Category: Fantasy Letters I Will Never Send

Dear – no, wait. You’re not at all dear. You’re an annoyance that keeps on giving. But, I digress.

Reality TV:

How I loathe the fact that even sans television, I cannot escape you.

Thank you to everyone who forwarded the clip of Jonathan Antoine and his almost nameless female partner (she has a name, Charlotte Jaconelli, but people are choosing to ignore it, and mostly ignore her), every blog that posted it, ever news outlet which regurgitated the story over and over and over again: “OMG, big people can, like, do things! Squee!” Granted, that wasn’t the reason some of you sent it. Admittedly, it is with a warm feeling of frank admiration that people are passing this on – the image of a sweet-faced kid who would rather shrug than answer questions, whose hands shake as they grip the mic, whose hair reminds us of Weird Al’s before age and hair products thinned it from its former springy glory. When he opens his mouth, none of those things matter; he sounds like a youthful Pavarotti. Viewers are entranced, charmed, humbled, tearful.

Dear Reality TV: how is it that you are still enamored with this?

What, because the kid’s overweight, he couldn’t possibly have a good voice? Because that evil numpty, Simon Cowell expresses doubt and dismay aloud – “Just when you think it couldn’t get any worse,” – we’re meant to have silently agreed? It amazes me how you can just keep trotting this storyline over and over again. It’s manipulative and weird and troubling, and …people eat it up. I just keep thinking, “Really? Does anyone still think that just because you’re heavy, or older-middle-aged, or dressed in less-than-stylish clothing, or not perfect looking, or not mainstream conventional somehow, therefore you can’t _____ ” Sing, dance, walk and chew gum, whatever? I mean, seriously, Reality Shows?

Were I being generous, I would say that these talent shows are like the cattle calls they have for Broadway and stuff – you go, you audition, you take your chances. But I am not generous, I am blunt. The set up on this show — the build up to the kid going on stage in this disheveled rock star T-shirt – when he’s performed on Youtube in suits – the obvious sneers from the judges, the camera panning picks up anxious, doubtful, twisted faces in the crowd… to GLORY! And AMAZEMENT! And WONDER! And he’s AWESOME! The crowd finds its feet and ROARS!

Doesn’t ANYONE else feel just the tiniest bit… manipulated?

Dear Reality Show Allegedly Praising Talent, YOU ARE NOT ABOUT TALENT, YOU ARE ABOUT SPECTACLE. You are all about the freakshow, the circus, the shallow, quickly passing distraction. You value success, but only for a given value of said. “Hey, look, we found Loser A, B, and C here. You want to stare at them. You want to be mesmerized by their very freakishness. Look! Stare! Listen to Cyanide Cowell say what you hadn’t thought of saying, but now pretend you had! And then, INSERT DRAMATIC TWIST HERE: Watch How We Turn Your Opinion Around!!! It’s the familiar trope of sow’s ear into silk purse, the diamond in the coal bin, the rags-to-riches, prince-from-pauper. It’s JUST SHOCKING that someone not conventional looking COULD HAVE THE LEAST LITTLE BIT OF TALENT, WORTH, OR SUCCESS. Please, quick – let’s shout it from the heavens, and put it alllll over Teh Internets!

Same old story, the least nourishing fodder ever, and still everyone opens wide and gulps it down — a little teary, sobbing that now they have proof that dreams do come true.

Oh, puh-lease.

I realize I sound like a cynical witchling. Listen, though. I have nothing against Jon Antoine. I have nothing against people who audition for things. I have nothing against dreams. I have something major against lies and manipulation. I just hate the idea that at some point this will cease to entertain the Capitol, and you’ll drag another poorly armed District pledge into the arena and break out the cornucopia. This guy braves the freak show to get a quick celebrity boost, and then — ? And God help him if he’s at all emotionally fragile or truly shy — think about it. Where is Susan Boyle? Still recording? Now that she’s more together-looking no longer interesting to the cameras? How long does Jonathan Antoine have? The clock on his fifteen minutes of fame is tick-tick-ticking – what lengths will he go to to stay on the stage? How many other people will he mow down? How long will you keep looking?

Bread and circuses, Reality TV. Panem et circenses.

With no love for you, and a deep desire that you would just die and burn to ashes,

Me.

This is another story of how Flat Stanley came to be made.
It does not involve the stork.

Dear Susan

This year, at Valentine’s Day, as always, I remember you.

I’ve washed my favorite black dress trousers and my favorite v-necked black shirt, and am prepared to sail out into the world, forcibly sharing cookies and love with everyone. And making them share back. (Okay, maybe not that last bit, but it kind of goes with the fascism: you have to elevate and impose the idea above the people. And the idea is LOVE, gosh darn it all. BE LOVING OR ELSE.)

I thought of you recently because as well as writing letters of appreciation to people every year, my friend Farida is rethinking Valentine’s Day. To improve myself, I am attempting the letter, but I should probably do that rethinking thing sometime. Instead, I am stuck with the version of me that you met junior year at Rio. Your junior year, anyway. I was a senior, and you were already far cooler than I.

I wonder what you really saw – the geeky girl in badly dyed black jeans, who over-earnestly read your back issues of Sassy and Jane and tried to emulate your dress sense? Or some wannabe trying to Make A Statement about the herd mentality of high school, and the stress-inducing pressure I felt to convey honest emotion on cue, in a prescribed way, on a proscribed day? How funny to me now that I told you that I was mourning the death of saints. I was mourning the death of an idea, too… that I would ever eventually be able to be in sync with the rest of the world.

I don’t know what you saw, but instead of laughing, you went back to your room and changed clothes. And you joined me in the wearing of Ironic Black In Protest every year that I knew you – despite the fact that both of us were nattered at and had eyes rolled at us for being sour grapes about Valentine’s “just because you don’t have boyfriends” (which you did sometimes) or because we were “feminazis” and with all kinds of anti-men issues (and I refuse to justify that stupidity with a response). You stuck with it, and stuck with me. And unlike mine, your blacks even matched, because you are That Cool.

And a thousand years past high school, I still think about you on Valentine’s Day as I pull on my black trou, and step into my black boots, and pull on my black gloves. My opting out becomes less ironic each year, and more of a conscious as I acknowledge the stresses which surround the idea of holidays. Opting out creates a sane space in my head so that I can say, “It’s not that I hate you along with the holiday – it’s just that I’ll tell you I love you tomorrow.” Instead of words, I can offer something which melts on the tongue – a little zingy, a lot spicy, a more realistic reflection of our lives, which are composed of both the sweet and a little sharpness of lemon icing.

Dear Susan. Thank you for, once upon a time, being my friend.

Dear St. Julia:

How about that Julie/Julia movie?

Just in case you haven’t had time to check it out, The Art of French Cooking is on the best-seller list. It’s only taken forty-eight years, but now everyone knows you are made of awesome. Pounds of rich, real butter, white pepper, red wine, and all.

Love, Lainey

I think she would be rather chuffed. And amused by it all.

Original photo here.

Dear St. Julia:

How about that Julie/Julia movie?

Just in case you haven’t had time to check it out, The Art of French Cooking is on the best-seller list. It’s only taken forty-eight years, but now everyone knows you are made of awesome. Pounds of rich, real butter, white pepper, red wine, and all.

Love, Lainey

I think she would be rather chuffed. And amused by it all.

Original photo here.