A Pop Culture Query

I realize that this question is not exactly topical, but when a scrawny guy with a sideways baseball cap and a huge black jacket with skulls on it boarded my bus yesterday, Offspring’s “Pretty Fly (for a white guy)” couldn’t help but jump into my head. I realize the best person to answer this question would be a teenager from the late 90s, but I didn’t know the answer then, and until now I have never got around to asking.
Anyway, there’s a line from the song that goes, “He’s getting a tatoo, yeah, he’s getting it done/He asked for a 13, but they drew a 31.”

On what basis is 13 cooler than 31? I realize 13 has it’s own phobia while 31 does not, but from what I know of my own coolness level, I’m pretty sure that’s not what The Offspring were going for. Is it a sex thing? Is 13 like 69? What is it? Please tell me.

Breakfast at STU

Remember breakfasts down in the Rigby caf, on weekends when if you were lucky they were serving strawberry waffles and there was still whipped cream left and maple syrup on the side with scrambled eggs, bacon and homefries, and it was just breakfast breakfast breakfast until 12:30 or maybe it was 1 but sometimes you still wouldn’t make it and the only question that every really mattered on weekend mornings was whether the possibility of strawberry waffles is worth those last fragments of sleep that you might not have tomorrow? And sometimes your friends would wake you up and you’d all go together, shuffling down the halls like waffle zombies; I remember one really specific time when I woke up with maybe 15 minutes to spare and Joel was standing in my room at the end of my bed but for a second I just thought he was part of my dorm furniture and it really blew my sleep-addled mind when a second later I remembered that it was Joel and we were going to go to breakfast, which we did, but I don’t remember the breakfast part. I assume it was delicious. And then there were other times where you’d just get up and take your chances, trudge your way down to the caf and see who else had made it or if Lindsay was working or something, and you’d palpably feel different from all the ones who were still in bed–like you were on different teams, but it was never clear who had won exactly…and most of the time we just came in whatever we slept in or whatever was cleanest or comfiest or nearest to the bed, but occasionally I even dressed up for breakfast because I’d wear my pajamas to school no question but breakfast was sort of an event and maybe if they had ever served waffles with strawberry sauce in class, I might have dressed up for that too…

Anyway, I miss that. That was nice.

“Because our pain makes us real, Dawson”

I fell in love with Dawson’s Creek in the summer of 2003, my first summer home from St. Thomas. If the first summer after college is indeed a universally frustrating experience, then I would guess that mine was worse than most in a number of ways. I won’t invoke past hells, but it’s just now occurred to me that the two accursed jobs (one MUCH moreso than the other–I’m glaring at you, A&W) at which I spent most of my waking hours may have been helping keep my sanity much more than I realized at the time.
However, one fond memory I have of that summer were those sunny May mornings before I found work (or work found me, if you prefer), waking up at 8 in an empty house and dragging my blanket downstairs for four morning hours of Capeside drama. Waking up early was an accident at first; I actually found it rather inconvenient at the time. I spent the first day or two heartily ashamed of myself, and then before I even realized it, I just…wasn’t anymore. I grew to love Pacey and Joey and Jack and Jen, if not actually Dawson himself.

Until recently, I hadn’t thought about the show since that summer ended, almost six years ago now. That in itself seems almost unreal; television devotee that I have since become, I’ve watched and rewatched almost every show that ever touched me. But my summer fling with Dawson’s Creek remained all but forgotten until finding seasons 3 and 4 in a WalMart bargain bin three days ago. Since then, I’ve spent far too many hours watching the whole of season 3, which to my surprise, I mostly missed in my TBS viewings all those years ago.

I like the show now more than I did then, or rather, I feel freer to like it now, as I’m hopefully confident enough in my opinions not to be swayed by critical consensus. It had compelling characters, and while the quality of the writing is nothing to Freaks & Geeks, I’d hold the two on an even keel for the way they portrayed their themes and situations. Dawson’s Creek was never considered *edgy* in the same way that Freaks & Geeks was, but it did celebrate peripheral culture, if only more optimistically than its ’80s-set counterpart. Because that was the ’90s: optimism. In the world of Capeside, a ballsy anti-establishment speech condemning the cheerleading squad will get you elected Homecoming Queen on the same day that your gay best friend becomes the star of the football team. Dawson’s crew were part of the freaks and the geeks of Capeside High, but they told us they were cool and we believed them.

