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runephoenix6769 · 3 years

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“What is with the Blake / Yang hate this week? Folks seem particularly fired up.” I asked this question on a forum because of something I’ve noticed the last few days on discussions about Blake and Yang/Bumbleby/shipping in general. I keep seeing the same answers. “It ruins the team’s dynamic.”

Welp, I’m pretty certain none of those people would say that Raven/Tai and Tai/Summer ruined the team’s dynamic. Or that Ren and Nora are currently ruining the team’s dynamic. What is this holy than thou crusading to protect the sanctity of the team dynamic? Rwby has always been first and foremost about interpersonal relationships. It’s what drives the actual plot. Character growth, failing relationships/friendships. How they change over time, either to grow or crumble.

“It’s being shoehorned in, for fanwank.” How? How is it being shoehorned in? Give me a narrative breakdown as to where/how/when this occurs? Compare it to the Sun/Blake narrative and show me the glaring differences between the Yang/Blake narrative to prove that bumbleby was never planned yet blacksun was? (Sidenote. Anyone that has been asked to do this on the forum has yet to do it.)

“Yang showed interest in boys.”“ Yes, yes she passed comment once. In vol 1 episode 1. 8 VOLUMES AGO. She has shown not a lick of interest in guys since. Its almost as if she’s like any normal 17 year old girl who is growing into adulthood and figuring herself out, who might be realising her interest in Blake isn’t strictly platonic and is trying to navigate that whilst also grappling with what that means with regards to their friendship. And dealing with an over arching situation that is, ya know, potentially the end of the world as they know it. It’s about two years in universe, right? Which is about right of an amount of time for what its happening between them to play out. It only feels like longer to the audience because, well, its taken 8/9 years to tell the story up until that point.

“The Fans are too loud/vocal/come on too strong.” Ok, this one I agree with, we are loud and vocal and that might come across as coming on strong (here’s a huge) BUT, there is actually a genuine explanation for why it seems that way. If you really think about it, objectively.

Hear me out. Fans are excited about the potential representation we don't otherwise usually get in media. I mean, if you have 10,000 pieces of media and only ONE of them represents lgbtq people, of course we’re gonna be excited and talk about the ONE quite a bit with others who are like us. This might also be the first time we’ve seen anything like this, or seen ourselves represented in a somewhat positive light. It stands to reason that the other 9999 pieces aren't going to hold our attention as much, esp if its the same hetero romance played out a bajillion times before, right? I mean, if you have a group of people who are constantly represented in the 9999 other shows, their voices are going to spread thinner, right? They aren’t going to be gathered all on one place, talking about the same thing because there are 9999 other choices to connect them to other people. They aren’t going to care as much if their straight ship happens/doesnt happen

“Hey, I can move onto another piece of media that is churned out by the status quo. No big deal.”

Hetero romances are ten a penny. Flick through netflix, hulu, crunchy roll etc. Where as if you have a group of people who are only represented in ONE show out of the 10,000 those people are going to gather in one place to connect with others and its only going to seem like they are louder due to the densely packed space. These same people have been majority silent about the other 9999 pieces of media as their voice isn't usually represented in a positive light - being queer characters are usually brutally murdered or sidelined. (Thankyou Hays Code.)- or not even represented at all. (Bury Your Gays is a trope for a reason, folks.) And we are NEVER the titular characters. We’ve been living on crumbs and subtext for decades! Not to mention showrunners who actively queerbait the hell out of us for ratings and viewership. The almighty Pink Pound as its often referred to in business. “But why do they have to make them gay?” You’re not made gay, you’re born gay. It just takes longer for some people to realise than others. It can be a gradual realisation. And this is quite possibly the case with Yang/Blake, slowly coming to realise their own burgeoning sexualities and attraction to each other.

