This Afternoon In Drama

A Final Say

"I don't want to sound like some politically correct old fart, but we cast real mentally challenged actors in the film, and they really hate the word retarded." -- Johnny Knoxville in Maxim

So there you go.

I am tired.  Fat.  And communicated out from my assorted jewntile holiday activities.  I will return next week.

Choosing Words Carefully

I think casual use of "retarded" went out of vogue in seventh grade, when suddenly we encountered the kids in a "special class" at our middle school who were, as teachers corrected us, "mentally challenged."  Mentally challenged always sounded like a worse linguistic choice to me, since the term "challenged" conjured a hulking, unmovable obstacle in front of the brain, a fat wall that a person would come up against and then bang his head on.  The notion of a constant mental challenge made me think of a grueling daily fight with ones own brain, which seemed a contradiction of what the teachers told us about the "special class."  We heard that those kids were at the mental level of five and six-year-olds, and when I thought back to my own brain at that age, I know that I felt significantly less mentally challenged than I do today.  There was less hemming and hawing about the direction of my life, less angst, and a greatly reduced gray area.  When younger, I thought very little about thinking, and rarely felt an idea (or lack of one) standing in my way.

"Mentally challenged" was sometimes interchanged with "developmentally disabled," which didn't strike me as a happy option either.  To "disable" something is to turn it off, so this made things sound as if the plug had been pulled on those kids at a particular point in time, and they were just fucked from there on out.  Development over.  Then a few people began to try out "differently abled," which seemed condescending, like we were making the kids into mental charity cases by trying to pretend that they were just like the X-men, except instead of getting the power to control the weather or kill people with a bare touch, they got a lifetime of slow progress.  (Although I must note that some of the kids in the "special class" were, literally, differently abled, as one girl could tell you when a light bulb was going to go out about a month before it did.  In this case, I think the "differently abled" label could apply to her weird talent, but not her existence as a whole.)  It became a big taboo to verbally recognize difference, which, as Howard Stern is so excellent at pointing out, is often a meaner tactic than simple, honest acknowledgment.

And there I was, the holdout, still preferring retarded and never completely understanding why it had gotten such a bad rap.  To me, "retarded" communicated a slowing down but not a stoppage (i.e. a disabling).  When things are flame retardant, they don't halt or extinguish the fire, but just resist it a little.  So retarded seemed like an apt description for a brain that was developing at a slower clip, but wasn't lost for good.  (Although I always did understand the horror of "retard," mostly because the hard-D has an innate cruelty.  That last syllable has dickheadedness embedded within it, but "retarded" always seemed like a passable phrase.)

Then, last week, I watched Harold And Kumar Go To White Castle and, for the first time in my life, heard the original version of Black Eyed Peas' "Let's Get Retarded," which was re-recorded as "Let's Get It Started" for basketball games nationwide.  I had known about the "retarded" version, but hearing it was a whole new world.  The Peas version of the word "retarded" has the same rough punch as "retard," since they put the emphasis on the first "d" and almost sing the word the way not-retarded kids say it when trying to act out retardation.  And I'm really, really difficult to shock, but hearing the suggestion to "get retarded" in a pop song (not to mention that the chorus line is sung over and over and over, as if the Peas wished to musically mimic the experience of retardation) literally made me sit up in bed.

It also probably doesn't help that the Peas suggest that before we get retarded we get "stupid," linking two definitions that even the most insensitive of us have long avoided linking.  When the song first appeared to surprisingly mild controversy, the Peas argued that they were using the term "retarded" as a slangy substitute for getting loose and easy, ready to party.  They were trying to pull an innocent "def" vs. "deaf" move, and perhaps hoped that Fergie's impressive ass would distract radio programmers.  (Obviously, assorted stations, bars, sports teams, cheerleading squads, and awards shows didn't agree, as they all went for the newer version and pushed the "retarded" one into album oblivion.)

The problem is that by the Peas extension, "retarded" becomes a synonym for getting trashed, jumping in the pool fully clothed, and then making out with someone (and then barfing in his mouth) who you wouldn't even normally shake hands with, and I'm not sure the retarded crowd wants that kind of association either.  To put how bizarre the song's lyrics sounds in perspective, White Castle features another song, "Cameltoe," which contains the lines, "Is your crotch hungry girl?/ Cause it's eating your pants."  And when you hear "Cameltoe" and all you can think is, "Holy shit! Whose idea was it to write a song advocating getting retarded?!" then you know there's a big problem.  There's an even bigger problem when the Peas start spelling retarded for us at the end of their number, which I guess just completes the circle-- a song about getting retarded, sung by a group that sounds like they're mocking the retarded, and spelled out for the listening audience as if we're retarded.

