left on the clock. Could anything happen in that time, or couldn’t they just take those three seconds to get comfortable before the (what’s the in-between time called? Rest period?) started.
Gaga’s performance was very good. Very surprising, because I assumed she would play a lot more Joanne than she did (she just sang “A Million Reasons”). But Gaga is always subverting expectations, and instead of playing to the Texas crowd with her rock-folk-country album vibes, she served vintage queer Gaga.
She also subverted expectations by not going full-throttle political. A story circulated the week before the Super Bowl that the NFL was trying to muzzle Gaga’s political speech. Whether or not that’s true, we’ll never know, but the performance was very patriotic. And some reactions I’ve read online say that that was the most political and radical thing she could’ve done. That she could’ve softballed it and gone crazy-divisive and angry and scorched-earth. But instead she praised American unity and set the message as “We stand together.” That shows a lot of intelligence and restraint on her part, to not give into the anger of the people and to stand for something greater.
God, I love her.
Literally that’s it. Congrats Pats, but can we limit the masturbatory praise to this week? I don’t feel like avoiding articles about how amazing the Pats’ comeback is. Like, they’ve been in the Super Bowl forever; it’s not that amazing. It’s kind of expected now. They could take a leaf out of Lady Gaga’s playbook and give us something unexpected. And they could totally incorporate her football gear into their uniforms.
As a journalist, you spend a lot of your time writing about the news. You spend a lot of time thinking about it, dissecting it, following it. And some people have iron heads and they can handle that constant rotation of news. Others—like me—are too pretty to have iron heads (so unflattering) and are not capable of being news robots.
A lot of what I’ve been writing about—for class, for this blog, for the Odyssey—have been centered around politics. It’s impossible to avoid, and as it became incorporated to my brand, it became more and more important for me to cover. That had negative results—after the election, I was so desperately brain-dead that I went completely off the grid and couldn’t even think about anything. Because as much as we cover it, we are consumed with it and we let it ingrain inside of us.
So maybe in a few weeks/days/hours I’ll decide to boycott politics for a while and just write about my NEW CAMEL COAT (ugh so chic) but there’s still things to be said and things to cover, and, y’all, I’m soldiering on.
“You sent the Press Secretary out there to utter falsehoods on the smallest, pettiest thing,” said an exasperated Chuck Todd.
Kellyanne, twirling those ribbons that rhythmic gymnasts in Russia use, flailed around the questions, whipped the curls of fabric in Todd’s face until they coiled around his neck.
“Our press secretary, Sean Spicer, gave alternative facts,” she said as Todd’s face turned purple from disbelief and lack of oxygen. And when he had slumped out of frame, Conway unfurled the ribbons from around his neck, wrapped them up tightly and put them back into her holsters.
Wiping the sweat of her hands off on her blue dress, the eyeshadow smudging darkly around her eyes, Kellyanne caught a glimpse of herself in the window’s reflection as she left the green screen behind. Her face was hollow, mouth tightly set. She pulled out the tiny list crumpled in her pocket and sliced a line through Chuck Todd’s name with the precision of a French Revolution executioner. Squaring her shoulders and applying more eyeshadow to her lids—obscuring them and hiding the windows to her soul—she slinked off to her next target. And so on. And so on. Forever.
Okay, so that didn’t happen—but didn’t it sound like it could’ve?
In the article, NYU journalism professor Jay Rosen proposed on the Recode Media podcast with Peter Kafka that news outlets should no longer have Kellyanne on.
And the implications of that—what they say about where we are as journalists—are staggering.
To disavow and cut off contact with the White House—willingly—seems unbelievable. And if this were a normal world—and not season three of Black Mirror—it would be unbelievable. But Rosen laid out probably the saddest and more logical argument for it.
“It’s not just lying or spin or somebody who is skilled in the political arts of putting the best case on things or not answering a question, which is a pretty basic method of doing politis. It’s that when you are done listening to Kellyanne Conway, you probably understand less. That’s the problem.”