”Why do they have to be gay?” They don't need a reason to be queer! They just are! Queerness is only a part of a person, not their everything. It’s actually quite refreshing to see Yang/Blake being portrayed as much more than their potential sexuality. Ask yourself, ‘Why does a character have to be straight? And why doesn’t a straight character have to constantly reaffirm their sexuality? Why is ‘straightness’ assumed by default?’ Heteronormativity, is something that has been perpetuated by decades of media. (helped by the Hays Code with its out of date moral code. To be other is to be punished within the narrative.) That straight is the default setting. It’s not! We exist! Everywhere! We always have and we are going to talk to each other about it when we see a glimpse of ourselves represented in what has been a relative Sahara Desert when it comes to queer content were we are not villainised. “The romance is detracting from the plot.” Two seconds ago, people were claiming that the romance was none existent. Which is it? But Nora and Ren’s romance that is being held up as a mirror to bumbleby is fine? That Jaune relentlessly pursuing Weiss was perfectly ok. Neptune openly hitting on female characters is fine.

“I don’t have a problem with LGBT. I just don’t want it forced down my throat.” Again, out of 10,000 pieces of media, this is just ONE show. Nobody is forcing anyone to watch it or participate. Queer people have had to stomach literal 100′s of years of straight media forced upon them. Since the very conception of the written word and narrative storytelling. In plays, theatre, art, music, tv, film, on billboards, advertising, in places of education and learning etc etc. Queer people are bombarded with it whilst also being surrounded by negativity towards queerness.

“They are shoving it down my throat!” part two Is hand holding, compassion and expressing concern for another person and comforting them somehow offensive? Renora kissed, not a problem. Arkos kissed, not a problem. Show me in the sand where the line is drawn. What is the difference? Please explain this to me? Why is the expression of queerness somehow offensive? Is this because decades of media have perpetuated the false idea that all queer people are sex crazed perverts? That you’ve been groomed into thinking that queer sexuality is only based in the act of sex itself? That queer sexuality couldn’t possibly be similar to heterosexuality in its expression?

That it couldn’t possibly be about attraction, emotional, mental and maybe one day blossom into physical between two consenting adults, a pure expression of love the exact same as heterosexuality.

That some how queer love stems from some sort of deviancy or mental health issue. That queer people are some how bad or evil, and therefore their expression of affection is wrong? Oh, I wonder where those beliefs have possibly stemmed from? “Why are they in my face?” part three. 50% of of the titular cast are potentially queer. Blake and Yang. But if you look at the overall cast ensemble that runs at minimum 16 any given volume, that’s a measly 12.5% (prolly a lot smaller if you actually counted the whole cast that appears in rotation each volume) Also, someone did the math. Blake - a titular character- actually has less spoken lines that Jaune. ffs. B&Y spent neatly a whole two volumes of 8 apart. 25% of the narrative as it stands on entirely different continents.

I fail to see how it being in someone’s face could be the case.

“I just don't see it!”

That’s ok and perfectly valid But listen when people who have lived this experience are telling you that their experience is being portrayed on the screen. That they see themselves being represented. OK, This completely got away from me. In conclusion. They are more straight people than queer people and media often reflects that. We are usually the silent minority, we are sick of it but we are used to it and we are very excited that things seem to be finally changing.

It’s two characters in an large cast in ONE show out of 10,000. Its a piece of media that, for a change, hasn’t been 100% curated for straight people. We are often not allowed to play in the sand box and if we are, we’re told to play with the broken toys, be grateful and quiet. So when we are given a sandbox to play in with new unbroken toys, we are gonna dog pile in there and make a ruckas, calling our friends over. What I’m trying to say is, it’s gonna get rowdy. and here’s something to think about. “When you are used to privilege, equality feels like deprivation.”

