Essay: The Second Most Humiliating Experience of My Life December 10, 2009

This is about a mermaid who goes on a transatlantic flight. This is about a mermaid who rides a camel. This is about a mermaid who remembers how to swim.

Israel was living up to my expectations, based on my perusal of the tour’s website. Skyscrapers only a few miles away followed through on promises of Tel Aviv’s vibrant nightlife: their shiny windows winked knowingly at the sunset. I could see the city, yet this beach was as pure as a Beach Boys song or surfer movie’s idealization of a beach: the deep, aggressive blue of the Mediterranean invading the bleached sand that was not quite hot enough to burn the soles of my feet, but hot enough to make me think about every step. I’d come here to find out how glamorous it was to be Jewish. I’d come here to fall in love with my own reflection by seeing faces similar to my own and my relatives’. I’d come here to feel like my life was more like a movie. That glorious late afternoon on the beach, though, didn’t really prepare me for the genre this movie actually belonged in.

Supposedly, the tour kept us so busy and sleep-deprived that we would become brainwashed Zionists (that is, not necessarily but optimally religious Jews, and political supporters of Israel) and populate the world with Jewish babies (a goal that’s tough to quibble about, less than a century removed from the Holocaust). I read that on a website after I took the trip. I don’t know if it’s true. It’s almost like a technique you’d hear about being used in Guantanamo. But by the time we got to the fake Bedouin camp, we’d spent an exhausting day shopping at a dreary mall with a food court that served excellent falafel. Since my abusive boyfriend had “borrowed” all my spending money, I’d spent the day window-shopping instead, which may have contributed to my bitter attitude. Then we’d traipsed through sand dunes and caves, which were eerily reminiscent of hikes I’d been on in Tucson.

Now it was time for another “adventure,” when I would have been ready to trade my soul for a nap and some bottled water. I had to refill my bottle with tap water. There were things floating in it. Too big for an amoeba, I would assure myself every time I took a swig. Probably harmless sediment.

Essay: The Cult of Awkward April 30, 2009

My generation worships at the altars of awkwardness, irony, and metafiction.

For example, every other comment in my fiction writing workshop is, “I want to see more of that awkward moment.” Which I agree with, of course. My favorite TV show Curb Your Enthusiasm. The hardest I’ve ever laughed was at the Found Footage Festival. If it makes me squirm, I want more.

In this semester’s fiction workshop, I’ve read short stories about a lot of topics, from an obsessive-compulsive girl’s first period, to an obsessive-compulsive collector brought down (ironically!) by a packrat, to an obsessive-compulsive husband who’s a little too in love with his wife. Are we sensing a theme here? My generation’s boom isn’t oil or the Industrial Revolution: it’s a fascination with what happens when the human brain goes awry, and what the resulting misery ironically says about the human condition.

Half of my instant and text message conversations (which, in and of themselves, are both representative of my generation and reprehensible to many members of earlier generations) consist of people ironically using phrases and abbreviations that are so thick with “isn’t this ridiculous? Aren’t I being so cute by using it?” that I want to die. In a fire. Or, you know, DIAF. I can’t stop doing it, too. OMGWTFBBQ! See? See what I just did? Aren’t I soooo cool? Win. No, epic win. Because you know what, Homer? Vergil? Totally on the same scale as things in my day to day life! And victory or failure, just like in wars and stuff, is within my reach. Totally. Oh, I mean ttly.

Also, I am willing to wager all the money in my wallet (which, to be fair, is only $1.50, but still) that over half the people who say “that’s so meta” totally think it means metaphysical…yet totally grok the concept anyway. Metafiction is the only kind of fiction that makes sense anymore. Consider the popular show “Lost.” Wouldn’t its writers seem a little out of touch if they weren’t surfing the message boards to see the reaction to new characters and plot threads?

Nothing means anything to me unless it’s a pop culture reference. Bring up a topic, and I can quote a Simpsons episode that refers to it. As I pointed out in a response to my original blog post, I can also think of a lot of more obscure references to, you know, books and things. But the problem is, most of my generation doesn’t read very much. Cartoons are a much safer conversational bet. There’s something so egalitarian about making a good Simpsons reference. It doesn’t mean you’re lowbrow or highbrow. It just means that you, like almost everyone else in your age cohort, watched a certain, universally appealing television program, probably multiple times. And no matter how smart you are, the Simpsons contains (well, at least used to contain, back in the day!) delightfully intelligent and subversive commentary on just about everything.

Nothing means anything to me unless it’s hilarious. One of my current favorite television programs – and again, one that most of my generation watches, regardless of other factors such as socioeconomic status, intelligence, political leanings, or what have you – is The Office. It’s a parody that works on the level of Dilbert for some (hey, aren’t cubicles silly!), and on the level of Voltaire for others (watch out for that bat in the office! It’s going to give you rabies and inspire the whole office to do a charitable run for the rabies cause!). But regardless of why I like it, or why my friends and acquaintances like it, or why perfect strangers that I need a conversational “in” with like it, it just wouldn’t do unless it had several cringe-inducing jokes per minute. And of course, the “cringe inducing” is the key phrase in that sentence. We are laughing at the characters’ expense, but not really meanly: since we are laughing at their awkwardness, we’re really laughing at our own expense. We, too, have spent time with co-workers outside of work that was painfully awkward. Well, perhaps they weren’t as awkward as the characters on the show. Perhaps, then, the appeal of pop cultural awkwardness is that it reaches an extreme that we can be gratified that our own life has never risen to…yet, at least. But is a reduction ad absurdum really necessary in a country that’s itself risen to record absurdity levels, these days?

Nothing means anything to anyone these days. Well, I would have said that a month ago*, without compunction. Sure, I was guardedly optimistic about the election, but convinced, deep down, that McCain was going to steal it by foul means (election machine fraud!) or fair (oh, those stupid red states!). Most of my favorite moments throughout the campaign either involved Sarah Palin making an ass of herself, or (even better!) Tina Fey ironically mocking the way Sarah Palin was making an ass of herself. But then came November 4^th. Barack Obama’s election is the only sincere joy I’ve felt and shared with my peers in such a long time.

Maybe, as a friend commented on my blog, it’s time for a post-irony era to begin. The idea of the whole nation pitching in to fix our current mess, planting victory gardens or participating in public works projects, is oddly appealing. Perhaps it’s time for me to prefer broad, James-Thurber-esque humor to the more sarcastic and worldly kind I’ve enjoyed for pretty much as long as I can remember. Is my generation with me? Only time will tell.

*Written in December 2008