Popping Bottles or Pop Music?

Glee's title this week was simple: Alcohol.

"This episode isn't that good," said Jessie over a plate of Simmons baked veggies and a glass of cranberry juice mixed with gingerale. "It all about" she grimaces "drinking."

I bump into my roommate Elisa in the hallway.

"Aww I heard it's great," she says turning. The whole club, Mr. Shu- they all get wasted. The songs are all about it- so fun!"
"Guess I'll stay in tonight and live vicariously!" rasp- still no voice since THON, She laughs. "The singing" I say, "not the drinking."

Neither Elisa nor I drink. I never have had so much as a sip outside the Sunday morning communion line. But this week's Glee episode- so kairotically coincidental considering State Patty's Day Weekend-  made me wish I did.

I was shocked at first by how, well, fun the show made alcohol sound. Not like I haven't been to parties, haven't hung around and taken care of wasted friends, but for Glee to glorify it- I was taken aback. The actors play high school students- like most of their audience is. It didn’t seem appropriate. And the parties, the games, the making out, the pro-drinking songs and karaoke at bars. None of it seemed a bad- it seemed great. 

But when the club went on stage to preform [drunk], and the lead actresses vomited on each other mid-number, the show's tone changed.

It wasn't a public service announcement, nor did it give underage drinking a thumbs up. This week’s Glee did something most public education boards still won't- acknowledged kids drink and aren't going to stop any time soon. Mr. Shu acts as more than a scolding teacher, but a related role model. He plays up his ethos (which had taken a dive after some drunk dialing gone public) by telling his students he's not going to drink until their next competition and hopes they won't either. Consider it part of training before a big sports game- so no pregaming for the athletes. He gives them his phone number, a way to keep them from ever saying they don't have a choice but to drunk drive. He, and the writers of Glee showed the reality of underage drinking- the consequences and the fun side. But they didn't pretend it doesn't happen or can be "cured." For touching on this touchy subject, I give them a Rachel Berry gold star.

“So what about after the performance?” asks Finn Hudson, the male lead.
Mr. Shu pauses “I’ll buy the sparkling cider.”

Does it have to be a guy-thing? A woman-thing?

We talked about it in class. All of us noticed. The slight change that was somehow blaringly unconventional. We were slow to discuss what each of us had already picked up on. The way our text book incorporated both man and female pronouns, openly and alternating without any apology.

My text from ENG 215- Introduction to Article Writing- is "On Writing Well," by William Zinnsser. I had forgotten that as the author of a manual on the craft of written language, he was bound to bring up the same subject. He talks about the necessity in this p.c. age of using gender neutral pronouns, even at the risk of sounding a little vague. He bares his students from using phrase that make women possession- his example: "Early settlers pushed west with their wives and children." He suggests the use of "he or she" where sentence length allows. Zinnsser is loath to permit wordiness. And there is one concession Zinnsser refuses flat out- even after admitted badgering from "feminist readers." A single noun, like the ‘author’ or ‘reader’, should never be made into ‘they’- even for gender equality’s sake. So, for his own reasons of clarity he says he will only use male pronouns in his book.

After having read chapter upon chapter of "Rhetoric and Civil Life" over the past few weeks, I can hardly give Zinnsser any grace with his choice. The authors of our textbook balance both genders as skillfully as a practiced rhetor gives equal weight to both sides of an argument. Why then, can’t all authors take the same amount of time to give each gender its due?

The Ethos of Pop Stars (or lack there of....)

In class we discussed the invention of ethos, and the destruction of said ethos, but we didn't explore the celebrities and politicians that constantly toe the lie between prestigious and scandalous. Many public figures don’t suffer from a single career crashing catastrophe, but rather waver between the naughty and nice lists. How bad is it for someone in the public eye to make a dime-a-dozen mistake? Many young adults in American have tried illegal drugs. Michael Phelps for one- went from Wheaties box and parent approval to cell bar box and drug charges. Stars, like all people, make mistakes. But how much leeway should they get when so many fans (especially the younger ones) look up to them.

Take Miley Cyrus:

Now watch her take in a bong:

Does her place in the public eye take a common teenage misdemeanor and make it an earth-shattering felony? Perhaps when so many young girls idolize her, there just isn't room for shaky ethos?

You tell me.

Gaga for Kairos

Kairos in political action. Through pop music.

This past fall saw the repeal of "Don't Ask Don't Tell." And I had to admit, I'm proud that Lady Gaga put her money (and influence) where the mouth is. (Though I'm not always sure I want to know where that's been…) Stephanie Germanotta lent her public political support to Gay and Lesbian rights, holding true to the solid and often racy stands she has taken in her songs. But she goes beyond her defense of homosexuality in this appeal, and asks for a well-grounded defense of American rights. She’s done her research, formulated her argument, and using her fame Gaga takes her stance with all the perfect timing of a stage call.

She combines her personal, professional and political life to make a stand at the right moment. And more than her little monsters rallied behind her.

Way to go, Gaga. We salute you.

This I Believe

Transcript for Your Reading Pleasure:

           

My eleven year old brother Peter and I bake. Not well, but we do. We set our ambitions high, tying on our mother’s spare aprons and rummaging through the fridge for rolls of nestle toll house cookies, frozen pie shells, and cans of pumpkin purée. We fumble through the recipe on the back on the Betty Crocker Box- that is, if I don’t accidentally toss it out before we begin. We guesstimate baking times, and eye ball cups of flour. My middle school Family Consumer Science teacher would weep at our baking blasphemy.

 But our only rule is simple: the more sugar, the better.

My brother wriggles excitedly, begging to crack the eggs.  Shells ends up in the batter, white rhombuses stirred in with mismeasured lumps of flour and splatters of vanilla extract. Inevitably, two or three of them will end up on the titled floor- he has a questionable success rate. Once we doubled the lime in a key lime pie, and added three eggs too many, then left it in the oven for a good twenty minutes extra. This is our normal baking method- in the oven, out of the oven, prod gingerly, and back in the oven. Wait five minutes, then repeat. We pass the time by pressing our noses to the oven door, and licking clean the any batter coated bowls and spoons. If my mom is lucky I might wash them. If I am lucky, my brother might wash them.

                It’s not of affinity for baking that draws us together. Not even our affinity for each other. Peter and I are seven years apart. We share so little in common. His world is that of Halo and Grand Theft Auto, governed by calls of duty to his Xbox 360. My small galaxy of studies and stress is a good three hours from his own. And that’s only the physical distances. When I am back from school, we are normal siblings. We argue. We make plans that don’t happen. Like the times I told him I would take him to breakfast before school. Real early, just you and me bud. Can we go to a real breakfast restaurant? You name it!

I slept in.

 He cried.

 I go long stretches without calling him from college. He spends large stretches in front of the TV screen. But I don’t want that to be the only place he can go. So for lack of better ideas, I beckon him into the kitchen. A realm that belongs to neither of us, but entices of both of us. I tempt him with recipes I’ve Googled, and delicious words like boysenberry coquen. Peter and I have yet to see, let alone taste, a boysenberry. But if it comes in a box at the grocery store, or in a syrup filled can- we’ll find it.

                We might never actually eat all of whatever concoction we bake. But that’s alright. I believe it’s okay to make desserts from the box. But not buying them shrink wrapped and ready to go, never buying them. Because it’s the mixing, the baking, the flour dusted, dropped spoons, spilling milk process that means for at least for those forty minutes, my brother is all mine. It’s just us, the batter, and one ridiculously messy kitchen.  And, of all the recipes we’ve ever attempted, I can promise, nothing is sweeter.