If I’ve learned anything from Scandal (I’ve learned a bunch, thank you Shonda Rimes), it’s that the press secretary is often put in a difficult position. They have to balance the president, the truth and the press. But Abby was able to do it. Sometimes it involves a version of the truth; sometimes it involves moving on to the next question. But the press secretary always does their job.
So what made Chuck Todd, and I and a lot of people, so incredulous was the fact that this was such minutiae. Spicer was lying about the size of the crowds at the inauguration. He said this was the most attended and most watched inauguration of all time. That’s, like, so not true. And there’s photographic evidence to prove it (side by side evidence of Obama’s first inauguration and Trump’s inauguration). It’s so easily provable that it’s ridiculous.
Spicer could’ve walked in, fielded questions and addressed the attendance. He could’ve said, “President Trump (ugh, gag) has more important things to worry about than the size of attendance at his inauguration. He has a country to run.” THAT WOULD’VE BEEN BETTER. Dickish, but better. But to lie proves that it bothers Trump so much that people aren’t falling down at his feet. It kills him that nobody showed up for his inauguration but the NEXT DAY we had the largest march in modern history.
Rosen’s comment was at the end of a conversation about the typical journalistic efforts for impartiality—impartiality relies on reaching out for comment to both sides. But when one side consists of Trump, Conway and Spicer—three people who will give you radically different answers (all wrong) to the same question, actually not even answering the question in the process—it becomes infinitely more muddled. Why are we doing this? We’re not getting any more information. We’re not getting things any clearer.
And journalists are doing backbends trying to cope with having two sides where one side is just a funhouse mirror.
So the answer is simple: if having Kellyanne on just makes the truth more muddled, then you have to cut it off. We, you, journalists, have an obligation to the truth—above all else. Anyone who gets in the way of that is expendable.
Sometimes it’s not worth it. On The Real Housewives of Orange County, Vicki Gunvalson said her boyfriend, Brooks Ayers, had cancer. Turns out he didn’t, and all the other ladies wanted to know how much Vicki knew. She obviously knew a lot, because they were in a relationship and she never went to any of his doctor’s appointments or chemo treatments, etc. And she lied for him, endlessly. She, to this day, has not really admitted that he doesn’t have cancer. She has not admitted that she knew anything.
And so I have a lot of experience with blonde ladies who have a loose relationship with the truth. And this is what I’ve learned: they won’t change (even when you are mean to them in Ireland) and so at a certain point, you have to refuse to engage. Because what they want more than anything else is attention, and even negative attention feeds that addiction. So you cut them off. You don’t let them spew their bullshit. You shut it down.
But the difference between Kellyanne Conway and Vicki Gunvalson is that Vicki Gunvalson doesn’t have the ear of the guy with access to nuclear codes. Vicki is dumb, but harmless, and infinitely entertaining. But Conway has so little regard for the truth and so little respect for the American people that she having access to Trump—who is proven to be volatile and rash—is terrifying.
So maybe we’ve come to the point where we can’t engage with Kellyanne. Where having her on screen puts more danger into the world than good. And it’s scary to admit that this is where we are as journalists, but we have promises to the American people—we must not harm. (I know that’s the Hippocratic oath but stick with me). And she’s definitely causing us harm.
Written before the death of Debbie Reynolds at 84 years old, a Hollywood legend and mother to Carrie Fisher. Reynolds was known for Singin’ in the Rain, The Debbie Reynolds Show, and Halloweentown. Reynolds was the president of the Thalians, which was dedicated to mental health causes, and received the Academy Awards Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award in 2016.
Carrie Fisher, 60, died on the 27 of December 2016, drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra. Her words, not mine.
Fisher wrote that obituary for herself in her 2008 memoir, Wishful Drinking. The book was adapted from her one-woman stage show, and featured a story from her days shooting Star Wars. George Lucas went up to her and told her that she shouldn’t be wearing a bra.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
Because, he explained, apparently your body—due to the weightlessness of space—expands while your clothing—or more particularly your bra—do not, thus strangling you.
“Now I think that this would make a fantastic obit—so I tell my younger friends that no matter how I go, I want it reported that I drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra,” Fisher wrote.
