Tagged: Justin Timberlake

Cirque du Inconduite

Cirque du Inconduite

An admitted dolt in the realm of pop culture, I am not one to devote two hours of my innately fickle attention to a show that awards celebrities for their societal merit, and MTV’s Video Music Awards are definitely no exception. But when the chaos of the proceedings catch the attention of my boyfriend, the diners seated next to us at Phở Show, and the old lady who rings a loud bell as she pushes her cart of purchasable goods down our street every day, I figure there’s no use fighting the tide of insignificant viral knowledge and succumbing to a few recaps. Specifically, the award ceremony’s shocking crème de la crème in the form of Miley Cyrus.

In keeping with the pop culture ignorance that replaced the actor idolatry of my youth, I don’t really know anything about Miley Cyrus beyond the fact that she used to wear a wig on TV and mesmerize kids with a proclivity for hero worship; those of us wrought with country music ineptitude consider her father an achy-breaky one hit wonder; she starred in some movie filmed on Tybee Island while I attended class completely unawares only 18 miles away; she may or may not have married the arguably less attractive Hemsworth brother; and her sexually suggestive shenanigans have been curdling PTA member’s breakfast milk for the past several years of her waning adolescence. On top of all that, I know that she’s the same age as my younger sister–born only a few days prior–and having been around both my sister’s crew and whole troops of them back in my college days, I know how 20 year olds act, and can only imagine how the constant accompaniment of a blinding limelight would amplify said behavior.

Thus, I find it hilarious that a celebrity like Miley Cyrus can get so much opprobrium for parading around in feigned nudity and conducting lewd, embarrassingly uncoordinated dance moves during her VMA performance, but the backup dancers who successively march out to the beat of a sex-driven drum in cliché, skin-tight spandex can go virtually unnoticed. Yeah, yeah, Miley Cyrus was a child role model–I remember how excited my young cousins were to unwrap Hannah Montana paraphernalia at Christmas. But we sure are quick to forget that Britney Spears was a Mickey Mouse Club member (along with Justin Timblerlake and his jheri curls) whose first album beguiled the nation’s youngins, and look where she ended up–a fact that Trey Parker and Matt Stone already equated to Miley Cyrus long before this public debacle. Is this recurrent trend not a blatant sign that we as a society keen on the scandals splayed across People Magazine are culpable for the shocking behaviors of our young icons? If we weren’t a species akin to the Ashleys of Recess fame (crying, “Scaaaandalous!” at the slightest inkling of amorality), then those young superstars we love to distract our kids with might keep their pants on for a change.

As it is, pop culture has always been a game of one-upping the last controversy to obtain some free publicity. You need to be brash to sell tickets to a society that claims to have seen it all, and if standing out means upsetting the mothers who once called you adorable, then by God, the increased attention is worth a clumsy attempt at half-nude twerking. Especially when your competition operates under the moniker “Gaga,” serves as a gay bar icon second only to Cher, and constructs her public persona from Madonna hand-me-downs, Harajuku fashion, and what must have been the deranged visions of an acid trip.

Ironically, the polls say young Miss Cyrus and her unremitting penis innuendos trumped Lady Gaga’s bug-eyed, postmodern nun, Bauhaus-ish choreography, and tacky shell bikini, a feat that even Madonna herself couldn’t pull off when she abandoned the hippie phase that produced Ray of Light, filled in her gap, donned a faux British accent, and attempted to regain popularity by enlisting the aid of M.I.A., Nicki Minaj, and some pompoms. Misinformation or not, however, according to The Slatest, Lady Gaga still managed to perturb Will Smith’s family with the nutty schtick the masses are beginning to deem passé, so perhaps there’s hope for her next public stunt yet.

Overall, the whole Video Music Awards ordeal is a silly affair sprung from a Victorian era affinity for scandal. We the people of the United States of Rabble-Rousing fuel the raunchy flames of fame crazed twenty-somethings by making a big fuss over behaviors that attention-seeking young adults conduct for small beer pong audiences on a weekly basis. The controversy we engender is the coal that keeps this monkey train rolling. Lose the voracious appetite for muckraking, and maybe we won’t have to watch girls the same age as our little sisters defile the innocence of teddy bears and #1 foam fingers with their bad dance moves and flesh-tinted ensembles.

