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.
When I was still a tiny little thing small enough to lift my weight doing every last pull-up you’d dared me to, I lived in the mountain town of Oakridge, Oregon, an equally tiny city where the only activities beyond whittling bear statues and getting pregnant included mountain recreations and mingling at the local Dairy Queen. Coming from a family that spent most of their time alfresco, secretly avoiding people, outdoor recreation proved to be the obvious choice, and merrymaking ensued around winding dirt trails, up the sides of snow-peaked mountains, to the tops of waterfalls, and down the medium-level ski slopes where six-year-old girl pile ups only got in the way of real skiers. One of our favorite hobbies was venturing to bodies of water, as if the Moon in us was trying to get back to overseeing the tide. We spent the majority of our recreational time vacationing on the Pacific, donning on water socks to trapeze our way across the crystal clear Willamette (before it cascaded down the mountains into the city sludge that comprises the Portland waterfront), doubling up on jet skis at my uncle’s houseboat to ride the wake of speed boats and inevitably flip over three times, distracting ourselves from the nude old fogies at the hot springs by squishing sulphuric mud between our toes, and spending the day paddling around Oakridge’s many reservoirs, our skin getting browner and our locks bleaching in the sun.
One of our favorite spots on the reservoir, just a few winding, cliff-side miles from town, was CT Beach, a little inlet that looked upon an enormous picturesque lake where fishermen could deposit their boats and outdoorsy families like mine could lay out a picnic and then dive in. On one such outing, my family towed in a big inflatable raft and oars from my dad’s rowing days, and we set sail against the slight chop the wind picked up across the water. A beautiful day beamed down on the Moon-Wood family as the two little daughters paddled themselves in circles, when all of a sudden my dad–like all young dads before their children hit puberty and refuse to be amused–decided to shake things up and flip the boat.
Everybody flew from the raft shrieking through mouthfuls of water, angrily splashing my dad, and groaning, “Daaaaaaaddy!!!,” but I was far from able to unleash my juvenile wrath on anyone because I was accidentally tied to the boat. Upside down, fully submerged, and struggling against the little bounds I’d gotten myself caught in, I stared down into depths I would later discover looked like a cavernous mud vortex winding down to the center of the earth (that you could hike!) when they drained the reservoir. I couldn’t see far at the time because the water here was always thick with green silt, but I could imagine the life flourishing just out of view. Looking up was no better, as I beheld summer sunlight pirouetting across the undulating surface, reminding me that I was down below, in this dark, oppressively silent world.
This story clearly has a happy ending, as young athletic dads with a penchant for peevishness also tend to be very good at saving kids from overdramatized accidents, but a life experience like that changes a girl, and soon, little water baby Emily Moon was terrified of the element that had previously brought her so much joy. But that didn’t mean I immediately holed myself away in a desert trailer, turning on faucets with my eyes closed. When you’re an older sister, your entire life revolves around maintaining a facade of bravery for the little one’s sake, even when “the little one” is twenty years old and your “bravery” is put to the test simply catching the spider she’s screaming about.
With this sense of faux strength inflating my sails, I spent the next sixteen years approaching large bodies of water with a weird amalgamation of terror and domination, eager to beat back the aquatic threat that had done me no greater harm than instilling my irrational phobia. There were times when I almost lost the battle against the big blue drink–like the numerous times the stormy Pacific waves tried to beat me into a pulp against the sand below; the time a deceptively beautiful river in Westfir began to drag my wild-eyed, fervently paddling Shoobie away in its current and my dad–ever the aquacade hero–had to dive in and rescue her; and the time my cousin Mahina tried to leap from the houseboat deck to to my uncle’s boat, undershot it, and I experienced the cinematic cliché of gripping her hands while she begged me not to let her fall into the black, nighttime river below (fortunately, everyone’s parents came running before my clammy little hands resulted in Willamette folly). But in my relentless crusade to save face, I usually win, engaging in daring stunts just to thumb my nose at fear. Included in these reckless behaviors are swimming far out from shore by myself in Kauai, to the depths reserved for surfing the combers that break over the encompassing reef; swimming for hours on end at night, off of Tybee Island, when the world is black and the fish are feeding one state up from shark-beset Floridian waters; and pausing on the shore to listen to the sound of something big and lumbering, splashing through the water only feet away on a strange southern night when the beach fog was so thick you couldn’t see six inches in front of your face. While I’m none too eager to repeat the idiotic behaviors of my past, at least I can rack up the points against my phobia, limbs still wholly intact.
I don’t make the fight against fear easy for myself though. While harboring nightmares of the deep, I’ve always been incredibly fascinated by bodies of water: researching aquatic creatures–pelagic or otherwise, exploring multicultural mythologies bent on explaining away the sea, writing numerous stories that enveloped seafaring in some way, and squirming through every episode of River Monsters I could get my hands on, too distracted by the idea that freshwater’s teeming with terrifying things like pallid, Spanish river dolphins to admire my oldest man-crush to date: extreme wrangler Jeremy Wade.
Thus, it’s a strange, masochistic love affair I’ve got going on with water. On the one hand, water has chaperoned most of my life and provided me with some of the fondest memories I can summon to this day. Sure sharks feed at night, but lying there in a black bed of oscillating seawater while staring up at an enormous white moon was one of the most serene moments of my life. And declaring Monkey Head Rock officially seized while the tide swiftly began to close in was exhilarating. On the other hand, all this risky business I conduct to prove my “might” may very well lead to me straight down to Davy Jones’ locker on the Flying Dutchman Express.
Perhaps if I can surmount this fear of mine though, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing… At least there’s always the Bill Dance bloopers my dear Greta James introduced me to to get ya rootin’ for water!