#rwby #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #bumbleby

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loyolahcmass · 5 years

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Homily on Buy My Own Drinks by Runaway June

Here is the preview of Fr. Rossi’s homily on the song Buy My Own Drinks by Runaway June:

“Buy My Own Drinks” Hopkins Mass Homily 9/15 “Well since we been done I've been trying to un-fall apart.” There’s a good chance you’ve never heard of Runaway June or their hit song, “Buy My Own Drinks.” Runaway June is an American country music group consisting of 3 women. They were nominated for Best New Country Vocal Group just last year. __________ "Buy My Own Drinks" is an up-tempo, good-natured "female anthem." It’s about a woman who goes out for drinks following the end of a relationship and celebrates how she doesn't need a guy to have a good time. "Buy My Own Drinks," touts independence and a solo night out on the town as an antidote to a breakup. “And I've been thinking that some neon lights Would be a real good start Well I called a couple friends But they all say they're staying in So I guess I'm going out on my own I might be heart broke But that don't mean that I'm gonna stay home.” __________ But that’s only its superficial meaning. I think the subtext goes a lot deeper than that. It’s actually a song about staying strong after a breakup. __________ There’s a really good reason it’s an anthem to girl power. Four women, including the three members of Runaway June, had a hand in writing the song. It became the group's first chart single on the Billboard Hot 100, I think, because it reflects many people’s real-life experiences. __________ "I want to make sure that little girls right now have people to look up to in tough times," one member of the group says. Another agrees: “We’re busting down the door for other women to come through. “If that’s the purpose of this band, I’ll take it.” __________ “I found myself a dive The type he would never walk in Then a guy at the bar sees an empty drink in my hand I said sweet of you to ask if you could fill my glass But I'm gonna have to pass this time Me and myself, well we're doing just fine.” __________ Now, I really like the fact that the woman in the song is her own person. She’s now single again. She doesn’t have anybody special in her life. But she not going to let that stop her from being herself: from living her life and being her own person. __________ “I can walk my own self to the front door I can take my own self to bed I can medicate my own headache Yeah, I can be my own boyfriend.” The group’s favorite line, written by one of its members, is in this section. It’s the final one: "I can be my own boyfriend." “The crowd goes crazy every time we sing that line in concert. “That's a fun little moment.” __________ In some ways, this is all for the good. Even if we are in an intense relationship, we can’t let the other person do all the living for us. We got to bring something to the connection, whether we’re the girl or guy. It’s the unique contribution that only we can make to a truly reciprocal couple. If the relationship is going to be beneficial, healthy, caring, and mature, we got to bring those attributes to it, and so does our partner. __________ Now the concept of being your own boyfriend or girlfriend is fun—and funny—at least in a song, and in the abstract. But this doesn’t always work out so well, especially in an actual split-up. In fact, sometimes it can be devastating psychologically, socially, and spiritually. Sometimes, we can fall apart. __________ In my years at Loyola I’ve talked to a lot of students. I’ve heard a lot about relationships, some fairly long-term, that didn’t work out. Often, the breakups created pain and trauma, at least for one of the people involved. This is true especially when one person becomes almost totally dependent on the other—even to the point of becoming completely isolated from their other friends both male and female. __________ Likewise, in our relationship with Jesus Christ, we have to bring something to the table. He has saved us, but we’ve got to want to be saved. And we must create space for him in our lives. We also need to make room for others; after all, there’s no such thing as a completely insulated Christian life. Concern for others is part of what it means to be a follower of Jesus. __________ St. Ignatius says that God is constantly trying to communicate with us, and this is all for the good. But that also implies that we are trying to listen to what he has to say. We need to keep the lines of communication open at all times. __________ We’ve got to love God and respect him in the bargain. That means we must be completely honest with Him. We must be faithful in the good times and the bad. __________ When our relations with Him are like that, he’ll help us build truly loving relationships with others. Relationships that have as their hallmark a key virtue Christ talked about all the time: mercy. If you include that virtue in your interactions with others, you might not have to “dance all by yourself” or be your own lover!

