Ruining a Stranger’s Visual Joke

A man is out walking his dog through a large public park. The park contains the ruins of an old zoo, complete with constructed rock outcroppings and caves and rusty partial cages. The man stops at the edge of one row of old cages, then enters it with his dog. He loops the dog’s leash around one of the vertical bars to anchor his pet inside. Then the man exits, coming around front and pulling out his camera phone. The dog strains at the leash but does not seem otherwise distressed. The man quickly gets the desired shot and retrieves his dog. They continue on their walk.

Now, were I a good anthropologist I would have asked this man why he had done this; what had moved him; what he thought it meant. I would have gotten his take on the whole situation by asking sneaky questions and scratching the dog’s ears. But I am not a good anthropologist. Talking to strangers is difficult and I avoid it and that is why I remain in this comfortable theoretical armchair here with nary a threat of fieldwork in sight.

The unfortunate result is a one-sided reading of this zoo-dog photograph situation. Reeking of assumptions and suppositions. What is fairly certain from observation is that the man was amused, and even pleased with himself for having taken this clever picture. You can just tell something like that; it’s in their body language, the smirking. Why bother to stage and take a picture like that if it meant nothing special? He didn’t strike me as a postmodern artist. I base the following on the man’s actions, which tend to be telling of shared cultural categories. Culture in practice. So onward, to inherently limited and problematic analysis!

The man took this picture because the idea of it amused him. He thought it would be funny to place his pet dog in a cage that was once inhabited by a zoo animal. Perhaps he wanted to think of his dog as a killer–as wild, as needing to be caged. If it actually was a dog with violent tendencies, then the picture would be appropriate for underscoring that fact, and dripping with humor of a more sinister type. On the other hand, if the dog was a sweet and gentle animal, then the picture would be hilariously underlining that fact by upending it with a nonsensical context. In either case the picture was taken because it was showing something out of the ordinary, the exact meaning of which is contingent on facts that only the man knows. What is clear is that the meaning is one of humor; of subverting expected alignment of cultural categories. He will show this to his friends or post it on facebook and hope that people get the same kick out of it as he did. People will see his sweet dog in a cage and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Of course, it’s funny because of this very juxtaposition: this is a tame animal, entirely domesticated, being literally framed as wild. The picture is funny because it collides mutually exclusive categories. Pets are not wild animals, and vice versa. We are quite structuralist in the United States when it comes to the ways we interact with and think of non-human animals. Although the argument could be made that zoo animals are not “wild,” but rather something in between wild and domestic, they are still at a categorical distance from pet dogs, whom we keep closer to our human selves than any non-human animal. The pet dog is one of the most illogical animals one could place in a zoo cage in the United States. It does not belong there. In that context, the dog is a joke.

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Filed under Animals, Contemporary

Drumming Up an Urban Wilderness Experience

A dispatch from November

rhythms multiple permeated grass-tastic groupies who let it absorb laying, staring, points of negative dancing in the skies with unmoving whisps of clouds and softly swaying tree needles and then hoisting up, supporting behind the self gazing on the circle of spontaneous rhythm

A woman circles herself beneath within the central tree’s clearing made cooperative with its overhanging branches and makeshift seating rounds surrounding surrounded humans backwards. She fixtures, twining moving stilling, dancing in the dust made beautiful by her swirling feet bare, the easy confidence of her cloth hugged hips, the unstudied grace of the ever-altering lines of her lined arms. She is familiarly watched, fleeting between measures, up and down with the ease of someone who has been part of this for time numerous and long contained in this moment. We on the outside see her most of all; those creating the beats she stamps out lovingly take her movements for granted. We are all, old and new, grateful. We are one another made musical, made growing warmth and undulationally whole with ever flowing ecstasy externalized experienced internally eternally

“Hey, watch your cigarette.”