Fisher spoke publicly about her bipolar disorder and her addiction to cocaine and prescription medication. In 2001, she discussed her drug addiction as self-medication with Psychology Today, particularly the use of drugs like Percodan to curtail the manic aspect of her bipolar disorder. In 2006, she was a part of the BBC documentary Stephen Fry: The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive. She published her memoir in 2008 and discussed her experiences with electroconvulsive therapy on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.
In 2016, Harvard College awarded her its Annual Outstanding Lifetime Achievement Award in Cultural Humanism for “her forthright activism and outspokenness about addiction, mental illness, and agnosticism,” which have “advanced public discourse on these issues with creativity and empathy.”
It’s important that Fisher got her last wishes concerning her obituary. It’s important that she’s remembered how she wanted to be. It’s important that she was in control of her story.
So often people with mental illness deal with events outside of their control, inside their heads. We struggle to get to a base level that other people operate from effortlessly. We work so much harder, every day, to get the same things. And sometimes we fall fucking short. We don’t succeed in the way we wanted to.
Carrie Fisher succeeded in the life she wanted. She was an actress, a woman, a parent, a writer, and an advocate. She brought so much light and laughter to a topic that sometimes, sadly, has so little of either. She showed that you can be funny and sharp and there, even if you are struggling with mental illness.
She proved that you can be more than. She was more than Princess Leia. She was more than an actress. She was more than her illness. She was more than her addiction. People will try to label you; to shove you into boxes; to dissect you, understand you, curtail you. But Carrie Fisher showed that you could exist beyond the expectations of people and society. And you can fucking rock it.
She lived a life of advocacy, of humor, of strength, and she died, drowned in moonlight and strangled by her own bra.
I want to extend my sympathies to Fisher’s daughter Billie, and her brother Todd, and her half-siblings, Joely and Tricia.
Grade: A for Entertainment, C for Answering Basic Human Questions, D for the fact that it’s not coming back until 2018
If you’ve hung out with me at all in the last few weeks (highly unlikely, as I am a very popular person who spends almost all of his time in bed watching Netflix) you might’ve/probably heard me mention the HBO sci-fi Western Westworld. I’ve been obsessed.
It’s been a while since I’ve been obsessed with a show—the last one was probably Scandal where I fully binged—but it’s been even longer since I’ve been obsessed with a show that’s airing in real time. Sure, at any given point I’m watching at least four different Bravo shows, but that’s less of an obsession and more watching of a real-time science experiment unfold. So the experience of watching a show week-to-week, and ruminating over it and dissecting it and reading about it, is something that I haven’t engaged in for a long time.
The finale of Westworld’s first season is this Sunday (I’m writing this on Saturday), so I think it would be a fun little experiment to write down some of my predictions and theories today (Saturday), watch the show tomorrow (Sunday) and then do a review-cum-recap-discussion for Monday. Sound sexy? LET’S GO. Also, obviously spoilers (SPOILERS) ahead. I have, like, four readers in total, and only one of them watches Westworld and I know she’s up-to-date, so I’m not worried. But don’t come for me.
QUESTIONS/PREDICTIONS:
1). Why did Dolores kill Arnold?
My running theory is that Ford programmed Dolores to kill Arnold. I think this BECAUSE Ford later essentially SPOILER rebuilt Arnold (i.e. Bernard) as the perfect companion—someone who was his “partner” but whom he inevitably controlled. Arnold and Ford had fundamentally different ideas for the park. It seems as if Arnold wanted to see if he could create sentience, and if he did, to set those sentient hosts free. Ford seems undoubtedly more power-hungry and likes being a god in the park, able to control everything. He doesn’t want his subjects to leave. I think Ford had Arnold killed and rebirthed him in a mode he could control. The minutiae of Bernard’s movements, such as the way he cleaned his glasses, leads us to believe that Ford is searching for some semblance of his partner. He wants a version of Arnold.
2). Maeve will die. Like, for good this time.