#runaway june #buy my own drinks #runaway june buy my own drinks #buy my own drinks runaway june #runaway june music #homily #homilies #catholic homily #Catholic Mass #mass #hcm homilies #loyolahcmass

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thecourtreportersportedjorts · 6 years

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Top 10 Best Hit Songs of 2017

In December of each year, Billboard publishes its list of the 100 biggest hit songs of the last 12 months. In response, I take it upon myself to decide which of these songs were the real hits, and which were the biggest misses. Last week, I tackled the worst, so here are the best. Let’s get started:

10. “Love Galore” by SZA feat. Travis Scott

When I see a fellow New Jersey artist rising up the charts and building a name for themselves, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a little too quick to douse them in praise. In 2015, I did it for Fetty Wap and Charlie Puth before they respectively waned in relevance and proceeded to pump out some of the decade’s worst music. SZA grew up mere minutes away from me, and after a few years just shy of the spotlight, she finally released her critically beloved debut album Ctrl in June. I took a few months to finally get to it, but once I listened to it, I found a beautifully produced, unflinchingly sincere record that delves into the nuances of youth, romance, mental health, and the various ways they intersect.

I wouldn’t even consider “Love Galore” an immediate highlight from the record, and yet it’s still an excellent song. I do have to take a point off for Travis Scott rambling about “ass and titties” in his verse, a needlessly juvenile moment in what’s otherwise a great slice of left-of-center-but-still-grown-and-sexy R&B. Still, his verse is fine altogether, and he sounds right at home over ThankGod4Cody’s production, which is built on off-kilter, reverb-soaked percussion and analog synths that aren’t too far removed from the Stranger Things score.

This is all well and good, but SZA steals the show all on her own, exploring the complications of reconvening with a former fling. There’s a core of darkness to the lyrics, making passing references to Valium and fetishes as she zeroes in on her partner’s seeming infidelity, but she can nevertheless enjoy the situation as “long as [they] got love.” And in a year chock full of godawful vocals excused for their “authenticity,” it’s so refreshing to hear a singer in the mainstream who sounds both organic and skilled. While I may not like this quite as much as “The Weekend” or “Drew Barrymore” or “20 Something,” it’s no less worth your time.

9. “Passionfruit” by Drake

It’s easy for me to start this entry the same way I did for “Too Good” last year, addressing how “Passionfruit” was a diamond in the relative rough of the lopsided More Life “playlist.” While there is some truth to that assessment, More Life is still a noticeable improvement over last year’s uncomfortable, overhyped VIEWS. Sure, it’s still questionable to hear Drizzy put on another new accent (I’d personally like to hear him attempt a Russian accent), but his curation of global sounds is sharper and more generous than ever, and with the exception of truly annoying cuts like “Nothings Into Somethings,” the lyrics are a lot less patronizing this time around. Despite this net positive, it still remains that “Passionfruit” is easily More Life’s best offering, and perhaps Drake’s best single since “Hold On, We’re Going Home.”

For one, “Passionfruit” is built on the same sort of subdued, late-night disco groove that made “Hold On” an instant classic. But the song goes for a stark contrast from the 2013 smash’s optimistic hookup, which is mirrored by the somber minor chords, gorgeous, muted synths, and what is apparently the manipulated sound of a flute. With the tempos of his songs seemingly dropping by the year, it’s good to hear Drake over something with a more propulsive groove again, and yet it still manages to mesh with his trademark atmospherics.

Of course, the lyrical content will always be the most contentious part of any Drake song, and it’s understandable to read “Passionfruit” as yet another retread of “Hotline Bling.” But where that song may have precariously toed the line between genuine concern and alarming possessiveness, the lyrics land a lot more comfortably this time. Even a lyric like “you got issues that I won’t mention” works far better as he seems to finally understand the consequences behind his words and his actions. The end result is Drake at his finest, low-key and calm while still navigating through the most challenging of emotions.