A non-random warning pierces our discordantly noisy quietude; emitted by the man chained to himself through orifices natural and once added, wearing a shirt of potential self-referential fractal infinity, fading yet more present than any. Realness embodied future past present personified. He embraces our senses by overwhelming them. Caretaking. Though the circle has no leaders, he is one of those with seniority. Experienced authority of autonomy collectivism rhythmic mayhem of togetherness. His sounds are listened to as other sounds surround. The bystander sitting next to two women one wheeled was lucky. Lucky to have heard this wisened warning through the rhythms changing ever to others but yet cacophonously magical in their unity with us. Though there were detractors to each set–participants with differing views–they all nevertheless joined as one sound of many sounds creating together a great harmonious dissonance.

And then the truck. The warning’s promise fulfilled. The white truck with red lights accusatory, parked upwind and menacing. Its occupant stalked us all–participants, groupies alike. We watched as he watched us. Watched him circle the beautiful circle, wary of any line-crossing any may have perpetrated as he dared to cross ours. The man’s cigarette had long been rubbed against blades damp–extinguished in expectation of this raid of harmonious dissonance. We watched. Watched as he, uniformed, circled with outsiderness. Circled suspiciously as some ignored his sunglass-veiled gaze of removal, as some glared back pretending to ignore, suspicious of his suspicion, watching for those who kept beating, unwilling to watch, watching for each other that we are not part of but are joined to more than joined to this suspicious outsider in sanctioned uniform. Unwelcome but welcomed nonchalantly as expected disturbance to the peace-making rhythms of dissonant unity. He was not done circling soon enough; we watched each other watching, hoping the other had not noticed the surveillance. He circled slowly our circle our outer circle our hipster picnics of bicycled ignorance. He in hegemonically uniformed out-of-place-ness in the place he had been made to patrol. Patrolling our invisible being he had made it visible. Had crossed our lines. But our lines will not remain broken.

And the cigarette remained out. The truck with white red lights atop left us to ourselves to our being. Left us to each other. We came back together having never been apart, repairing the invisibility of our harmony. Overwhelming the air with enormous sounds breathing in winding around the glorious rhythmically dissonant back again and ever

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Filed under Art of all Kinds, Contemporary

Becoming Complicit: How I Got Sucked into the Disney Racket

About a year ago, I wrote about the reflexive, layered marketing endemic to theme parks. Well last night, I tentatively entered into the “magical” world of the master of all self-promotion: Disney. It was quite the moral struggle, and I’m fairly certain I sold out by going, as will soon be revealed. Consider this post a penance; a form of reparation, inadequate as it may be. Words are cheap, but at least critique offers some substance, however meager.

As I walked with the endless flow of consumers people toward the sounds of the big band, I tried to console myself by saying that I was only entering the periphery of this evil empire, and it was for a swing dance (my rebel base, if you will), and it was free. But alas, I was still complicit in the well oiled money-making machine. As one of my dance partners remarked, we were the entertainment at Downtown Disney that evening. We had played right into the promoters’ nefarious plan: Disney had us working for free to keep the non-dancing crowds there longer. We captured their attention for a few minutes or more with our performance of a bygone era’s social scene, complete with pseudo-costumes. In delaying their journey from one end of the shopping area to another, we helped to break them down so they’d empty their pocket-books at some food stand, overpriced theme restaurant, or over-blown souvenir shop.

The novelty of our dancing to the 1940s music was buttering them up, providing a free service to both the watchers and to Disney by making these consumers think they could afford to spend more at the retail and dining outlets because they’d just experienced a free show. Not that these folks wouldn’t have spent money without us: visitors of Disney come prepared to do so. It’s part of the deal: you know you’re going to drop a couple hundred, especially if you’re there with the kids. But the genius of Disney is that once you’ve done that and you’re inside their cocoon of nonstop entertainment, you feel like you’re getting it all for free.*

Aside from the incessant marketing and consumerism (and the odd sensation of being entertainment in/for a place I object to on principle) the other thing that struck me about the whole experience was the way people dress at the Disney resort. Even on the edges, in this themed outdoor mall, people wore the trappings of the brand. It’s part of the experience of visiting this carefully constructed space: wearing mouse ears on a hat or made out of inflatables, sweatshirts with the Disney name or Mickey’s face on them…the many souvenir outlets make the possibilities of being a walking advertisement endless.

