So there was this show on MTV, the Jersey Shore. Never heard of it? Good for you. Heard of it, but never deigned to watch it? Even better.
But whether you realize it or not, you’ve lived it. In fact, that’s why I think this show became a cultural phenomenon. It managed to capture the intense feelings that a random group of people experience in a singular situation.
Isn’t most reality television like this? Actually, no. First, many center on competitions. The contestants may share an intense, unusual experience, but they’re all about breaking out of the pack, never letting down their guard, forever announcing they didn’t come here to make friends, they came here to win. Okay, what about the Real World? I’ll give you Season 3. (It was on MTV.com recently.) Other than that, most reality shows feature participants who are hyper-aware. They arrive knowing their archetypes. The bitch, the tough guy. In the season opener of this year’s Real World, one roommate announces, “I’m waiting for the good-looking African-American guy to walk in.” And, lo and behold, there he was.
The denizens of the Jersey Shore, by contrast, arrived with a construct not well-known in the world at large, the “guido” and “guidette.” Their credo included “gym, tan, laundry” and a mystifying preference for “juiceheads” and “battlin’.” But trust the blogger behind the always fabulous FourFour to nail it in his piece on the finale, which included the roommates reminiscing about the time they had shared:
“Watching them recount the month they spent together, I almost felt included in the conversation. It struck me that regardless of what we put in our hair or how we paint our skin, as an emotional species, we share this nostalgia, this instant yearning for what just happened.”
This instant yearning for what just happened . . . What a perfect phrase. It’s not only the human condition, it’s also a curse at times. And nowhere is it more evident than among a group of writers.
I spent Jan. 16-Jan. 24 at Writers in Paradise. The faculty changes a little bit every year, yet it always bonds with the same ferocity. We work very hard, we play very hard, we laugh so much it feels mildly illegal. We are not that different from these self-identified guidos and guidettes, Only instead of “gym, tan, laundry,” we have “read, write, eat, drink.” Call us writers and writerettes. For eight straight days, I awoke at 7:30 a.m. and, on average, went to bed at 2:30 a.m. Then I came home and more or less slept for two days straight.
So, in honor of Writers in Paradise and the end of Jersey Shore, I’ll do a shout-out to my fellow faculty members, using the Jersey Shore Name Generator. So thank you to S-Train and The Tricep, for organizing and leading this conference for six years now. Thank you to Pookie, without whom nothing would get done. Thanks to Juice Box and The Appointment, whom I hope to see at Volt this spring. Thanks to the cutest married couple ever, Bones and Snickers. Thanks to Natural Light, who understands that I, like the Jersey Shore guys, need a gym. Thanks to The Paris Hilton of Trenton, who kept up with the lunacy even while drinking Diet Coke. And thanks to Tan Jovi, in and out so quickly this year, but the father of us all in some sense, given that he helped to create Eckerd’s writing program. Oh and let’s not forget The Body, who represented publishing and our three agent friends: the Tan-ticle, the Ashley Simpson of Cape May and Vibe Time. It was a wonderful week.
What’s the Jersey Shore experience of your adult life? Dig deep, I bet you have one.
That�s easy. This past June my high school class got together for our 30th reunion. The planning committee worked for months in advance to make this the perfect event, and they did a great job. The get togethers were awash with emotion as people who hadn�t seen each other for decades shared memories from our youth. My best friend from 6th grade, whom I haven�t seen since graduation, started to cry when she saw me. That guy I hated in junior high because he pulled my hair and kicked my heel and tormented me in a wide variety of ways on a daily basis revealed that he had actually had a crush on me. The point guard from my basketball team and I reminisced about how we saw so much of each other those years we played together, and only realized later what an important role we had each played in the other�s life. People who never gave me the time of day when I was 18 inquired with great interest about my life since we knew each other. It was fascinating to hear what my childhood friends remembered from classes and social events of those days. And it was a bit of a revelation to learn that the homecoming queen was forced to choose between cheer leading and sports, the valedictorian didn�t make it to rehearsal because his parents were going through a nasty divorce, and the drill team captain was sad because she never had a date in high school. At the time their lives seemed golden and enviable, but it turns out everyone had some difficulty they were dealing with. We were all sorry when the last party came to an end and it was time to say goodbye again. And then the friend requests started coming on Facebook, and everyone began reminiscing about how great our 30th reunion had been. Logan Pearsall Smith said �The mere process of growing old together will make the slightest acquaintance seem a bosom friend.� I think there�s more to it than that� it�s the knowledge that another person has seen the same things and been in the same places you knew, and maybe it�s also about that there is a depth to people that you don�t always recognize at first.
