How could that be?
Look at her.
She’s stunning.
I, of course, had the blunt interests of a boy who knew nothing about women or sex– although I was very interested in both– and I simply accepted Hollywood’s casual objectification of these mysteries. I didn’t know somebody was attractive unless Hollywood signalled to me that they were, something they usually did by a display of nudity. And so the promise of Jessica Lange, Kim Basinger or Jamie Lee Curtis taking off their top in some accessible, high velocity movie was simply too much for me to resist.
Streep, who even at a young age seemed to be playing adults rather than sex toys for naive adolescents, was cast in the sort of films that my parents might be interested in, in “prestige” films, and even though she was of the same general age as all the other celebrities I lusted after, she was stood apart from them, a European cousin, or something.
As an adult I came to love Meryl Streep. Not so much for her acting, which was always somehow obscured for me by her reputation for “acting,” but for her presence. Talented, charismatic and beautiful, she’s also fantastically articulate and charming, and like everybody else I was super keen to hear her speak at the Golden Globes.
Her speech was widely celebrated.
Meryl Streep, Hollywood’s single-combat hero, called to our better angels, and as we sat there listening it was as if the Stature of Liberty herself was speaking. Expecting to love every word of it, I was surprised to discover that I did not.
Although she might have been joking when she referred to the roomful of beautiful, insanely wealthy and adored people sitting before her as, “The most vilified segment of American society,” it made me roll my eyes . Whether she intended it with any irony or not is unclear, but the thrust of her argument was that Hollywood, full of outsiders and foreigners, was representative of some sort of scrappy refugee success story rather than a consumerist ideal of near-unattainable privilege. She continued, saying that if Trump had his way, all America would have left would be football and mixed martial arts– and as she said this, her voice rising in certainty, finger wagging, she admonished, “Which are not the arts!”
The home crowd cheered.
I don’t know.
I had thought I was the home crowd, too, but was I supposed to believe that actors were rescuing America from the things that the people who lived there liked? That football and MMA were unworthy to watch unless they were recreated in movie format starring celebrities?
Something like that?
I wasn’t sure.
Her audience was rapt, hanging on every word. And they were all so beautiful and dewy, so earnest and self-congratulatory in expression, so not of this earth that I imagined them separating from the rest of the world and rising up, up, up in some magical balloon that they knew the rest of us, so smitten, would never be able to let go of.
Her condemnation of Trump’s nascent war on journalism struck me as wanting, too, because there is likely no industry that succeeds so brilliantly at manipulating the press as does Hollywood. The Hollywood Foreign Press, who are responsible for the Golden Globes, are little more than a marketing wing for the industry, trading off favourable stories for glamorous access.
When we see our celebrities on the red carpet refusing to be objectified by not revealing who made their outfit and thus striking a blow for equal rights, we have to keep in mind that they’re still accepting money to advertise that dress.
Hollywood is about money.
Period.
If art or diversity or empathy is a byproduct of this pursuit, all the better, but if Meryl Streep were being honest with herself and the rest of us, she might acknowledge that she, like Trump, depends on a compliant media to promote her work and spin her narratives.
And so it goes.
Everything touches everything else.
It’s not like Streep was saying anything crazy, though. She was trying to do good, but her blind spots were, well, Hollywood in scope. Her words were tangled in contradictions, a stinging disregard for those who might not agree with her, and an imperious detachment from the pedestrian, discount store lives the rest of us struggle to lead, and that actually demoralized me.
Politicians and actors, I have found out, have all too much in common.
]]>Why are writers all so ugly?
Simon
Simon:
It’s true, most writers are pretty ugly.
They were just born that way, and no matter how their parents dressed them, they remained ugly.
A consequence of this ugliness is that they were almost always excluded as children, forced to watch from the sidelines as their more attractive peers lived their happy, little lives. It’s unlikely that any of their glittering peers were mocked, called “Grosslord” and then turned away from the Manor Park Mayfair Kissing Booth, amidst a cacophony of kids pretending to barf, even though the Grosslord in question, who yes, needed dental work at the time, had the money, just like everybody else, that it cost to get a peck from grade eight goddess Mary Appelton. Injustice makes a writer, and ugliness is a great injustice. So the writer, by circumstance rather than by instinct, becomes an observer, hovering darkly on the periphery, always plotting, plotting, plotting, always devising schemes of seduction, conquest and personal elevation, all of which, of course, are doomed to fail.
It’s why so many writers are alcoholic as well as being ugly.
Eventually, the writer will become destitute and bitter, unable to do much beyond engage in Twitter wars about Canadian poetry.
However, I would be remiss if I were to say that all writers are ugly, for this is not true. Tyra Banks, the author of Modelland, is world-renowned beauty.
And of course, Samuel Beckett:
Dear Bitter Writer:
Like most people, I was disgusted and heartbroken when I heard about the mass murder in Orlando. I wrote down some of my feelings on the matter, and I was wondering if you could tell me where the best place might be to publish my Think Piece? I was considering Medium, any advice?