8. “Castle on the Hill” by Ed Sheeran

Now I know this pick will likely come as a surprise to anyone who saw my previous list, where I gave Ed Sheeran the thorough bashing he deserved. I ragged on him for his appearance, his awkward lyricism and his uninspired compositions. I’m sick of the guy at this point, but that’s because I genuinely want to like him. Ed has always shown a genuine talent for crafting songs with memorable hooks and interesting concepts, so doling out plodding love ballads like “Photograph” and cringeworthy radio ploys like “Shape of You” feels like the biggest possible waste of potential. So as tired as I am of hearing songs like these in 2017, “Castle on the Hill” was good enough to remind me why I cared in the first place.

If I could sum up the sound of “Castle on the Hill” in one sentence, it’d be that it sounds like what that mediocre last Mumford and Sons album wanted to be. Built on an insistent drum groove, warm bass, ghostly organs and guitar strumming that hurts my wrist just listening to it, the verses build up to a triumphant chorus indebted to Springsteen and U2. This is one of Sheeran’s more directly rock-flavored endeavors, so his aggressive howls on the chorus sound a lot better here than on “Thinking Out Loud,” and even his falsetto sounds more vivacious than usual.

And in the midst of an album cycle dominated by anonymous songs about sex and TV montage fodder that even Queen B couldn’t salvage, “Castle on the Hill” is the only (good) single that showcases Sheeran’s distinctive songwriting flair. It’s essentially a song about growing up, but where Lukas Graham got it all wrong, this song gets it right. Like on “7 Years,” Ed recounts his younger, troublesome self, running from authority and drinking with his friends. The difference is that he learns from his mistakes, thanks to the people and the town he was sought to defy in the first place. It’s the kind of vivid songwriting that Sheeran excels at, and if he keeps at it (which is a real possibility), he might very well regain a lost fan.

7. “HUMBLE.” by Kendrick Lamar / “LOYALTY.” by Kendrick Lamar feat. Rihanna

As I stated in my previous list, it’s been really interesting to see what the Billboard charts look like with streaming becoming a bigger part of the equation. I already addressed how album tracks can perform just as well as lower-tier singles. Kendrick Lamar’s excellent fourth album DAMN. boasts the best first week streaming numbers of any album released in 2017, and as a result, multiple cuts from the album remained on the charts for weeks on end. “ELEMENT.” and current single “LOVE.” charted high enough that if they had received the proper push as singles, I would probably be talking about them alongside the two singles that actually made the year end Hot 100, chart-topping “HUMBLE.” and the Rihanna collaboration “LOYALTY.”

“HUMBLE.” was the first proper taste of DAMN., which admittedly took some time to grow on me. Sure, the blisteringly sparse, piano-driven beat by Mike Will Made It commands direct attention to Kendrick’s coded, throne-claiming bars, but it’s a far cry from the rich history and experimentation that made To Pimp a Butterfly an all-time great rap album. Still, it’s important to remember that Kendrick - at least when he’s trying - infuses his songs with some really heady subtext. It’s easy to interpret this as K-Dot proving that he can do trap just as well as Future or Migos, if not better thanks to his skillful lyricism. In the context of DAMN., it’s also a warning from the Compton rapper to himself to not let his remarkable success eclipse his message or his roots. Coupled with an instantly memorable hook and quotables like “my left stroke just went viral,” “HUMBLE.” is a well-deserved first #1 for Kendrick.

Like its predecessor, followup single “LOYALTY.” is fairly skeletal in its production, based around a warped sample of “24K Magic” (of all things!). This time, Kendrick teams up with Rihanna, who continues to prove that she can come through with an impressive flow after “Bitch Better Have My Money” and “Needed Me.” The pair explore loyalty in regards to one’s friendships, relationships, faith and ambitions, creatively quoting Jay-Z and Ol’ Dirty Bastard in the process. While the lyrical content is certainly worthwhile, the main takeaway is that Kendrick and Rihanna have truly fantastic musical chemistry, which becomes all the more apparent when they trade bars during the verses. Like “HUMBLE.,” this track is further evidence that even with sights set squarely on the mainstream, Kendrick always aims high.

