Here we go again. The breathless ad for "HUNG": "Don’t miss the premiere of HBO’s new comedy series. Jane Adams plays Tanya, a struggling poet who unexpectedly lands a new career – as a pimp. Hung airs Sundays at 10pm -- only on HBO"
Well, where else BUT HBO? The place where "transgressive" and "groundbreaking" are automatically compliments. Where finding the new low below the bar is daily sport. Where the newest series revolves around a down-on his-luck but decent fellow who finds a new career as a man-HO. Of course. Carpenter, shoe salesman, truck driver? NAAAAAAH. This guy has an extra-large hmmm to go with his very large heart. So the obvious choice is the Fred Garvin-male prostitute route. And it's not just for him, you see-- it's for the kiddies. He's a divorced Dad with a shrew of an ex-wife and support payments to make.
The ad mentioned above shows a photo of the actress with the large-print word "PIMP" above her head. The companion ad with the actor Thomas Jane does the same with the word "HO", the new shorthand for a culture that can stand the act of sex-for-money but apparently not the damning word "whore". My beef is not that possibly good drama might be made of some of the more seamy aspects of modern life. But the mainstreaming of the squalid sex trade by offering us a pair of typical neighbors (note the "struggling poet" gambit--"aren't we ALL struggling poets, in our own way?"-sniff, sniff) really ticks me off.
There's a lot more to the issue than that, but HBO has a reputation to uphold. Showtime beat them to the raunch with their sleazy suburban mom who sells pot and is currently pregnant with the child of a Mexican drug lord ("Weeds") and they've got to one-up the competition. What a stroke of genius-- the average suburban dad starts prostituting himself.
And another triumph for modern women--Elizabeth Cady Stanton, give a cheer! You, too can be a pimp, a special place in our society that used to be reserved for men only. Ladies, do you see your opportunity here? Or are you as annoyed as I am?
At the beginning of the month my 11-year-old daughter wanted to watch her favorite celebrities perform on Nickelodeon's Kid's Choice Awards, an annual mash-up of pop fluff and green slime courtesy of the marketing people at Viacom. She happened to mention that, in addition to sweet young things such as Miley Cyrus, iCarly's Miranda Cosgrove and the squeaky clean Jonas Brothers, the "puddytat dolls" would be performing. This sort of glanced off my consciousness, and I briefly imagined that it was some send-up of the famous Warner Bros. cartoon characters Sylvester and Tweety.
Alas, no. The "dolls" in question were indeed the PussyCat Dolls, the rotating cast of marginally-talented burlesque dancers, fronted by a publicity-philic "singer". They're a pretty big-selling act. Having recently finished up their-- no-doubt ironically-named-- "World Domination Tour", they are currently filling out the roster for Britney Spears'"Circus" excursion. They've also been nominated for (and in some cases won) a slew of self-admiring prizes like the MTV and Billboard Music Awards. So they've been around for a while but appear to be gaining steam right now. They've got a multi-front assault on the culture, selling everything from concert tickets to lingerie to hot pink t-shirts that proclaim "When I Grow Up, I Wanna Be a PussyCat Doll".
But gee, don't they seem an odd choice for the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Award Show?
Not only were the Dolls performing, they were nominated for an award in the Favorite Group Category. Really. So I thought I'd investigate a little further.
Here I was treated to a taste of their superbly lyrical and elegiac prose; to wit:
From "Whatchamacallit", a celebration of mindless consumption:
"Caught him eying my chain, he said it’s so unique
He trying to get with me, so his chick can get like me
I said, even the time on my hand cost me an arm and a leg
Can't find this in the States, had it flown in from Madrid (Hoo, hoo)
He wanna know who does my hair, clientele is so elite
I'm in love with his technique, he keeps me sheik, they call him (Uh, uh, uh, uh, hoo)
The contact is under wraps, matter fact, he's unavailable (Uh, uh, uh, uh, hoo)
Don't need the traffic, backed up, when I go back to get my pretty on"
OK, let's try again. How about a paean to true love in "Don't Cha":
"I know you like me
I know you do
That's why whenever I come around
She's all over you
I know you want it
It's easy to see
And in the back of your mind
I know you should be f*****g me
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me
Don't cha, don't cha
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was wrong like me
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me
Don't cha, don't cha"
There's much more, but-- you get the picture.