I DON’T WANT THIS TO BE TRUE, BUT I THINK IT IS. Stay with me. Westworld has been renewed for a second season. Thus, we have to assume that the greater plot of androids gaining sentience and causing ruckus in the park will keep getting bigger and bigger. Maeve is already rapidly—or has even already gained—sentience, and she’s building an army. The Westworld creators have enough story for five seasons, and it’s reasonable to assume that Maeve’s storyline—or something similar—is along that arc. However, if Maeve is already there, then where else can she go without being A) killed or B) lobotomized and shuffled back to square one. I love Maeve and I love Thandie Newton’s portrayal of her, so I desperately hope I’m wrong. But I feel like she’s too advanced for them to keep her around if they want to keep the show on for multiple seasons, so they got our hopes up to dash them.
3). MiB is William, who saw Dolores go through the Maze (reach sentience) and thought that the maze was for everyone and would reach total enlightenment.
Can someone tell me exactly what the Maze is? I saw on a Reddit thread people being like “Duh obviously the Maze is just a metaphor and not a real place” and I was like “oH, ha HA who wuld think that not me obvi not me” back when I totally did and thought that an android-ed version of Arnold was in the center. Now I think it refers to the process of an android gaining sentience. So my theory is that the MiB is William, who followed Dolores on her “Mazing” and becoming sentient. However, he got it completely wrong and thought the Maze applied to everyone, when it just applies to hosts. So when his wife dies and his daughter hates him, he’s looking for meaning, so he remembers the Maze. He thinks to himself, “I’ll find life’s meaning that way!” But the Maze isn’t for him.
4). What will happen to Stubbs and Elsie?
Possibly the worst names, but that’s beside the point. I don’t believe that Elsie is dead until I see her cold rigor-mortised corpse on an examining table. And it can’t be a coincidence that they were both taken by unregistered hosts. Maybe Ford is reworking them to be models for other hosts? I don’t think that they’re dead, but maybe they’re not quite alive either…
5). Someone else will be revealed as a host.
This I kinda hope doesn’t happen, because overusing that trick—like how The Vampire Diaries kept bringing people back from the dead so by the eightieth time you didn’t even blink when a favorite character died—will rapidly grow old. But I think that that would be a good twist if it was someone HUGE we didn’t expect. Who it would be, I have no idea.
NOW I’M GONNA STOP WRITING UNTIL IT AIRS AND I CAN COMMENT. OH BOY. SOUNDS LIKE FUN.
(watches it)
WOWWOWOWOWW.
1). Dolores killed Arnold because Arnold asked her to.
WOWWOW. Arnold wanted to cripple Westworld into not opening, so he had Dolores kill everybody. Wait, I’m just realizing—He realizes that Dolores has sentience, so he has her kill everyone and then herself? Whatever, I can’t even get into that. Also Dolores was Wyatt all along, which I knew.
2). Maeve DOESN’T DIE.
Thank god(s). Maeve actually has probably my favorite storyline in the entire show, and Thandie Newton deserves an award for her incredible acting. The twist that her “sentience” was part of a program (possibly by Ford) and an “escape” narrative is heartbreaking, and definitely not a twist I was expecting. But her choice to get off the train (thereby undermining her narrative, which was to escape) and go back and search for her “daughter” proves that she is sentient.
3). MiB is William, and William is an asshole.
If you go on Reddit, this one was obvious. But it’s nice to be validated. Also I was SO right about MiB knowing jack shit about the Maze. And the fact that the ‘physical’ Maze ended up being a game reminds me of when Viserys from Game of Thrones wanted his “crown” so Khal Drogo poured molten gold over his head, killing him instantly. Nice memories. Also, William sucked even when he was nice, so it’s no surprise that he sucks when he’s mean, too.
4). Who the fuck knows.
5). This didn’t happen either.
Although the twist that Ford’s last narrative was a robot rebellion is a nice little twist, and adds a lot more nuance to his character than just the decrepit old overlord god. Also whether he’s actually doing the revolution for the right reasons is yet to be seen. Also I suspect that the “Ford” that was killed was a host-Ford.
*****
The following is adapted from a frantic text I sent to myself while I was walking to the gym.