This is all done proudly and arguably to excess. Hats and glasses and clothes and balloons, all can be anchored on one individual! Who dresses like this is “real life”?!! But here, being over-the-top is sanctioned, encouraged. The more branded swag the better! It shows that you are a loyal consumer, a real lover of Disney and its many lands and cartoon inhabitants. And it is understood that this is the way one should be. The little girls wear princess hats and the little boys wear Woody cowboy hats or Indiana Jones fedoras and the grown-ups wear anything and everything with the Disney name on it. And you just know that most of it was purchased here, in the ill-defined confines of this sprawling resort. The hat-wearers may only be here for the day, but the people with the branded clothing are in it for a multi-day Vacation: they are the ones staying in the themed hotels, making a destination out of this glorified retail establishment.

I have no real conclusion. Just a sense of amazement, mild disgust, and guilt at having participated. Because in spite of understanding the mechanics of what was going on and objecting to what dancing there meant, it was still enjoyable. I may not have given them any of my money, but I did (in a sense) give them my labor in return for the pleasure of live music and the space to engage in the best form of exercise ever invented. I didn’t stay away. And that’s why Disney always comes out on top. Damn it.

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*This idea is not mine, but Dan O’Brien’s.

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Filed under Commodification, Contemporary, Nostalgia

Edible Miscegenation: Food for Thought (groan) on a Recent Ad Campaign

Full disclosure time: I have a nasty note-taking habit, and as a result, the forthcoming book review of Sorry I Pooped in Your Shoe has turned into a bit of a term paper. A term paper that needs some serious work. We’re talking outlines, spreadsheets, coding, lists of themes and tropes, meta-structuring–obscene amounts of (dis)organization, here. And, if history is any indication*, most of this thorough preparation will be ultimately ignored in a sleep-deprived “holy fuck, fuck this fucking shitpile of amassed notes and ragged half-finished paragraphs I’m just gonna write the fucking thing I can’t even gaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhrgh!” moment of desperation.

So stay tuned for that monstrous gem. In the meantime, here are some disorganized and underdeveloped thoughts on a commercial about a new snack food. Fair warning–it’s a messy one:

Mel the Milkbite “has issues.” Yes, yes he does. Milkbite is basically a granola bar, and the advertisers have been tasked with coming up with a clever way to convince American consumers that this particular granola bar is different. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for. It offers hereforeto undiscovered combinations of deliciousness. Their marketing strategy has been to produce a virtual mini-series of these commercials. In each, we are made privy to the fraught inner life of one, Mr. Mel Milkbite, depressed offspring of milk and granola. “Who are you?” he asks his reflection. “I don’t know,” is the whispered reply. This identity crisis seems to stem from his mixed-food lineage.

One commercial in particular seems to play on the idea of a (damaged) mixed-parent child who confronts said parents about their decision to procreate. “You didn’t think, did you?” About how it would affect me, he goes on to say. The idea is that inhabiting an interstitial category makes life hard: one is “unclean” based on normative social structures, matter out-of-place. Mel is a product of miscegenation, and we’re supposed to laugh at this, or at his having “issues” because of it. This is where things get complicated, and I’m not going to pretend that I can tease everything out perfectly. But I do think it’s worth at least trying to unpack what’s going on here.

On a superficial level, it’s pretty dumb that a milk/granola-bar is talking and has an inner life. There’s a type of surreal, absurdist humor in that by itself. But to make the character’s inner life so fraught with the internalization of social stigma is…crazy awful. And in that awfulness, in that banging together of expectations, also comes the humor.

Broadly stated, humor says what cannot be said in serious contexts. It draws its power from placing categories of things together that cannot normally coexist, often exploding them. This is the unexpected aspect of humor–combining those things that are not normally combined (e.g., a granola bar that talks…to a therapist, no less). The other, related aspect, is that one of speaking the unspeakable: drawing attention to what is rendered invisible in daily life. In a way, humor combats erasure and epistemic violence. The ugly side of this is poorly timed and unsympathetic “ironic” humor, to be discussed further on in this “essay.”