I think a decent test for how truly guileless the Peas are in regard to their lyrics would be to send them to a "special class" and have them perform the original version of the song for the kids and teachers.  Somehow I can't see will.i.am shouting his exuberant, "Ha's!" after his "retarded's" once in that room. Then we might actually figure out just how honest the "band" was being about its definitional intentions, and the struggling-to-properly-name-disabilities populace could switch over from "differently abled" to "Black Eyed Pead" to describe the state of being "mentally challenged."

Torn Between Two Gadget Lovers

Earlier this year I was at the Seder of family friends who hadn't seen me for awhile.  In the kitchen, one by one they'd grab my elbow and ask, "Oh my gahd, aren't you excited about the TV deal?  The new book deal?  Everything?"  And I was, of course, like, "Ehhhhh. Sure."  They looked at me like I'd taken a public swig from Elijah's cup.  It's not that I'm not excited, it's just that it gets harder and harder to reproduce excitement when asked.  But it's also that I am excited by much smaller, simpler things.  What am I really most proud of?  What can you get me to gush and gush about when asked?

Wrapping!

Junior year of high school I worked at "The Paper Factory," where free gift wrapping came with all holiday purchases.  Any time a customer spotted the row of wrapping behind the counter, I'd think, "Ohhhh shit," because back then I was not very good at wrapping.  I had sloppy corners.  My curls were looser than a year-old perm (which, incidentally, I have).  But, somewhere down the line, I became an excellent wrapper!  You want proof?  Behold this season's offering of my holiday gifts, all having come together for the first time ever (as you can see, this year's theme is "Blue Winter"):

I'm not only proud of my gift wrapping, which I think demonstrates an exceptional level of patience, attention, creativity, and a crow-like appreciation for shiny things, but I am also proud of my gift giving.  Those who know me know that I subscribe to tens of magazines and catalogs, and that year-round I clip those items that remind me of the people I know and love.  Then, with my glue-stick that deposits purple glue but dries clear, I paste down those clippings onto white pages until I have made myself an extensive and personalized holiday gift purchasing catalog.

This year's favorite catalog founding father picture?  It's a duel between Sharper Image's Richard Thalheimer and Gadget Universe's Alexander Elnekaveh.  My dislike of the chin-on-fist author photo has been the subject of many conversations, but apparently the pose plagues not only the literary community but the electronics businessperson community as well.  You ask, which man fares better?

Richard's picture appears much more candid, as though taken at a formal event-- perhaps a Bat Mitzvah?-- and not explicitly for the catalog.  There seems to be some kind of festive wood paneling in the background.  In his tux, Dick, almost eerily wide-eyed, says, "I may be dressed up, but I'm no stiff."  His chin-on-hand pose is not meant to convey intellectual weightiness as it usually does in an author photo, but instead a certain approachability, a friendliness.  The photographer swooping by the table during a band break asks Dick, "Can I get a picture for the Bat Mitzvah girl?"  Dick and her father go way back to college, and among the family Dick is affectionately referred to as "Uncle Richy-Rich."  So Dick says, "Sure, fella," and then brings fist to chin, summoning a little bit of "Awww shucks" appeal to counter the formality of his penguin suit.  By choosing this photo to kick off the Sharper Image Christmas catalog, Dick hopes to say to his customers, "I'm classy, but not stuffy."  Interesting choice.

Alexander, on the other hand, performs an abstracted version of chin-on-fist, resting his head against the cushion of a black leather chair so that the fist is not actually supporting the chin.  If you'll notice, the fist is not even precisely below the chin, but slightly below the lower lip, like Alex is wiping some eggnog from the corner of his mouth.  Alex's version of chin-on-mouth is a much more pensive one than Dick's, as if the photographer has caught him during a brief respite from hunting for the universe's newest gadgets, and there is an almost troubled quality to Alex's gaze that haunts me. Has gadget hunting consumed his soul, led his wife to say, "I don't even know who you are any more!" and his teen son to toss a "nose hair trimmer w/ vacuum, Pg 5" at him in explosive anger?  Alex's eyebrows, shirt, and five o'clock shadow look as if they wish to retreat into the leather of the chair, as though a part of Alex wishes that he could be invisible and ethereal as an electronic pulse beating through the dark, cold night.

So who wins "Best Founder Picture Inside a Holiday Catalog for Winter '05?"  It's Alexander, of course, not only for the mystery and timeless elegance he manages to convey in his medium shot, but for really outdoing himself by signing his letter to his customers with a simple, dashed-off, "The Wizard." Dick just puts it all out there, and while perhaps he has achieved the chummy effect he so clearly desires, he loses points by failing to leave the customer wanting more.  Alex/"The Wizard", however, takes top honors by inviting us into his secret den of gadgetry, staring us down with his tortured gaze, and then slamming the door on our faces before we get a chance to figure out just how this sly cat does his tricks.