Brad
Brad:
The best advice I can give you is to never, ever publish anything that is referred to as a Think Piece. Think Pieces are the equivalent of drunken phone messages left for an Ex. Lost, wandering and self-absorbed, they exist only to make the author look enlightened rather than to actually share some sort of enlightenment. Truth be told, I can’t read the words Think Piece without wanting to punch whomever coined the phrase in the face. It sounds remdial, like something you’d do in kindergarten.
“And what’s this a drawing of, Bobby?”
“It Think Piece.”
“Well, it’s lovely, I like what you’ve done with the raging green!”
So no, Brad, just no.
Don’t do it.
And Brad, if you’re straight, that cry of no becomes even louder. I don’t care if you’d fuck Tom Hardy
and are a true ally of the LGBT community, the world still doesn’t need another straight voice added to the storm of voices attempting to deconstruct the shooting. Whether you think people from the LGBT community were specifically targeted or not doesn’t matter. The LGBT community is one that has always been subject to violence, hatred and bigotry, and this, the largest mass shooting in America’s rich history, conducted at a specifically gay venue, suggests that those directly within the community might have a deeper understanding of what the shooting “means,” so I suggest that all straight voices just park it for a little, and listen rather than tell. Just switch your profile pic to rainbow and call it a day, okay?
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It’s long been a dream of mine to play professional hockey, and this is a goal I’ve worked very hard to achieve. Unfortunately, I’ve never been quite good enough to make the grade, and as the years pass by my chances of making the NHL are rapidly diminishing. In an effort to remind the NHL GM’s and coaches who might still be looking for a character guy in the locker room, of just how committed I am to this dream, I am providing a short list of some of the things I’m willing to do to fulfill my dream of playing in the NHL.
I am perfectly willing to serve as a shutdown, 4th line centre, instead of the natural, 1st line scorer I am, if it gets me into the NHL faster.
I will continue with my figure skating lessons, trying to improve my balance and explosiveness on the ice in order to make me a better team player.
I would not hesitate to drop the gloves.
I will cut back on my shifts at David’s Tea in order to train more.
I would consent to wearing a suit and tie to and from the rink for every game.
I would kill a bird with a rock.
I would be willing to relocate.
If necessary, I would subordinate my natural leadership skills in order to better serve the team.
I will say no to hanging out with friends and going out to parties because I know I have to be up early the next morning to train.
I would have sex with Tom Hardy– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious about what being gay might feel like– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.
I would also have sex with Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious to know what it might feel like to be gay with two other stunning and sexy men– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.
I would give up my participation in fantasy hockey in order to protect the integrity of the NHL and the great game of hockey.
I would take up hunting in order to better fit in with my peers.
I would consider giving up gluten.
I would also consider giving up Choir! Choir! Choir! in order to more fully dedicate myself to my dream of playing in the NHL.
I present to you my work-in-progress, and would be interested in all constructive feedback.
Seattle Mist:
This beguiling scent suggests a woman who is as mysterious and beautiful as the Pacific Northwest itself, and who has reported multiple Bigfoot sightings.
San Diego Seduction:
The woman who wears San Diego Seduction is confident and not afraid to go out and get what she wants, even if it involves a car chase!
Tampa Breeze:
A fine blend of coconut oil and fish, this bewitching fragrance marries the immediacy of the trailer park with the elegance of a Jet Ski.
Philadelphia Passion:
Imagine the energy and street edge of 1970-era Blaxploitation films transformed into a bewitching scent! It should be on the list of every lady on your Christmas list!
Toronto Triumph:
This redolence suggests “curvy, not heavy,” and has delicate traces of barn owl and cinnamon.
Chicago Bliss:
This sassy aroma makes it clear to everybody around that the rips in your jeans are intentional!
Green Bay Chill:
With just a tinge of freezer to serve as an accent, this classic scents asks, “Who wants to eat some cheese?”
Orlando Fantasy:
Like a scene airbrushed onto a van, this scent is unmistakable and vivid, a steady and powerful reminder that fortune favours the bold!
Los Angeles Temptation:
This complex blend is best suited to the sophisticated tastes of a woman who can confidently navigate her way through a world of back tattoos and spray-on tans. It’s a scent that says, “I’m here, look at me!”
Vegas Sin:
All the romance of Bloody Caesars, navel piercings and curry by the pool are distilled into this one intoxicating fragrance. Leave your man begging for more, wear Vegas Sin!
Minnesota Valkyrie:
The Valkyrie woman is playful by nature, enjoying a child-like snowball fight with her man, but make no mistake, she knows how to use a crossbow if her nation calls for it!
Baltimore Charm:
A statement fragrance, the wearer of Baltimore Charm is letting the world know that she is a Twilight fan and that she prefers Edward over Jacob.
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