Well, maybe Nickelodeon thinks these are the feminist role models we want for our daughters. They did say 90 million votes were cast for this award show-- though they didn't break down exactly how many voters that represented. But curiously, when I checked the website that Nick has specifically dedicated to the Kid's Choice Awards, NOWHERE does it mention anything to do with the Dolls' nomination or their two performances. Not a word. For these very well-promoted performers, this is more than a little odd.
I did notice that their costumes were a trifle toned down for this venue-- the Dolls looked more "sporty/sleazy" than the usual platformed stripper look.
But isn't that part of the problem here? Why are these women being slipped in under the radar on a kids' programming awards show? Well, here's a theory. Nick is part of the Viacom conglomerate that also owns MTV, VH1 et al. In other words, they are part of the marketing group that has been dining out on sleaze and self-promoting fame lovers for quite some time. You could say they are perfecting the art. And in this case, they are cuing up the next generation of consumers for this junk.
I had a similar reaction years ago when Sesame Street featured Dr. Ruth Westheimer, the safe and bland "sexpert" known for her ringing endorsement of "Good Sex!"-- her tagline. Were the kiddies so enamored of her beaming visage and Teutonic tones that they clamored to see her yukking it up with Elmo? Doubt it.
Say what you will about her approach, she did have a certain utilitarian perspective on sex, which really didn't reflect a religious or moral view. But it fit right in with the progressive sensibilities of the Sesame Street producers, whose motto seems to be "Tolerance Above All".
Adults could take her or leave her as they chose. But by putting Dr. Ruth on Sesame Street and serving her up with the same pabulum, it ensures that as those kids grow, they react to her with the same unquestioned acceptance and admiration as they do the rest of the Street's characters.
The same principal appears to be at work here with the "Kids Choice" awards.
Does anyone else object to this?
"The examples of vice at home corrupt us more quickly and easily than others, since they steal into our minds under the highest authority." -- Juvenal c.55-c.130, Roman Satirical Poet
When I woke the other morning to the alarm/radio, I turned over to find something better than the crank who does the morning show on my usual station. Sliding the dial along I heard Bill Bennet announcing the guest coming up in his next hour-- our own Cassy DeBenedetto, coming on to discuss an upcoming conference sponsored by her Love and Fidelity Network. This group has grown out of Cassy's work on Princeton's campus to combat the absurd hook-up culture. What an impressive interview she gave, expounding like a pro on topics close to our hearts here at Modestly Yours. Cassy is the founder of the Anscombe Society at Princeton, which supports the role of the traditional family, marriage, and sexuality in modern society. Having graduated, Cassy is now working to provide support to current college students who wish to establish similar groups at their own colleges. The conference she discussed is the First Annual Conference on Sexuality, Integrity, and the University, which will be hosted by Princeton University on November 7-8. It will include as guest speakers Mary Eberstadt, Robert P. George, and Maggie Gallagher. Best of luck, Cassy, and please check in with us afterwards-- those of us who can't attend would love an update.
I know, I know-- this one's old news. The term "metrosexual", first coined way back in 1994 by journalist Mark Simpson in the UK Independent, had everything to do with the rise of an ostensibly straight man who mimicked all the feminine vanity interests of the "typical" woman-- or gay man. Thanks to the efforts of Simpson, ad whiz/trend spotter Marian Salzman, and the bobblehead media, the term gained momentum. Female trend watchers and consumers of popular media were blanketed with the idea that previously Cro-Magnon men were taking over their hair-care products and bathroom-mirror time with glee. The whole notion reinforced the concept of a future overrun with glossy, stylish, sweet-smelling fellas, who could not only chat away with certitude on subjects of art and style, but who would scold you for wearing sweats to run errands and flush the Chunky Monkey down the toilet when PMS overtook you.
