Monday, September 28, 1998
Recycled entertainment reads differently every time
COLUMN: Themes stay new with each perusal
as people keep changing
The theme of this year’s registration issue, A&E Editor
Trinh Bui informed me, was "the changing face of entertainment" and
we had 400 inches of blank space to fill with our wisdom or
whatever bit of text happened to be lying around the office come
deadline.
As innocuous as the above paragraph seems, a closer inspection
reveals, for better or worse, the largest change that has taken
place in my life during the past three months. Notice that I had to
ask what the theme was. Philanthropy and the ongoing need to
blather in print aside, if timely poignant articles didn’t surface,
it wasn’t me who would be grasping for old English 10A essays and
wire stories about post-"Seinfeld" Must See TV.
In other words, I’m no longer A&E editor. I realize that a
good portion of you never knew that I was, but those who frequent
118 Kerckhoff know that the zany, vivacious yet diligent team of
Cheryl, Nerissa, Mike and Stephanie has passed the torch to the
zany, vivacious yet diligent team of Trinh, Louise, Megan, Vanessa
and Lonnie. That’s the changing face of Team A&E.
And once The Bruin unhooked my electronic leash (a.k.a. the
A&E pager), I was free to roam – to rediscover a few old
passions and, in some ways, learn more about entertainment than the
busy hum of the newsroom could tell me.
This promised to be a landmark summer: I was 21, living in Los
Angeles and the proud owner of a spunky ’87 Tercel (by spunky, I
mean it runs with minimal coaxing). Now, of course, it’s going to
sound a tad anti-climactic when I announce that my big revelation
this summer was reading for pleasure.
I must have read for fun during some fuzzy, pre-collegiate phase
of my life. I mean, something must have prompted me toward
English-majordom. I seem to remember a few kindergarten taunts
aimed at my prairie-chic bonnet and braids inspired by Laura
Ingalls Wilder.
But somewhere along the way, Cliff’s Notes and my general
contrary nature intervened. Books which preceded lengthy essays on
symbolism lacked the forbidden glitter of the one-more-story that
postponed bedtime. Snippets of pages skimmed between assisting
customers at my book store job, however, were all about that
glitter.
At Book Soup, Sunset Strip’s overflowing anti-Borders, there was
no foreshadowing or onomatopoeia, there were no reports or reviews.
With this aimlessly delicious surge of bookworminess, I devoured
Dennis Hensley’s "Misadventures in the 213." It was as light and
indulgent as a marshmallow, and I could read about the characters’
Hollywood hijinks for no other reason than to exclaim, "Hey, I’ve
been to that restaurant!" or "I saw Sheena Easton in ‘Grease’
too!"
I rediscovered Francesca Lia Block’s "Weetzie Bat" series, which
first dazzled me with its neon prose in junior high. At $6.50 an
hour, I could justify combing the kids’ section in hopes of
retreating into a world of unicorns and orphans and girls who pray
about their periods.
But of course I didn’t. Retreat, that is. I read about all those
things and I loved it – more so, perhaps, because every nostalgic
sigh gave way to a bolt of realization, a giggle of nuance.
That’s the art of entertainment. As much as English departments
haggle about The Canon (which could use a facelift, a tan and some
flexibility, but that’s another column), the great thing about
reading "The Great Gatsby" 12 times is that it’s a different book
each time.
Because you’re a different person each time, and after you,
there will be a new generation of readers.
After spending the first three years of my college career as a
car-less Kerckhoff hermit, I also went to Venice Beach for the
first time this summer. Part of me is cringing that I just admitted
that in print, but another, loftier part of me is making a point.
Venice is not "hip" or "underground" or any of those words that
KROQ and grandparents use to describe the various bandwagons
scrappier folks jumped on years ago. Venice is not even
convincingly free of contagious diseases.
But for the newly Venetian, the beach buzz is electric, the
street people have style, and the T-shirts and sundresses brimming
from cardboard bins are alarmingly cheap.
Whether you’re casting a new glow on your own memories or
entering someone else’s well-worn world for the first time,
entertainment is at its best when it’s just pure, unadulterated
entertainment – especially when it’s a big orange E with an
exclamation point and a catty voice-over from Joan Rivers. And
entertainment’s when you let it change you – without trying too
hard or thinking about how it will look on your resume.
I’ve churned out more theater reviews than I can count, many of
which, come June, will be faxed optimistically to journalistic
outlets everywhere. And I wouldn’t give up complimentary orchestra
seats for the world. But until this summer, I hadn’t been on the
other side of the curtain since I played the Ghost of Christmas
Present in eighth grade. After all, I never had plans for an acting
career.
As a result, one of the biggest adrenaline rushes of theater was
lost to me. I found it via a small, disastrous campus production of
"The Tempest" in mid-September. Small because it only ran for two
days, disastrous because both performances were much shorter than
Shakespeare wrote them, thanks to stanzas and stanzas of forgotten
lines.
While others were wondering if our sets would hold up until
intermission, I was putting into context all the quotes theater
actors have supplied The Bruin with over the years.
"Eight shows a week?" I marveled. "I doubt we’ve even had eight
rehearsals!" I appreciated their work with more sympathy and less
random awe – I knew I’d arrive better armed at interviews in the
future.
I guess, then, that I lied about the "nothing but fun" aspect.
Entertainment has a way of sneaking into life lessons, even career
boosts, as long as you initially offer yourself up as a pop culture
tabula rasa.
When I did that this summer, I came away with a small collection
of bad but soul-satisfying poetry. I reveled in the ADD tease of
"coming attractions" where a year ago there were only sterile
screenings that begun with no foreplay other than a dimming of the
lights. I painted Keith Haring-esque stick figures on my back pack.
I watched reruns of "Friends," and they were all new to me because
I’d been at editorial board meetings during the first run.
The payoff is still debatable on some of the above activities,
but I have no doubt as to its existence. Such sublime nuggets of
detail recycle themselves in the otherwise dry pages of life. And
that’s how we get new victims.
That’s why every "Dawson’s Creek" fan and her brother will line
up to see "Urban Legend" – they grew up without the Freddies and
Jasons and Carries that turned cheap thrills into a career for the
current ringmasters of meta-horror.
That’s why every year, Team A&E – whoever its members are –
will run a stories on Royce Hall, "The Phantom of the Opera," the
coolest clubs in Los Angeles and the feasibility of life after
being an art student. My own jaded senioritis aside, all those
articles will be relevant because every year there is a whole new
batch of Northern California transplants who don’t know that there
is a Venice completely void of gondolas.
Who knows what I’ll discover this year? What I’ll rediscover, or
create for someone else to stumble across in a moment of stolen
freedom. If my syllabus for English 118 has any say in the matter,
I’ll read "The Great Gatsby" again. And though Fitzgerald’s words
will remain the same, Daisy and Nick will grow college-induced
patinas over the visages my 11th-grade mind fashioned for them. The
faces of my classmates will be completely different. And all of us
will continue hurtling forward, glancing backward along the
way.
Klein is a fourth-year American literature student and can be
reached at [email protected].
Cheryl Klein
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