Sadly, Dawson’s Creek most likely finds far more comparisons to Gossip Girl, the current trendsetter in the “How much teen sex is too much?” department. In many ways, the latter is not a bad show narrative-wise, but I still can’t watch it anymore. I wasn’t made for casual relationships…even with tv shows, and horrible people just irritate me. Even at their worst, the Capeside teens all had noble goals and dreams, and they spent the series actively trying to grow as people and to support their friends and loved ones. They subverted the status quo, and would have laughed off the very idea of obsessive social-climbing. Nobody ever mentioned fashion. Their lowest faults were committed out of fear or blindness, rather than spite or malice. Occasional (or more than occasional, DAWSON) bouts of self-righteousness is still a lot better than blatant, unapologetic selfishness.
Both shows are infamous for their portrayals of teen sex, but watching Dawson’s Creek ten years after its debut, it’s insane how far TV has gone off the deep end in that department. Season 3 in its entirety contained no sex whatsoever; there’s even a 3-episode arc where Pacey and Jen decide to have casual sex (which of course doesn’t work out), but they NEVER actually do it. Contrary to the press it got back in the day, this is not a parent’s worst nightmare. Especially since, sex or no sex, Dawson’s Creek always found the characters struggling with moral and ethical issues and the difficulties of doing the right thing, a feature all but absent from current teen fare. I won’t at this time attempt to pass judgment on censorship issues and “appropriate” tv content (mostly because I think the word “appropriate” completely misses the point in a way I won’t even attempt to explain except to say that, sure, maybe you should be allowed to have all the smut you want, but I think a certain amount of moral tension is necessary to actually tell a decent story, because otherwise, at a certain point it just turns into porn, which is fine I guess if that’s what you’re going for, but who would ever claim that it’s Good Art?), but I will say that I wouldn’t want any kid of mine watching Gossip Girl.

I’m looking forward to watching season 4; the knowledge that Joey and Pacey are together in the end (whoops, Spoiler Alert) will see me through their tumultuous first relationship and break-up. Even with their super-charged vocabularies (it delights AND educates) and melo-dramatic problems, I can’t help but connect with these characters in a way I couldn’t even with the Freaks & Geeks crew. In one season 3 episode, Joey, Jen, and Andie have a regular high school girls’ night sleepover, and I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a better portrayal of what high school sleepovers were, and it brought me back to that 2003 summer when it wasn’t such a bad place after all, and I missed my high school slumber parties with Megan and Cara and all the many sleepovers before that.

The Magic Ring

I talked about this book briefly when I first read it over a year ago, but after recently giving it a second look, I thought it deserved a little bit more attention. Friedrich de la Motte Fouque is a name pretty much forgotten in today’s literary scene; information about him, especially critical treatment of his writings, is sparse and most of his writings have yet to be translated from the German. I delved briefly into learning to read German last summer in the hopes of reading his work in their original language (and I hope I haven’t wholely abandoned that pursuit; rather just set it on the back burner for the time being); The Magic Ring hasn’t been translated since the mid-19th century, and by all accounts, professes to be a barely adequate representation of the tale. Any critical comment I can make about his work seems similarly limited.

For all the influence Fouque held over writers such as George MacDonald, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein, those scholars who know him at all have never firmly decided whether he fits in the box of high or low culture. Towards the end of his career particularly, he was looked on as hopelessly sentimental, as his particular brand of romance faded out of fashion…of course, literary fashion really should be neither here nor there. However, The Magic Ring can’t help but get sorted into the same hat as Horace Walpole’s craptastic Castle of Otranto, and that’s never a desirable association.

Most post-Medieval literature that takes a Medieval setting attempts to graft modern day values, ie. a sense of enlightenment, onto at least the more noble-seeming of the characters. Walpole and Fouque are unique in that they attempt to write a Medieval-type romance, while preserving the values of the period (however, I may gladly report that the similarities end there). Fouque’s protagonists are all devoutly Christian, and therefore, they support unreservedly the Crusade into the Holy Land. It saddens me that the book’s contents would probably turn away anyone who was not themselves a Christian, and at times it’s hard to wonder if I shouldn’t be turned off myself by the subtle (and not so subtle) racism portrayed at times by the characters.