Did this look good to women? Probably not. Well, if you were fed up with your boyfriend drinking out of the milk container and never wanting to see a movie starring Hilary Swank, you might've picked up "The Metrosexual Guide to Style: A Handbook for the Modern Man." You might've hoped to do for your man what the boys at "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" could not. But even then, the notion that it would be a good idea to eradicate male cluelessness in this arena, and replace it with that small feminine vice-- personal vanity-- really wasn't all that smart.
Despite the breathless prose of those cheerleading for it-- or indifferent to it-- insisting that the smooth-chested, eyebrow-groomed dandy was the wave of the future, I just never bought it. Yes, men account for a growing percentage of cosmetic procedures, proving only that human beings are all subject to pressures of vanity. But more likely the trend was and is the result of marketing "push" rather than a groundswell of "pull", a theory set forth by a self-proclaimed Metrosexual named Greg Lindsay, writing on the website theBlackTable.com. He makes the point that the image-making machinery (read "marketers")hopped onto Simpson's and Salzman's bandwagon in an effort to lure men into the same "beauty myth" that harangues females from the time they reach kindergarten. This makes a lot of sense to me, much more than the idea that men and women both are happy to be interchangeable, post-sexual drones. The polarity between the sexes, what makes us tantalizingly different, gives our lives that delicious whiff of spice. While we may like our guys reasonably groomed and capable of enlightened discussion rather than belches, I don't think either sex is ready for the Brave New World. I think Metrosexual Man is dead.
Having become hooked on the endlessly entertaining “Project Runway” my attention has lately turned to another Bravo program, “The Millionaire Matchmaker.”
If you haven’t caught it, the show is about the labors of Patti Stanger, a modern-day matchmaker who specializes in finding dates for wealthy men too busy or too shy to do it themselves. Her company, The Millionaire’s Club, promises long-term committed relationships with the ultimate aim of marriage. After paying a hefty fee these fellows submit to a thorough review and consult with Patti on everything from their hopes and desires for a “dream girl” to their choices in fashion and home décor. Once Patti deems a man sufficiently committed to the process, she takes him on and begins to open his world to the joys of purposeful dating.
At first glance, this looks like a typical exploitative and exhibitionist reality show. But when you start to get to know Patti, you begin to see one very old-fashioned girl under all that lip gloss and high-tech. For one thing, she’s only interested in matchmaking clients with “pure motives”—that is, the ones who really want a wife and a soul mate. Serial daters or men (and women) just looking for a swinging hook-up are summarily dismissed. As Patti hotly points out, “I’m not Heidi Fleiss”.
For proof, just look to her “Dating Commandments”: these ten rules for the ladies read like a primer from Miss Manners. The demands are heavy on things like:
1)Being polite (return calls promptly)
2)Honoring your commitments (follow through on promises)
3)Being ladylike (modest consumption of alcohol; no drugs; polite discourse—no discussion of failed relationships or emotional baggage; no overnight home visits!
4)No gold digging (though it may be argued this is time-honored, if nothing else)
5)No overt gifts, such as any gift purchased for the man in front of him, but plenty of give and take, including a home-cooked meal!
6)No sex, period. Women are admonished to wait until the relationship becomes committed and monogamous.
The kicker? No shacking up! According to Patti, the mystery goes out of a relationship when two people live together before getting wed. On that last issue, Patti argues that “it takes four seasons to get to know a man” and that if he hasn’t proposed by the end of a year, you need to move on.
Before anyone gets red-faced over the rules for the women, please note that the men have even more—15 commandments to the girls’ ten. These cover much the same territory as the rules for the ladies, but in greater detail, with even more emphasis on the importance of treating her like a lady and being a gentleman oneself.
It makes for an interesting discussion. Patti is a self-described “third-generation matchmaker”. Her mother and grandmother were free-lance (and fee-free!) yentas with very successful track records. Patti may have taken the tradition into the 21st century with a high-tech twist—and a profit motive—but her approach and basic morality is not that far afield from the Jewish tradition of making happy and long-lasting matches for singles.