To get back to the break-down of the layered humor in the commercials, besides the inherent silliness of a talking snack food is the fact that Mel takes himself very seriously. This is another source of the intended humor of the whole ad campaign: we, the audience, are not supposed to take Mel seriously. We are meant, on some level at least, to dismiss his serious concerns as those of a fake, normally (hopefully!) inanimate character made of food. It’s ridiculousness played as seriousness, which I’m tempted to call satire or irony, but I’m just so confused at this point that I can’t quite suss it out.

The humor of Mel’s milkbite commercials at least partly comes from making fun of the very serious issue of racism and how it plays out in cases where children have parents that society marks as racially different. The commercial serves to reinforce this taboo against miscegenation…or does it question the taboo? I’m not entirely sure if the “humor” in these commercials is combatting or exacerbating the stigma…or denying that the stigma exists all together. But I’m obviously leaning toward the last two.

The commercial takes license to make light of racism because its creators seem to believe that our society is past all that. Look how ridiculous we were to have had anti-miscegenation laws! If those still existed, we’d have a bunch of depressed Mels wandering around, blaming their parents for giving them such a hard life. Boy, I sure am glad we aren’t racist, anymore! In any case, the fact that we identify with Mel and feel sorry for him (do we? or do we think his problem isn’t serious in this day and age? are we just laughing at him?) means that we recognize the taboo being referenced. In encouraging the audience to both understand and then dismiss Mel’s perspective, it at once negates real people’s lived experiences and makes the (faulty) declaration that we are post-racism. But we can’t be post-anything if we still understand the signs of that thing. And anyway, is this laughter at all healing? Because the humor is very dry…almost ironic. And that gets dicey, as I will try to discuss below.

I’d argue that the existence of this campaign and all the cultural baggage it is trading on doesn’t point to a post-racism culture, but rather to one that has a more complicated relationship with its racism. This commercial can only exist in a culture where its producers (in this case, marketers and advertisers) believe that the culture is post-racism. This makes the brand of humor “safe” enough for a mass-media audience. It still messes with expectations, but in a more meta way that comments on a social situation that is assumed to be long past. The producers seem to believe this humorous take on a historical reality–setting it in the present and using a snack food as its face–won’t offend consumers. That it will resonate just enough and in the right ways in order to sell the product. But it’s also arguably a present reality, and even if it weren’t, its “humorous” take on a decidedly un-funny cultural taboo that oppressed real people in real ways is insensitive. (The argument against the insensitivity claim would be something about irony and being post-race and why can’t I just take a joke, which I will touch on later and you can read more about at Jezebel.)

The commercial may trade in deadpan ridiculousness, but it’s still based in something very real. The undercurrent of (anti-)miscegenation is extended to and reintensionalized in this extremely absurd context, rendering it less serious, less worthy of careful consideration. But it is serious. The commercial is playing on the idea that the children of people who aren’t “the same” in one way or another have it harder. That they’re damaged. So, it’s both that this creates issues for the kid, and then creates the stereotype that these “types” of kids have issues, thus making the “project,” if you will, of actually combatting these taboos a bad thing in itself, instead of creating a world where these taboos don’t exist because there are more interstitial people, who then become accepted categories in their own right. (I know that sentence is confusing, but it’s too far gone to help at this point. I don’t even know.) But the point is that making light of the history and ramifications of anti-miscegenation sentiment and policy, “mixed” children of all kinds, and the current (effectively ignored) lived realities of people who inhabit this interstitial social categories is harmful. These commercials operate in a sort of post-racism haze of denial. Anti-miscegenation is over, so it’s okay to joke about it. These commercials try to get us to believe that taking it all seriously would be ridiculous in this day and age–we’d be like Mel.

The thing is, we don’t live in a post-racial world, as Lindy West points out. The “humor” of trying to make it seem like we’re post-race by framing someone’s difficult lived experience as mixed-race individual as funny–implicitly discounting that this experience could be less-than-rosy–falls flat. It makes fun of the individual for having “issues” as a result of their racialized social location; it belittles their own understanding of their particular experience. And that is pretty wrong.