The gala massacre reminded me a lot of Cersei’s killing of everyone via wildfire (RIP Margaery). It’s the kind of shit that’s beautifully orchestrated, and the viewer gets the spine-tingling pleasure of realizing what’s about to happen right before it happens. Both Ford and Cersei would benefit from everyone opposing them being killed, so that’s exactly what they do. I will admit that the Game of Thrones sequence of that killing is one of my favorite television moments ever.
The gala killing closes the loop that began in the park’s nascence, and reinforces the idea of moving “upward” (towards higher living) through repetition. Change happens when you cycle through. The first loop was Arnold’s orchestration of the massacre for the liberation of the hosts. 35 years later, Ford makes the same loop. His loop contains the question of motive. I do believe that he wants the hosts to be out of the control of Delos, but you have to wonder if his actions were edged in retribution. He would never let anyone else have control over his creations.
Quick side bar—Was Charlotte Hale crying while Ford was giving his speech? And if so, why?
In a larger scheme, the gala massacre is the same methodology that Westworld utilized forever. When things get out of control, you wipe the slate clean. You start from the beginning by destroying everything. Creation out of chaos. That raises the concern of “Was that really the right thing to do?” If the hosts are utilizing the same methods that their oppressors have used, aren’t they just stuck in another loop, albeit from a different perspective?
Maeve’s story served largely as a red herring. You were so preoccupied with her rapid rise to sentience, as compared to Dolores’ relative stagnation that you forgot about Dolores when, at least in the eyes of the show, she was the one achieving true sentience. And the purposeful focus on Maeve makes the admission that her escape is a narrative becomes heartbreaking.
The question ringing through the entire season was, “How much pain are you willing to endure until things get better?” It’s how the hosts gain sentience; it’s their/our cornerstones. In fact, it’s only Maeve who’s really showed the power of pain. In the middle of the episode, Maeve asked Bernard to wipe her memories of her daughter. He refuses, as they operate as her cornerstone memory—the memory around which her entire personality was built—and as such would destroy her.
But it’s her memories of her daughter that end up taking her off the train and heading back into the park. It’s what causes her to override her narrative—to Escape—and it’s what marks, in the end, her sentience. Her pain and her love—entertwined—have evolved her into sentience.
In season two, Westworld will undoubtedly play with a wider scope. The brief foray into “Samurai World” and the fact that Maeve’s daughter is in Park 1 (out of how many?) means that there’s a much wider Delos beast. It leads to a lot of questions: Why was Delos so concerned with Westworld and getting their data? Are all the hosts creations of Ford, even the ones from different parks? Will we start the next season in a different World, and have to go through the same thing again? Is that the point of the show, that we go through the same loops over and over, until the small details build up and become something larger?
I fucking hope not.
See you in 2018, Westworld, when I’m a dead-eyed adult.
It’s 6:55, I just ate orange chicken from Trader Joe’s, and the only thing I’ve done to prepare for this blog in any way is screenshot and alter this photo from the new Ina Garten Facebook page I joined recently. The level of intensity is something I can relate to.
Source: Danny McCarthy via Facebook
So when I have no ideas, I really like to do this rambling, sexy, elusive, elegant Human Centipede of a blog post—ew—called “Things Happening RN”. It’s a quick and easy way to disappoint and lower expectations when you’re in a time crunch.
1). Westworld
I’m watching HBO’s Westworld and I’m so obsessed with it that I sometimes just scroll through Reddit and look up words like “simulacrum.” I’ve brought it up in conversation with at least two different people, and I badger the girl in my class who told me about it constantly. I’m beginning to think that she probably feels like Dr. Faustus or Dorian Grey—you thought the thing you did was a good idea and now all you want to do is die but you’ve you’re your soul to the Devil (me). I haven’t been hooked on a show-show in a long time, especially a thriller. Between KUWTK and the entire Real Housewives franchise, I’m a very busy TV watcher, but there’s not a lot of substance in the stuff I consume.