She may be bucking the social tide of casual hook-ups but as evidence of the need for and interest in her services, her show is a hit and her Millionaire’s Club idea is being successfully franchised in other parts of the country as well as abroad.
Happy New Year, dear readers. A little late to report, I apologize, but wanted to share two examples of how a modest approach can mean practical and vital change for the better. Back in November my husband and I returned to my alma mater Fordham University and witnessed a small miracle: more than 200 coeds at a modern, urban college campus showing up, on a Wednesday night and coaxed only a little by free refreshments, to hear about a little idea called modesty.
The event was organized by a senior sociology major named Jenna Felz, who had never met Wendy Shalit but was thoroughly intrigued by her ideas. Jenna jumped through the many and varied hoops that any good college bureaucracy could throw at her, and she pulled it off. Wendy’s relaxed and charming sense of humor scored points and elicited many thoughtful questions and a number of contentious ones. The gaggle of crusty-looking boys (men?) seated behind us murmured a few wisecracks but they stayed. And they asked questions. And they listened. What a revelation. In the modern fog of easy sex and emotional isolation, we all got a bracing, inspiring, invigorating lungful of something different. Brava, ladies.
Another note in the paper caught my eye before Christmas: the alluringly-named Modest Needs Foundation. This charitable group has a mission of helping struggling individuals pay for unwelcome surprises such as emergency medical care and car repairs. Often I feel overwhelmed at the sum of misfortune in the world, and at how much need is left over despite what any of us actually do; I love the idea that help such as I can give might truly matter to someone. This group is doing just that. In its 5+ years in existence, it's given away over $2.5 million dollars, some $500 at a time. Making the point that “modest” doesn’t mean “immaterial”, and that little by little covers a lot of ground. Please look into it if you can, at www.modestneeds.org.
Good ideas are like scattered seeds. A great many fall where they’ll never take root, and some take forever to germinate. But when they do, they make a little garden not only for us but for anyone who follows us. Let’s cultivate it.
(Spoiler Warning: this post mentions a plot detail in the 6th Harry Potter book--not the newest one, but the one before it. If you have not read the sixth book and intend to, you may want to postpone reading this post.)
As surely everyone by now knows, at a forum for young fans of her Harry Potter book series at Carnegie Hall, author JK Rowling revealed that the beloved wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Magic was conceived and written by her as a gay man. This astonishing bit of back-story quickly became the stuff of a tabloid—and mainstream news—wildfire. More than ten years after this entertaining morality tale came to life, and almost 4 months since the final installment was published, why would Rowling choose this time—and such a forum—to make the revelation?
Also, why would she choose to sexualize a character whose literary raison d'etre had absolutely nothing to do with his sexual preferences? The character, so beautifully drawn, is the backbone of the story, in some respects even more important than Harry himself. Dumbledore is aged, and ageless. Like other warriors for good (think Gandalf in Tolkien’s Ring series, or Aslan, the stand-in for Jesus in the allegorical Chronicles of Narnia) he is almost beyond human.
For the first six books in the series, he was the champion of the good, the foe of evil—and possessed the astonishing intelligence and power to ensure that the good prevailed.
His death at the end of the 6th book came as a devastating blow; we readers felt the shock of abandonment along with Harry, as the last of his protectors was demolished.
As a literary device, though, the death was a virtuoso stroke. It robbed us of the comfort of a protector for the hero, and allowed the next and final book to set up, among other things, the fascinating history of how Dumbledore came to be who he was.
None of that back-story, however, required revelations as the nature of his sexual preference, witnessed by the fact that the series was concluded--highly successfully-- without any such.
So why take this classic morality play and bog it down with all the baggage that this hot-button topic will bring? Though set in and around London of the last 20 years, the story always managed a timeless quality. But now, I'm afraid, the story seems pulled down by An Agenda: the NYC forum, the nature of the question (in all the chat rooms and discussions I’ve followed I can’t recall for the life of me anyone interested in Dumbledore’s sex life) and the timing of it seem orchestrated somehow.