6. “Bodak Yellow” by Cardi B

When compiling these lists, it’s easy to get wrapped up in the critical acclaim or the social value a song might have. This works both ways - maybe this is what influenced me to place “7 Years” and “Treat You Better” as high I did on my worst list last year. But when Cardi B’s breakout single “Bodak Yellow” became the first single from a solo female rapper to top the Billboard Hot 100 since Lauryn Hill in 1998, I immediately wondered: is it a worthy successor? Considering how many critical outlets have named “Bodak Yellow” one of the best songs of the year (including Pitchfork and The Washington Post, who both named it the best song of the year), a lot of people seem to think so. And even though I wasn’t totally sold on the song at first, I’m now more than happy to join that chorus, because this song is fucking awesome.

In one of her legendary interviews, Cardi has stated that the title “Bodak Yellow” is a reference to rapper and awful human being Kodak Black, whose flow on “No Flockin” serves as the foundation for Cardi’s song. Unsurprisingly, she does an infinitely better job with his flow, not only because she doesn’t sound like she’s having an asthma attack, but because she also delivers each bar with such boundless energy. Unlike Kodak, she also knows when to switch up her flow, capping off both verses with an impressive, Migos-esque (!) flow. A lot of hip hop traditionalists might deride “Bodak Yellow” for a lack of originality, but it’s not about who did it first, it’s about who did it right.

Even the production on “Bodak Yellow” stands out from the trap pack. Sure, it’s built on a simplistic 3-note melody, but it alternates between octaves, creating an alluring sense of unease against the changing hi-hat progressions. But what really surprises is how restrained the song first seems in its low end, using the trademark sub bass kicks fairly conservatively. It gives you the impression that it’s building up to something, and then it happens: as Cardi speeds up her flow, the kicks return in full force, resulting in one of the hardest-hitting moments rap had to offer in 2017. In a year where women deserved so much better, Cardi B is a true force of good, proving that she can go harder than so many of her male contemporaries.

5. “I Feel It Coming” by The Weeknd feat. Daft Punk

If you’ve read any of my lists in the past two years, you probably felt this coming (pun very obviously intended). I’ve raved about The Weeknd so much since then that writing a fifth (sixth if you include “The Hills” from my honorable mentions in 2015) entry about him probably scans as blind fandom or ass-kissing. Truth be told, his 2013 major label debut Kiss Land hasn’t exactly aged well, and Starboy was an overlong, frequently redundant affair with occasional flashes of innovation. But the latter album’s closing track, “I Feel It Coming,” feels like a major change of pace, and perhaps a premonition of The Weeknd’s future.

Like the previous single, the chart-topping title track from Starboy, “I Feel It Coming” is yet another collaboration with famed French house duo. While “Starboy” sounded a lot like the duo’s own “Doin’ It Right,” a collab with Animal Collective’s Panda Bear and a notable outlier on Random Access Memories, this song is more akin to the warm, nostalgic disco that dominated the rest of that album. Hell, the robots even use their trademark vocoders on their own voices this time! As unstoppable as the groove of “Can’t Feel My Face” is to this day, never has Abel sung over something that sounded so happy.

Fortunately, he seems up to the challenge of matching this energy. Normally, The Weeknd albums end on a dour note - even the bombastic “Angel” was profoundly melancholic. In one of his most effortless vocal performances to date, Abel shows that he is finally ready to commit to a serious relationship. And while the potent sexuality is still right there in the goddamn title, it comes across as a moment of real, unadulterated joy rather than simply going through the motions of tour life. The Weeknd has proven time and time again that he can switch up his sound and still come through with smash hits, and if “I Feel It Coming” is any indication, that’s not changing any time soon.