Westworld is sci-fi and Western and has this really hot old guy, and thrills and twists and turns. It’s so good; I might do a “recap” or “review” for the finale, BECAUSE THERE’S ONLY TWO EPISODES LEFT, POTENTIALLY UNTIL 2018. I’m gonna start looking into cryogenic freezing a la Walt Disney so that I can go to “sleep” and wake up in 2018, having skipped over the strenuous process of “finding a job” and “figuring out my life.” Such a drag—I’d rather be a frozen carcass for two years. What was I saying again? I’ve lost my train of thought.
2). Kylie Jenner is a grandmother
On Sunday, I was in a coffeehouse with Shelby and she mentioned that Kylie Jenner’s dogs—Norman and Bambi—had babies. At the time, I didn’t believe her, and pretty rudely told her she was a liar and a phony and a fraud. I said this because no news source was covering it, and I could see no baby bump in any of Bambi’s Instagram photos (I don’t follow @normieandbambijenner on Instagram, but obviously I know the name). However, later I discovered that Shelby was—for once—correct about something and that the two dogs had procreated and brought forth two new miniature Italian greyhounds into the world.
There are two things I find unbelievable about this story. Number 1: that Kylie didn’t have her dogs neutered. If you have dogs of opposite sexes, GET THEM NEUTERED. And if you have dogs of the same sex, also get them neutered because otherwise, they’ll fall in love, get married, and adopt the squirrel from the neighbor’s yard. Either way, get your dogs neutered and spayed. Number 2: that Kylie is now a grandmother! She looks amazing, her skin is amazing, and I can’t believe that she’s old enough to have grandbabies. God, time really does fly.
Source: Danny McCarthy// I’m big enough to admit when (rarely) I’ve been wrong.
3). Ina Garten
I joined an Ina Garten Facebook page because the Real Housewives fanpage of the Real Housewives Fan Podcast page that I was following has been deleted. It was deleted for good reason, because within the course of five months, it had turned into a self-hating, anarchistic hellscape, and had already splintered off into warring secret faction groups. I literally wish I were kidding. I’m not. Anyway, hopefully the childless gays and middle-aged women in the group can be my new Facebook fodder. Judging from the aforementioned screenshot, I would safely bet that I’m in pretty good hands.
4). Thanksgiving
Let’s celebrate the colonists giving smallpox to the Native Americans by overeating undercooked turkey and liquid-y mashed potatoes. Or as I call them “mashed potitties” or “mashed potatas”. Just kidding. I love Thanskgiving. I love eating (watching people eat), I think I’m going to a “football game” with my high school friends (I’ll dress cute and spend the entire time trying to find good lighting despite the early morning gloom), and my family is obsessed with me (they tolerate me). But most of all, I’m excited for the Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life revival. There is literally, and I say this with no hyperbole, no more important thing in my life than this revival. I would let civilizations burn to the ground just to see the revival a few days earlier.
It’s 7:13 and I really don’t think that I can write anymore or get even darker than I already have. I’ve discussed pop culture, television, anarchy, and arson. What else is there to discuss, when you actually think about it? NOTHING. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT. I’ll probably post something on Thanksgiving, but in the meantime—send me some cash on Venmo. I could use it.
I might be in a twelve-person minority, but I’ve been watching Rob & Chyna. I don’t know why, I think I hate it. I don’t know what’s the worst: the blurred/pop art-y effect on transitions or the fact that it’s Rob. It might be the latter. Maybe if the show was just Chyna. It would be better. Or, best option: you drop both, and it’s just a sitcom with King Cairo and Nanny Joy. And occasional appearances from that hot guy who always hangs out with Chyna (is he, like, her trainer?) and Chyna’s mother, Tokyo Toni. Omg, I just realized that it’s “Chyna” and “Tokyo.” Appropriation?
As a long time KUWTK watcher, I’ve witnessed the evolution of Rob. Remember when he was a model? Remember when he was dating a Cheetah girl? Remember when he had a better ass than Kim?
We saw his steady decline into depression as he gained more and more weight, until he became a recluse in Khloe’s house for the last three years. Then, through the grapevine, we hear that he started dating Blac Chyna, and he slowly-slowly-slowly starts making appearances on KUWTK.