While I have hung out with some most excellent persons of the Guido persuasion in my time (not least the pal of my little brother who used to concoct fabulous voicemail greetings satirizing his own guid-ocity, e.g., “I can’t talk to youse right now because I’m out Turtle-Waxing the Monte. Yo, Debbie– got them rags?”) the very idea of this show is enough to make me break out in hives.
Can I come to FLA sometime as your valet? I can’t iron for shit, but I wield a mean lint-roller.
We went every year. Maybe it’s because I come from an Italian family, but… we just didn’t do Guido. However we did go to Wildwood every year. However, I remember it as being populated by the same kind of people who live in Philly: lots of different types of people. I was watching Rachel Ray’s morning talk show one day when there they were: the Jersey Shore guys. Obviously not my demographic. Still, even if they were I don’t see the fascination. Ugh…
If you haven’t seen the show, then it’s hard to imagine the moments of sweetness, cited by FourFour, that make it slightly different than the average reality show. Granted, there’s a lot in-between those moments, but I still argue that what people are responding to is an authenticity that is already gone.
Cornelia, I can’t speak for the conference, but someone has to drive the van. Downside: You don’t get to drink until we get back to the b-and-b.
As Dustin Hoffman once said, “I am an excellent driver.”
But are you a poet, Cornelia? I believe it was Martin Amis who said: Never trust a poet to drive. If the poet can drive, don’t trust the poetry.
Brian, are you talking about Nancy Nall’s blog? I’m not really part of the gang, but I read it every day and believe it to be one of the outstanding personal blogs out there. Being a columnist is pretty difficult; most good columnists have batting averages consistent with what is considered success in MLB. Nancy is shockingly consistent, always worth reading. She puts every general-interest columnist at the Times to shame.
Laura – yes, and yes!
It’s interesting that you say you’re not really part of the gang over there. When I first rolled in there, the now-legendary Commenter-in-Chief from New Orleans (Ashley, of course) accused me of being a troll! And upon reflection, I had to agree – since ‘staying on the subject’ is not a strong suit of mine; but ol’ Nance calmed the waters, and forward we went.
On the other hand, I’m not really part of the gang here (a person can only really be in one gang, right?), so I know what you mean.
Two post-scripts: Really enjoying Butcher’s Hill (past the halfway point, and ready for anything); and – way to go Baltimore!! Yesterday’s public policy forum between the president and the Republican members of Congress adds yet another feather to your Charming City’s (already storied) history. Bravo!!
“What’s the Jersey Shore experience of your adult life? Dig deep, I bet you have one.”
You know, really – there is a funny and provocative place on the internet that instantly became my favorite place to go each day, five or six years ago. The person who writes it offers up good stuff pretty much every single day, and that alone is reason enough always to swoop in there and see what’s going on each morning.
But over the months and years, I became equally attached to the folks who comment. Little inside jokes and traditions and habits develop, so that a person can make you snort and laugh out loud with what would be an otherwise meaningless phrase or line of argument.
Over the years, one gets to actually meet some of these folks here or there, and invariably they are just as they seemed to be when they were only electrons on the computer screen.
And over the years, inevitably one or another of the commenters faces (and shares) a major event; a marriage or a new car, or a divorce, or a career advancement or setback, or a major illness, or a baby, or a death in the family or even the death of one of the commenters.
And on the news of any of those, the effect upon me is the same as if it involved a family member or longtime colleague – because, of course, the truth is that that’s EXACTLY the case!
Welcome, Crochetlady. It’s a bit of jumble here, but I try to keep to the stated mission of discussing memories and inviting others to share theirs.
Haven’t read your journal post yet, but thought that I would let you know that I am reading your past posts first-came across you from hedgehog’s journal. Just letting you know- ahead of time. Talk to you soon.
Ah, my mother had such a bottle, too. Glass, clear, with a picture of a tiny ironing woman on it, although the picture was flaking/chipping away. And the image brings that wonderfully scorchy smell back.
I started to realize that-I am working on a “memory journal” for my family. Had to stop since some early memories were too painful to continue. I am reading year 2005 now, and you asked about what items we remember from our childhood. I remembered the bottle my mother used to sprinkle water on clothes to be ironed. It was white plastic with a yellow daisy on top that had holes for the water to come out. I pictured it so clearly and could even smell the iron steam. Of course I am sitting in an old building that is being steam heated with old fashioned radiators so that may have helped the memory of the ironing!!