The Midnight in Paris Complex

The Midnight in Paris Complex

This morning, I woke up naturally at 7:30, blindly snagged myself on my boyfriend’s fan, woke the entire apartment complex when it came crashing down, and got to thinking about decades.

Thus far, I’ve only lived through two full decades, but in that short twenty-year span it’s insane how many things have evolved (and not just the things attributed to Steve Jobs’ tyrannical ingenuity). Since the 90s, cell phones have diminished in size from the hulking Monarch brick Agent Dana Scully had to pull a 3-mile antennae from before she could address her urgent callers, to the boxy Nokia that went off in my fifth grade class with no penalty (because my sister and I were the only children in the country who had cell phones in 2001), and finally to the streamlined smartphone in every modern four-year-old’s Gymboree shorts (although, if the increasing size of the iPhone is any indication, looks like we’ll be right back there with 90s FBI setbacks in a fortnight). CDs swept in to antiquate cassette technology and just as quickly yielded their lionization to MP3s. Pig tails, butterfly clips, and crimpers dissipated with the stardom of Sarah Michelle Gellar and Melissa Joan Hart. Britney Spears riled up mothers about teen inappropriateness, shaved her head, and sought out Autotune to salvage her career, and the formerly hirsute Hanson became a symbol of ignominy that those of us over twenty continue to joke about in embarrassment. Pop culture drama morphed from Corey and Topanga’s relationship to Camille Grammer’s Real Housewives divorce, and lovable little Nano Pets segued into some really angry birds.

So many definitive constituents seem to be jilted with each passing decade that one can only wonder what will characterize our current decade for future generations. Will the ever-increasing speed of technological advancement continue to make things passé so quickly that we’ll hardly retain anything to attribute to this decade? And what will people even call this time period? The teens? We certainly haven’t made things easy for ourselves, a fact that might explain why contemporary pop culture seems so keen on reincarnating the past. We move with such rapidity toward an indiscernible future that we practically necessitate the familiarity gleaned from Kanye West’s 80s riffs, period pieces like Madmen and Downton Abbey, and the Cary Grant chic channelled by Justin Timberlake and pre-Don Jon Joseph Gordon-Levitt. With all our forward progression, it seems we just can’t resist the urge to look backwards.

Personally, despite the groans of protest from both my boyfriend and my mom, I would have loved to have lived in the 80s. In lieu of the spiraling 90s, the 80s were a time period that granted you the freedom to wear your hair as big and as teased as you wanted without being compared to Snooki, a larger Bono and B52s fan base to network with and firsthand access to Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” music video, and the ability to attend beach pier parties featuring shirtless, long-haired saxophonists akin to Timmy Cappello in The Lost Boys. I would have danced my way down city avenues Cyndi Lauper-style, River Phoenix’s portrayal of Chris Chambers would have stolen my heart (as if it didn’t in this day and age), and I’d never leave the house without a pair of tri-colored legwarmers to accompany my white Nikes. I would have been as excited about Tears for Fears’ upcoming album, trippy surrealist films (The Heathers, anyone?), and the Rubik’s Cube craze as all those arcade mongers who got to experience the Pacman beta.

But for all the griping I do about my actual childhood era, I can’t deprive the 90s of all merit. Yes, the platform tennis shoes, leopard-print pantsuits, and hair wrapped to look like horns on a Visigoth helmet resulted in one of the most vomitrocious band wardrobes ever assembled, but I certainly wouldn’t be the harmonic woman I am today without the guidance of the Spice Girls. And once you get past the teen blarney of Saved By the Bell and the childhood trauma instilled by X-Files episodes your parents shouldn’t have let you watch, you realize the 90s hosted some TV gems: the enduring hilarity of Seinfeld, The Simpsons in their season 7 heyday, Mr. Not-Yet-Big grilling suspects in the original Law and Order, Patrick Stewart charting our course in Star Trek: Next Generation, all the donut-fueled madness of Twin Peaks, and, of course my new obsession, The X-Files, from which “Bad Blood” and “Humbug” are writing genius.

In summation, I rescind my previous sentiments. I suppose without any personal 80s anecdotes to regale my peers with, the 90s aren’t such a bad time period to look back on in this present, indeterminate decade.

Besides, we all know the 1940s Sam Spade era is really where it’s at.