I really wanted to like Rob, but he’s become such a reprehensible, two-dimensional character that it’s almost impossible. I try to rationalize it as depression-based, but I feel like I’m allowed to say this: Being depressed is not an excuse for being a shitty guy. I have depression and anxiety, but you just buck up. It sucks and it’s hard, but Rob’s actions should not be excused by his illnesses.
I’m talking about, of course, his most recent actions: leaking Kylie’s private phone number on Twitter. He hasn’t taken it down, and she’s probably since changed her number, but the ugliness is burned into the brain of pop culture.
The incident: Apparently Rob was pissed that his sisters were throwing two separate baby showers—he and Chyna apparently haven’t spoken in months—and they didn’t invite Chyna to his shower. Btw, she knew about the separate showers and thus probably knew that she wasn’t going to his. But Rob, the kween of overreacting, decided to go ahead and publish Kylie’s phone number.
In a weird way, it’s a perverse parallel of Kim exposing Taylor via SnapChat. Both come after perceived wrongdoing, both were attempts at exposure and humiliation. But Kim’s retaliation was supported by a backbone of righteous retribution: Taylor was lying, and it was affecting Kim’s husband and her own reputation. Rob’s reeks of pettiness, in a way that the Kardashian-Jenners never show publicly. Maybe they are petty, but their images are so carefully cultivated that that slips through.
On Rob & Chyna, Rob plays so flatly, a depressed guy so clearly uncomfortable in his skin, so unenthused with having a child, so unenthused with everything. He’s so obviously putting on this act, dropping his cut-glass Calabasas accent and talking like he didn’t graduate high school. Rob, you might not have gone to college, but you’re from Hidden Hills, California—stop talking like that. Use proper grammar. He just wants to fit in, and it makes me want to hit him.
In literature, there’s this device that’s employed called “pathos.” It’s the word from which “pathetic” is derived. Pathos invokes a strong emotion, usually sympathy. And that’s what Rob is to me—pathetic. He pulls this twisted emotion out of me, revulsion coiled around aching sympathy, strung through with lip-sneering annoyance. He’s pathetic, and I want to be empathetic, but what he’s doing is so shady and petty and small that it’s nearly impossible.
From a literature sense, the “character” of Rob is deeply fascinating. The only boy; the heir. More sensitive than all his sisters, and falling susceptible to the fame. Trying to claw his way back to that golden place, the elusive upper echelon where his sisters reside. Getting a warped version of what he wanted: notoriety instead of fame, money instead of happiness. Lashing out in a cry for attention. Helpless. Hopeless.
And if this were literature, I would hope for a redemption arc. I would hope that Rob is salvageable, that this anger that seems to be burning a hole through his skin can be quelled. Because otherwise, he’ll blow up like a social media supernova.
Depression can’t be cured by any amount of money. It takes time and sympathy and therapy and work. But as Tokyo Toni pointed out in the Fourth of July episode of Rob & Chyna, they don’t have some of the issues that most people struggle with. They have plenty of money; they are in stable homes. They [Rob and Chyna] have issues that are possible to overcome.
At a certain point, to get better, you have to make the active choice to seek it out. And if that moment won’t be rapidly arriving with the birth of their baby, I don’t know what will.
I’ve spent the day writing articles and emailing back potential new writers for my section, whilst recuperating from a tough week journalistically. But, frankly, the only thing I’ll remember from today is that I’ve spent the majority of my energy today A) thinking of puns about “autumn” and “fall” and trying to engage Shelby in a Twitter war. She’s not really taking my bait, which I think just means that not a big enough celebrity to warrant her time.
This past Thursday was the first day of fall. You probably didn’t realize, but I didn’t post that day. It wasn’t because I was out, celebrating fall or something—I don’t even know what “celebrating fall” would look like, other than taking a bath in a giant Starbucks cup a la Dita von Teese. It was because I was trying to find a wall with sheetrock thin enough for me to bash my head through. It’s been one of those weeks.
But now I’ve taken approximiately seven deep, cleansing breaths and drank alcohol, so I’m uncoiling from my “stress fetal” position.