For example, Salon.com’s columnist Rebecca Traister notes approvingly that the Carnegie Hall audience received this revelation with a standing ovation. It seems to me that puzzled silence might have been more predictable. She also mentions the gleeful announcement by her 9-year-old friend that “Dumbledore is gay!!” Maybe Traister has very precocious young friends, but most 9-yr-olds I know would be confused by the news, and wouldn't understand it to be cause for celebration.
Traister also lists many quotes from the book in an effort to support the reading of Dumbledore as gay; all of them could be taken just as easily as an old-fashioned description of male friendship. But who of us wants to be old-fashioned?
If Rowling did originally conceive of this hero as a gay man—and I wouldn’t begrudge this talented creator her artistic license--why couldn't we the readers be allowed to interpret that ourselves? If it wasn’t necessary to be explicit during the series itself, why is it necessary now? Didn't the character speak for himself? Would we need to learn, for example, that Prof. McGonagall has a long-lost love child? That bit of sexual history would be just as unnecessary to the workings of the plot. Rowling is a consummate plot-spinner, and while her characters are masterfully drawn, they are also artfully drawn. We hear only as much personal matter as is necessary to inform the plot.
Indeed, the pointless revelation of this character's sexual preference is roaringly uncharacteristic of Rowling's style of exposition.
I can imagine how hard it must be for her to lay to rest this splendid parallel world she created, so maybe it’s just a need to stay in the limelight and delay the end of the long moment.
But I must admit, I'm reluctant to explain all this to my kids.
The dive toward the bottom of the culture barrel struck me the other day when I clicked on the highlighted teaser at the bottom of an email from a dear friend in the UK. Courtesy of her Hotmail account, I was being invited to "Pimp My Live" by, of all people, Bill Gates. Well, not exactly Bill. I'm sure he and Melinda were in the middle of some goodwill tour. Or maybe Bill was looking at his closetful of geeky clothes, and thinking, "Pimp this, baby!!" But some genius at MSN-UK got together all the best marketing talent in that organization, and decided that, since the culture had changed the low and nasty business of sexual procuring into the hip and happening, they should muscle in on the action. To wit:
" 'Pimp My Live' is all about giving Windows Live the personal touch and putting your own stamp on things. We'll show you... customizable features...Plus you can download the latest products and add-ons-- with the chance of winning some fantastic prizes." Followed by:
"Time to Get Pimping!!"
Oh. I thought, with all the cute little "emoticons" that resemble Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch, that MSN wanted me to join the ranks of those charming and sympathetic fellows who make their living from the illicit sex trade. My mistake.
The kicker is that the same company that entreats us to distill the hideousness of that word "pimp" into something fresh! something fun! fantastic prizes!! was at a complete loss when I asked the word processor's thesaurus to give me synonyms for "alchemy".
As Alanis would have said-- Isn't it ironic. The mutation of the language only seems to go one way. What does that mean for children unfamiliar with the word "pimp", or for that matter, the uninformed? The seediness of "the life", the violent and nasty business of selling prostitutes, the sheer horror that the word should conjure up-- is neutralized. MTV's "Pimp My Ride" turned "pimping" into jazzing up one's car. The glorification of easy money goes back to the beginning of time. But here the sting of the word-- the very idea of it as beyond civilized society-- is being demolished.
I deeply resent this. Words are power. They not only result from, they shape our thinking. Orwell illustrated this brilliantly when, in the novel "1984", he made the destruction of the varied and robust English language the centerpiece of an encroaching totalitarian regime. In that bleak future state, not only were you robbed of the freedom to express your thoughts-- the thoughts themselves were rendered incapable of being born. There were no words to deliver them.
"Pimp My Live" takes the words right out of my mouth.
My heart broke a little the other day when I read of the death of Anafghat. She was a teen-aged girl from Niger who I never met-- except in the context of a remarkable article by Roger Thurow in the Wall Street Journal, published two years ago, that told her story. I tore out the article and saved it, as one should save important things. Anafghat was important; she was living proof that momentous things may be accomplished by any of us, even in the least hospitable circumstances.
The recent item that noted her unexplained death was not nearly as enlightening as the account of her short life, and its expectation of hope.