Dating Oneself

This past week was the most soul-crushing week of Elimidate yet.  Normally, I think of Elimidate as the dating version of the Stanford Prison Experiment.  There is one person, the chooser, who might not be so smart, attractive, or herpes-free, but because s/he has been anointed by the producers as the "guard" of the date, s/he is imbued with automatic authority.  This means that the possible choosees, those four candidates vying for the attentions of the guard, automatically become the prisoners.  Perhaps in an unmediated world, the prisoners would take one look at the guard and say, "Hell to the no," but in the alternate reality world of Elimidate, the prisoners adopt beer goggles (that compensate not only for looks, but also for personality and charisma) before they even start chugging beer in round two.

Then, just as the guards in the Stanford experiment lost track of time and place and began exercising their diabolical power, the Elimidate guard, discombobulated by the show, similarly starts the torture.  If it is a female guard, then she gets her prisoners to start behaving like seals in a circus, barking and clapping for her approval.  If it is a male guard, then he starts brow-beating his female prisoners into making out with him, often using the line, "I just feel like you haven't been open on this date," if a prisoner withholds tongue.  The female prisoners know the consequence of refusal-- elimination on a nationally syndicated show-- so they end up swapping spit with some of the most questionably oily characters ever to grace the small screen.

But back to this past week.  It was "Blast From The Past" week on Elimidate, which meant that the producers rounded up a posse of Z-list celebrities to play guard.  These "celebrities" included the guy who used to host Dance Fever, the guy who used to say "Dy-no-mite!", the girl who used to sing "Let's Hear It For The Boy," the guy who used to live in rehab (Leif Garrett), and some fat guy/former child actor from a TV show that was on a really long time ago whose name currently escapes me.

What made this week so tragic was a gaping lack of self-awareness.  At least the pleb guards usually recognize that their authority is somewhat akin to a magic pumpkin carriage, and that it will dissipate as soon as the cameras leave.  (This has become more blatant than ever, now that Elimidate has instituted the new "After The First Date" segment.  After the final couple spends the night drunkenly sucking face and sometimes getting dangerously close to making a baby, Elimidate follows up a few weeks later.  And about 99% of the time, the couple just looks at each other like, "Huh?"  There's some gelato eating.  Some awkward conversation.  And then one of them will finally just cave and say, "It was good to see you again, but let's not see each other again.")  During these dates, the doofy, beefy guys, having become Prince Charmings for a night, will confess in a corner, "I can't believe all these chicks are after my jock!"  They always know that they have to exploit the situation while they can.

But the "celebrities" on this past week's run of shows didn't seem to understand that their suitors might have had ulterior motives.  Instead, they were just like, "All right, come and get me, you lucky retail workers!" (with the notable exception of Leif Garrett, who seemed so deflated by years of car accidents and sobriety that he ended up picking the woman who most behaved like a new agey rehab counselor, as if he knew it wasn't a lover than he needed, but a gentle watchdog.)  The girl who sang "Let's Hear It For The Boy" actually said to her men, "I'm not sure if you realize how difficult it is to date a celebrity," and I sincerely hope she was talking about the difficulty of dealing with ego and delusion, and not the difficulty of coping with her "fame."  Because maybe homegirl has to make appearances at Footloose Fan Conventions once a year, but I don't think she's dodging the US Weekly photogs hiding in her bushes.

The guy who hosted Dance Fever led his dates in an embarrassing re-enaction of a former number from his glory days, as he was under the belief that those women were still as stuck back at the height of his career as he is.  But luckily for the guards, Elimidate supplied them with pre-crippled prisoners, so that they could experience a somewhat normalized Elimidate show instead of a, "You seriously want me to re-enact the kissing scene from "Romeo & Juliet" with you, you old perv?" (this was the fat guy/former child actor's date) fiasco.  Thus, for Leif the producers found a woman who met him once twenty billion years ago in passing and had been waiting to remind him of this encounter for almost her entire adult life (he didn't remember her).  For "Let's Hear It For The Boy" woman they found a guy even lower on the music industry totem pole than her, so he was genuinely awed by her success.  For "Dy-no-mite!" they found what I can only describe as an internet stalker, a woman who had done so much research on J.J. that E! should hire her to single-handedly write the Good Times: True Hollywood Story episode.  Weirdly, Jimmie J.J. Walker kept bringing up how glad he was that he didn't have to pay for the date and how he wished all his dates could be subsidized, which made me think the years haven't been financially kind.

As the prisoners kept describing their "celebrity" guards as "so charming" and in possession of "such a beautiful smile!" I watched the Elimidate universe almost collapse upon itself, what with the layers and layers of illusory gauze being thrown upon the show's stratosphere. It was almost as if the prisoners had been brainwashed pre-date, so that whenever they looked at the aging, lonely, performer before them, all they could see was a heyday head-shot.  Surrounded by four prisoners who saw only the best in them, the guards ended up having some of the self-professed best days of their lives-- the type of best day, of course, which crushed my soul under the knowledge that in the near future, all of those facades were probably coming down.  But hey, back to the non-professional doofs this week!