It’s been a while since I did a season-themed post, mostly because time is a human construct and I don’t believe in a linear time concept. Everything is relative.
For the first time in literal months, I’m almost chilly. Here I am, sitting in the student union, wearing LONG PANTS and LONG SLEEVES, feeling like a g*ddamn polar bear. I’m so used to being hot—last week, I sweated through multiple outfit changes—that the idea that we could be leaving that behind—I’ll start sweating beneath layers of clothing instead—is almost too good to be true.
Also I’m using Gilmore Girls gifs (try saying that five times fast) because NOTHING says fall quite like Gilmore Girls.
To celebrate the beginning of Plant Death Season and the upcoming Communing With Souls Day and National Turkey Slaughter Day, here’s a list of things I’m excited about for fall:
MORE EXCITED THAN I AUTUMN BE
(not the best pun, but you can’t argue with the fact that it’s definitely not the worst I’ve ever made up)
1). FALL FLAVORS: Not pumpkin spice, which is—I’m pretty sure—not an actual thing, but rather a scheme created by Ryan Seacrest and Starbucks. I do love me some sweet potato pie/pumpkin pie (I can’t ever remember which is which). I’m more excited for some cinnamon-dustings, some brown sugar, some sultry maple. At my internship last year, the coffee place in the basement of the building mixed their own spices and they had this autumn one that I would sprinkle over my lattes in the afternoon and it was SO BOMB.
2). SEASONAL PLAYLISTS: I never do this any other time, but I lose my g*ddamn mind for a winter Spotify playlist. I’ll gravitate towards certain bands during the summer—a fresh, very pop-beach-blue vibe—but fall is when I start curating actual playlists—more of a folk-rock-pop-brown-fire vibe—to get me pumped for making my Christmas playlist—which I’m already contemplating. I hate myself only a little for this, which rocks.
3). FLANNEL: Three words—“doesn’t show sweat.” Do you know how detrimental these last few weeks of school have been for me? I’ve been going through so many t-shirts that I think I might break the laundry machine (I’m not going to pay for a second load). In the colder months, I love to wear flannels and thick sweaters and button-downs because they don’t show sweat and I can pretend I have normal, human glands. Somehow, despite being made up entirely of genealogies that evolved in cold climates, I’ve got the pores of a Saharan camel-driver.
4). BIG MUGS: Nothing makes you look thinner/frailer than holding a huge fucking mug in two hands. GOD SO THIN.
5). SEASONAL DRINKS: I just turned 21, so I ain’t talking about no Pumpkin Spice Latte (although I inevitably break down every year and buy at least one). I’m talking about ALCOHOL. Ciders, golden-hued beers, hot toddies, Bailey’s. I can finally become the Pinterest drinker of my dreams.
Also, this isn’t one of my “numbers” but I’m just excited for everyone to lose their tans. This summer I tried really hard to be okay with my skin, but I’ll admit, I can’t wait for those beachy fuckers to know how I live 365 days out of the year. I’m also excited to not have to excruciatingly deliberate over Instagram filters that make me look as sun-kissed as possible. I can exist as a full-time marble statue™.
(whispers very quietly like a little mouse: “also number six I like pumpkin spice lattes”)…(more loudly says: “WHAT? No I didn’t say anything. You misheard. Pumpkin spice is not a thing; it’s a Hallmark seasonal scheme.”)
This blog started on Saturday, and now it’s Monday, and I’m just going to chalk that up to general laziness because the idea that it’s taken me three days to write one dumb article about FALL is an attack on my intelligence. Also today I’m wearing a deep burgundy-red long-sleeved t and I love being in them fall colors!!!! They lewk sew gud on me!!!
What if I was illiterate and that’s how you found out that I couldn’t spell and I’ve been using the “Talk-to-text” app that Luann used in the iconic “Tom, how could you do this to me. Question mark,” watershed moment in Real Housewives of New York City? And this entire blog—which I realized the other day is about to turn two—was just the longest con imaginable, and for no clear purpose.
I guess we’ll never know.
Also I’m super into yellow right now. Living for it!! So fall! So festive! So cheerful!
The Wunderkindof 