Anafghat was married at age 11 to a man twice her age, in a country where poverty and the tradition make this unremarkable. Her dowry was a camel, useful for milk and transport. A bright and promising student, tradition dictated that once Anafghat was married she was not allowed to return to school. She lived at home with her father and sisters until puberty, but became pregnant quickly once she began living with her husband. Her underdeveloped (and likely undernourished) body was unable to handle the punishing demands of four days of at-home labor.
By the time her father was able to get her medical help at a hospital-- over 150 miles away--her infant son was stillborn. Anafghat was left with a fistula, or hole in her bladder, the size of a baseball. She joined the ranks of the estimated one million girls and young women in the region suffering the pain, infection, ostracism that attends this condition. (For more information, please go to the website www.nigerfistula.org.)
But Anafghat had a light in her, an intelligence and a desire to live that persisted beyond reason in such circumstances. She was aided by a team of American doctors (themselves aided by the charitable entreaties of an American couple, the Margolies) and her surgery was successful. Her father was moved by her persistent pleas to return to school; she returned home to do just that. She desperately wanted to follow the example of a Nigerian woman she met while in the hospital, a medical student who impressed Anafghat with fluency in multiple languages, and-- revealing an endearing universality among little girls-- her pretty clothes. Anafghat wanted to be, in her words, "a doctor...an important woman".
Inspired herself, in turn she inspired others, spreading the idea among her family and fellow townsmen that girls would do better to postpone marriage and childbirth, and focus on becoming literate and educated. In a country where less than 15% of women can read and write, this set her squarely against the conventional wisdom. But as the director of the National Hospital, who favors this opportunity for young girls, says: "The impact of an individual can be great".
In a hostile culture, in a harsh land, this may seem like tilting at windmills. And so it is. But she did it, and touched many in her short life. She left a legacy we should note, and honor. R.I.P.
The post about Akon and his "indiscretion" with a 14-year-old minister's daughter during a concert performance gave me an arresting take on the bilge in the culture these days. The April issue of TeenVogue carried a short piece on the same phenomenon-- the trendy style of dancing called "freaking" or "crunking" by kids, many of whom are testing it out at school dances. I guess it's caught a lot of school administrators by surprise, or maybe people in education just shrug it off under the "kid's today" syndrome.
But there appears to be a backlash coming, at least as reported by TeenVogue. (For the record, Vogue is one fashion mag I can count on to minimize the "yikes" factor and emphasize classy, creative fashion. I can't quite call it "high-brow"-- maybe "raised-brow"?-- but its junior version, TeenVogue, strikes me the same way. There's plenty of cool fashion and ads, as well as a liberal dose of decent articles and a generally civilized-- dare I say modest?--tone.)
Some school administrators have decided to cancel dances rather than try to monitor and control the trend. Some are requiring kids and parents to sign a contract to denote their agreement with guidelines on dancing, drugs, alcohol, and appropriate attire. Having lost a common moral code under which to agree on these matters, we are seeing administrators forced to codify and legalize behaviour standards once understood implicitly.
I don't think we should be surprised that simulated sex as dancing has become the trend, even one practiced by 12- and 13-years-olds at their middle school dances. Kids are sponges, and they've been absorbing MTV and VH1 and BET and movies and TV shows that glamourize this stuff for years. They are certainly getting the message: sex is cool, everybody does it, it's just the thing you do. Nothing is sacred; nothing private. How much they understand about the effects, short- and long-term, of cheapening sex in this way is suspect. But what do we adults care, as long as we are moving our products? Sex sells everything from yogurt to phone service, from sneakers to movies, and its hypnotic grasp is powerful. Anyone, especially a highly-emotional, throes-of-puberty kid, is easily manipulated in its charge.
So who is really at fault in the Akon flap-- the rapper, the minister's daughter, her parents, society at large? I say the adults, Akon and the reverend minister included. This is rubbish, and ignominy. We make sex a poison when we dose kids with it. We adults lose the meaning and beauty of our sexuality when we get a kick out of, or shrug our shoulders at, public sex simulation by adolescent children. We need to take the blame-- it's our example, and our disgrace.