However, every time my thoughts turn on to this particular train, I have to keep reminding myself what a stupid way of thinking this is. If my studies in Chaucer and House of Fame taught me nothing else (or rather, reinforced what I already know), it’s that inquiring into the meaning of a text is completely different than inquiring into authorial intent. (George MacDonald’s essay, “The Fantastic Imagination” has some fabulous things to say on this topic, and I highly reccommend it to anyone interested in *real* literary theory.) The point is, that if I didn’t know that Fouque himself was a devout Christian and a member of the nobility, it wouldn’t even occur to me to wonder if he too was a supporter of the Crusades even with over 600 years of historical perspective to ground his judgment. The fact is, it shouldn’t matter even if Fouque really did think the Crusades ruled the school, which he most likely didn’t, and that definitely shouldn’t be the guiding force in determining the worth of his writing; all that matters is what the story itself seems to suggest, which (I really shouldn’t have to remind myself) can be RADICALLY different from what the characters (even the Good ones) think or believe about it.

The overarching theme of the story, especially considering the resolution, as well as the central symbol of the ring, celebrates the unity frequently rejected by the characters, and Fouque certainly has mind enough to entwine pagan myth and symbols into his writing, even while his characters themselves reject them as anti-Christian. While (unfortunately) having no first-hand knowledge of this, the translation problems stem for the inherent complexity of Fouque’s prose and the many symbolic layers that he packs into his story telling.

Finally, and most importantly, the story is a frickin’ structural masterpiece. Each individual element serves it’s own function as well as contributing to the main theme, and by the end you’ve heard a million stories as well as just hearing the one, and furthermore you can’t but be convinced that all the stories you’ve ever heard are really just a part of the same story in different words. I’ve never before encountered a plot this crazy and twisted and magical, and while reading it the second time, I kept remembering shades of different plot threads that seemed to me couldn’t all fit into that one book, one tale, but ended up showing themselves after all, as well as many more that I thought I remembered from somewhere else, but really just came from this.

For the reading pleasure of all, I now present a passage from one of my favourite parts of the book:

Meanwhile, Gabrielle had again recovered her recollection and power of speech, and in vehement tones expressed her indignation at the Prince Mutza; inasmuch as he had insulted the confidence reposed in him by his noble host, and also broken his own word of honour, solemnly pledged, when he came thither as a hostage and prisoner.
“As to my word of honour, pledged to the Chevalier de Montfaucon,” answered the Moor, “I have twice in his own presence declared that I was no longer bound by any such contract; and if your dazzling beauty has led me astray, who shall question me on the consequences? I must act, in the first place, according to my own sense of justice; and in the second, according as your irresistible charms compel me to do.” With these words, he took Gabrielle in his arms; and, notwithstanding her loud cries for help, bore her down to the sea-shore, where a boat was already prepared by his people. Blanchefleur, during this adventure, had sunk into complete forgetfulness of all that had passed; for she had fainted; and the young Arab, who had knelt before her, took her in his arms, and followed his prince and leader. However, when the rest of the Moorish party, now become more than ever bold and determined, stept up to the Lady Bertha, she called out in a loud, severe tone,
“I take God and man, heaven and earth to witness, that here, on this day, a deed of violence, a deed of shameful wickedness and dishonour, is committed! Whether a miracle shall be wrought to check or hinder its achievement I know not yet. But beware, cowards as you are, thus triumphing over the defenceless; for such a miracle may come to pass, when you think yourselves most secure and independent. I say this to you with confidence, that whoever dares to tear me from the sacred place on which I stand, to your pirate-ship, will draw the wrath of Heaven upon his own head.”
The Moorish knight looked on her as she stood clinging to the cross, illuminated by the ruby light of the setting sun, and recoiled as if terrified from her reproaches. His soldiers, too, without saying a word, retreated to the shore; and when Bertha once more made him a sign, with her uplifted right arm, he exclaimed,–”She is more like a ghost than a mortal woman!” So he left her with precipitation, and fled to the boat, which immediately afterwards began to ply its oars and depart from the coast.

You can buy the book online here.

Dear Miss Manners?

What do you do when you’re walking towards somebody you know and you see them and they see you, but there’s still so much distance between you? Especially if it’s someone that you don’t know very well or aren’t sure if you want to stop and talk to and don’t really know what their thoughts are on the subject, and if you wave hello from a distance, then do you just keep walking like the encounter has already ended, except to maybe say hello or nod again as they walk past? Because that thing that sometimes happens is just really really awkward–when you see someone and they see you but you pretend you don’t see each other and instead watch the ground or fiddle with your iPod until just before you pass when it’s okay to look up and say “Oh, hi!” like I’ve only just seen you there except that you haven’t and you both know it. Even with people you do know or were even supposed to meet, it’s weird because you see each other and then the interaction falls into limbo because you’re not really sure what to do in the interim. How long can you keep your headphones in? How close is talking range? Seriously, is there etiquette on this?