I was watching the end of A Mighty Wind and noting with approval how perfectly Parker Posey and Jane Lynch smiled in that pleased-with-myself-but-not-really-conceited-although-maybe-I-am way of the New Christy Minstrels. Whom I adored as a kid. There was a time that I knew all the words to Three Wheels on My Wagon, and Lily Langtry, and several other songs on the album whose cover features the Minstrels in cowboy-and-Indian garb. Then again, one of my earliest memories is pushing a green car (a free gift from the top of the peanut butter jar) along the baseboard while singing along with Ethel Merman on “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better).”
I loved everything when I was a kid — bad movies (The Poseidon Adventure), bad music (see above) bad clothes (square-necked green paisley dress, worn for school picture in third grade, with disastrous consequences). The only place I seemed to have any innate taste was with books — I had no use for Nancy Drew and while I enjoyed the Happy Hollisters, I remember mocking its famous set-ups at a relatively early age. (“What’s up Pete?” said dark-haired Pam, 10. Red-headed Ricky and Holly, who wore her hair in braids, were not far behind.”) And when I tried to keep my mom company as she read her way through the Newberry winners in children’s lit, I sniffed out the dogs on that award-winning roster. (“Roller Skates” and “Gay-Neck.”)
Then, sometime around 13 or so, I seemed to stumble on the concept of camp. “Billy Jack” was so funny that my sister and I headed out to the Pikes Theater (now a family-friendly kosher restaurant, I’m told) to see “Born Losers,” the prequel. We snickered through “The Way We Were,” which seemed interminable to us. Next thing I knew, I was dating a guy who made a distinction between movies and films and told me my life wouldn’t be complete until I saw “Aguirre, The Wrath of God.”
Do we lose something when we lose that part of ourselves that connects — unironically, unashamedly — to everything, to anything? Is there a part of you that upon eating, say, grilled havarti on homemade sunflower bread remembers the pleasure of a slice of American cheese between two-butter slathered pieces of white bread?
P.S. I actually once had a date with someone who has appeared in “A Mighty Wind,” “Guffman” and “Best in Show.” But I only figured this out a few months ago.
I cried and laughed all the way through “A Mighty Wind”, and those smiles were perfect. My favorite bit was when the dead promoters son talked about his mother making him wear a helmet when playing chess and he considered that not coddling but an act of caring. That’s the way I am with my kids and it is an act of caring!!!
>>>>P.S. I actually once had a date with someone who has appeared in “A Mighty Wind,” “Guffman” and “Best in Show.” But I only figured this out a few months ago.<<<
Laura Lippman and Eugene Levy together again for the very first time!!!
Or….? Spill!
J
I’m not going to name my date, not just yet, although I will say that we went to see Carol Channing in Hello, Dolly together, which is a clue of sorts. (Watch “Guffman.”)
I do want to say a few words in defense of Velveeta — it makes the best queso dip. It was almost a rite of passage for newcomers to Texas (such as myself) to insist on using “real” cheese. But Velveeta with a can of Ro-tel tomatoes is the only way to go.
This is one of my favorite subjects to think on… the end of innocence, or something. I don’t remember a general breaking point for me in life, but a good friend, during a long night of drinking and philosophy, once gave me his theory on this subject as relates to (always, with us drinking musicians) the Beatles. It was his theory that the Beatles (who we both adore) killed rock music by making it an art form rather than just fun. Everyone since the Beatles (with the exception of early punk and Bruce Springsteen) is “making a statement” instead of just playing guitars and singing.
Very tempted to go play with Velveeta and tomatoes…
I am obsessed with cheese, well up to a certain point. But right now, my cheese of choice is havarti, which I keep eating on specialty bread (seven-grain of late) so…I don’t know what that means. Am I a snob, or just used to finer things now? But wine and cheese parties are always a big problem for me…and not for the wine (though if it’s a really good white wine that’s in stock, oh dear.)
OTOH, white bread is just wrong, wrong, wrong. Upbringing bias, true, but still wrong.
Oh, and I think I’ve narrowed the possible candidates for the Mystery Date to two. Unless it’s Fred Willard but somehow I doubt it.
Regarding rock art…
<a href=”http://mypetjawa.mu.nu/archives/040446.php”>The lyrics to DON HENLEY MUST DIE by Mojo Nixon</a>
I’ve had truly terrible Shropshire Blue cheese (from the Grand Central Market cheese stand), and truly wonderful Kraft-on-Wonder grilled cheese sandwiches (butter, low flame, Campbell’s tomato soup).
Also wonderful Shropshire Blue (Cheese of the World, Forest Hills) and awful grilled cheese (generic brands, margarine, no soup). So I’ve come to believe both that there’s no correlation between category and quality, and that those who belittle based only on category aren’t really interested in quality; they just want to say the things that let them feel they’re part of some group or other.
Myself, I make Earth’s best hot chocolate by any measure, logical or empirical, so I simply smile.
Hi Laura,
You didn’t mention Velveeta which was far worse than the Poseidon Adventure. Along with my five siblings I had many odd combos between slices of Wonder Bread.
By lunchtime the bread had subsided and turned upside down. I don’t think Shelley Winters screamed any louder than we did.
Laura: To answer the question you posed– I never lost that part that still connects to things unashamedly. Because life is too short to be embarrassed. I love all sorts of things that good taste tells me I shouldn’t, and who cares?
I love The Poseidon Adventure. The first “grown-up” movie I really got to see (I had a distant cousin who was one of the stuntmen in it). Shelley Winters being heroic, Stella Stevens swimming in high heels, what more can you ask for? Yes, it’s bad (although not as bad as the completely camp sequel with Sally Field and Michael Caine, “Beyond the Poseidon Adventure”). And the original novel by Paul Gallico is much darker and more emotionally brutal than the book. Much.
As a little kid, I loved “Lost in Space”. Yes, now I know it’s terrible. But so what? I saw it in daily reruns and I couldn’t wait to see what happened to Will Robinson each day. Do I want to watch it now? Not really. Would I sit down with my sons to watch it? Sure.
I love bad 80s music. I also love classical and jazz, and I know much of the 80s stuff is junk, but I still love it. It takes me back to a place and time in my life that was really special and fun. I have no guilt.
Cheese sandwiches–depends on the context. If I’m sick, yeah, maybe I want the Velveeta. Drinking a glass of good wine, no.
My kids are embracing stuff that is easy to dismiss as trash, but that is simply part of exposing them to the cultural world. (On the good-taste side, they are huge Moby fans, so who knows?) They’ll develop their own tastes, which they should. And they’ll remember the trash with some fondness, I hope.
Jeff
There’s a novel? I love the people who post here.
Upon reflection — refracted through a glass of wine, I admit — I think I was groping toward something about the tyranny of “taste.” That is, self-conscious taste, the embrace of things one might not truly love, the disavowal of cheesy things that once brought great pleasure. Isn’t there some fabulous quote about how one should never be ashamed of anything that provides pleasure?
Yeah, but that way lies individuality.
I really do think disavowing things you love (or claiming to love things you don’t) is pack behavior.
I’ve been working a lot of hours lately and playing iTunes in shuffle mode. Van Halen’s JUMP came on just as the guy in charge of the IT department walked in to talk about something. He used to play keyboards, so I let a little smile show and he smiled too–we both knew what it was for. If you’re a keyboardist of a certain age, you learned JUMP and you were a little guilty about it. After all, synthesizers weren’t real rock-and-roll.
Of course, some of us also learned the entire guitar part to PANAMA, including a note-for-note facsimile of Eddie’s solo, on our little Korg strap-on four-octave keyboards, but that story is less about cheese than about OCD.