Now, not being what our society would deem a “person of color,” I cannot speak to the lived experience of someone from a mixed-race background. But I don’t imagine it’s always a walk in the park, simply because our society remains socially stratified, and one of the markers that keeps certain populations in disadvantaged socio-economic positions is skin color. Skin color is taken as the definitive sign that signifies one’s race; as if it were a natural thing. As if it weren’t a cultural construct (which it is, and an arbitrary one at that). And in America, we still see people’s skin color. We treat each other in various ways because of this type of discriminatory vision. Now, are mixed-race couples more accepted than they were 50 years ago? Sure…but only in some contexts. Are the children of  mixed-race couples less subject to ridicule? Again, it depends. We can maybe make a sweeping generalization that things are “better,” but it is dangerous to do so. And to base an ad campaign on this very real and personal part of our cultural history (and cultural present) is hugely problematic… and because it’s meant to be funny, it’s quite insulting, as well.

To wrap up before this all gets even more out of hand, let’s get back to the milkbite character himself. Mel, if we are to take his perspective, is the product of an unholy union between milk and granola. The irony, of course, is that plenty of folks enjoy this very combination. The fact that mixing them is “normal” is why milkbite exists as a product in the first place: created to fill a newly discovered [read: invented] niche, marketed as the answer to granola-and-milk-eaters’ as yet unrealized unfulfilled need for a convenient snack that pairs their two favorite things. Milkbite was created because he should have existed all along–so the marketers want us to believe. He’s what’s been missing in this world of fast “health” food.

Is that why we laugh at Mel? Because his underlying “issue” is that he fails to grasp his true role in the world? Bringing us all together in a holy harmony of interstitial bliss? Is milkbite the future? Let’s look to the heated discourse surrounding the controversial ad that South Africa’s Democratic Alliance party put out… They don’t live in the future, and neither do we. In fact, the very existence of this series of commercials implicitly arguing that we do live in the post-race future proves, ironically, that we don’t.

*UPDATE* Balancing Jane has also written about the disturbing nature of this ad campaign and provides a link to sign a petition against it.

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*For example, I once compiled over 200 pages of notes in preparation for a ten page final. Yep. Rifuckingdiculous. It’s kind of a problem.

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Filed under Contemporary, Deconstructing Commercials, Racism

Freeway Soundwalls as Markers of Affluence

Riding the Metro Goldline along the 210 and 110 freeways of LA, through the many communities it borders and cuts through, it struck me that rich neighborhoods get soundwalls. Poorer neighborhoods get traffic noises. To illustrate this (obvious) point, contrast the route the metro takes through South Pasadena (soundwall! slowing to a crawl!) with that it takes through Highland Park (chain-link fence if you’re lucky!). It is the richer neighborhoods that have the resources to devote to noise complaints. To getting their petitions recognized. These resources can be withheld from the city, the state, by those wealthy citizens if their demands are not met.

To be sure, communities who are not affluent can get soundwalls built, too, given the drive to get organized and a sympathetic power structure. Money is not the only resource–time is another valuable one when it comes to making voices heard. And sense of community ownership, civic pride, etc. But I’d venture that the vast majority of soundwalls are lobbied for by those communities with the financial resources to have leverage against the powers-that-be. Give us that soundwall, or we’re not underwriting anything. You can forget our endorsements during election season. You can kiss our donations goodbye. We want our acoustic insulation, and you’re going to give it to us. We have property values to think about.*

So the noises get shifted to the monetarily voiceless. The disenfranchised without the time or money to devote to standing up for the sanctity of their neighborhoods. And they get even more run down, comparatively, as a result. The gap widens with rows of cinderblock…or lack thereof. The acoustic insulations mirrors the social stratification, the physical isolation of certain classes of citizens from others. From Others.

Who speaks for the poor? And who has the right to?

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*Maybe it has something to do with the ratio of renters to owners.

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Filed under Contemporary, Power, Sweeping Generalizations