4. “Redbone” by Childish Gambino

Holy shit, have I been waiting for this. I’m not necessarily talking about “Redbone,” Childish Gambino’s greatest success to date, but rather that success in and of itself. Like so many people, I discovered Donald Glover’s hip hop project after enjoying him as Troy in NBC’s Community, one of my all-time favorite TV shows. But despite his knack for solid hooks, colorful instrumentals and outright hilarious bars, it always felt like he was close to breaking into the mainstream without ever getting there. Maybe it was the polarized critical response to Camp or the obtuse production of Because the Internet, but it was only with last year’s funk departure “Awaken, My Love!” that his music clicked more universally.

“Redbone” wasn’t that album’s lead single, but it was by far its most successful, charting for nearly a whole year and peaking just outside Billboard’s Top 10. Arguably, it’s the weirdest hit song we’ve had this year: weird enough that it spawned one of the year’s more creative memes. As a whole, the song maintains a rare balance of paranoia and sensuality, the former of which is felt instantly with the intro’s distant strings and gently thumping kicks. But any sense of dread is mitigated by the slap bass, glockenspiel and the generally lush atmosphere. With perhaps the exception of SZA, mainstream R&B in 2017 hasn’t sounded this organic and alluring, even with the inclusion of the crunchy guitar leads or the muted, creepy-as-fuck background vocals in the intro.

Amidst all the window-dressing, this is still undoubtedly Donald Glover’s song, and his vocal and lyrical contributions capture the same balance just as exquisitely. Many have pointed out that he doesn’t even sound much like himself on “Redbone,” rather emulating Macy Gray’s trademark rasp. Despite the obvious point of influence, it’s still one of the many vocal performances on “Awaken, My Love!” that oozes with color and personality. It doesn’t distract from the unsettling lyrics, though, which double down on Gambino’s oft-critiqued insecurities about relationships and racial identity, but through a more mature and knowing lens, with a chilling mantra of “stay woke.”

And while it didn’t have an impact on its placement on this list, the particular case of the song’s success is worth celebrating. “Redbone” first charted out of anticipation for the album, but it returned to the hit parade thanks to its masterful use in Jordan Peele’s excellent film Get Out. Then came the memes, where the song was sung by various characters and played from a range of different spaces. It had a distinctive sound that somehow suited it to both uses, thus making it Glover’s highest charting song. This is the rare case where a great song isn’t rejected for its idiosyncrasies, but instead rightfully embraced.

3. “Slide” by Calvin Harris feat. Frank Ocean and Migos

But then again, Childish Gambino wasn’t the only one finding long-overdue chart success this year. Obviously, I’m not referring to Calvin Harris or Migos - the former has been pumping out hits since the turn of the decade to diminishing returns, and the latter had a banner year in 2017, with their very good single “Bad and Boujee” topping the Hot 100 for three weeks. “Slide” was partially Frank Ocean’s affair, too. After last year’s excellent, understated Blonde seemingly rebuked any desire for conventional pop stardom, the R&B crooner and former Odd Future affiliate proved that he can still write a fantastic pop song that can stick with just about anyone.

What’s particularly interesting about Frank’s contributions to “Slide” is that they aren’t even far removed from the music on Blonde. He still favors a more low-key vocal delivery, and he still manages to draw compelling character portraits in his lyrics. This time, it’s about a one-night stand where the protagonist isn’t so much interested in the sex itself, but vicariously living their partner’s more opulent lifestyle, referencing jewelery and Picasso’s famous Garçon à la pipe painting. But there’s still an underlying feeling of emptiness, exemplified in the line “wrist on a wrist, a link of charms, yeah / laying, we’re still a link apart.”

Complicated emotional situations have always been a characteristic of Ocean’s lyricism, for which he sets the scene with details that frequently read as non-sequiturs. But what makes “Slide” particularly interesting is how everybody else around him is up to the same task. Quavo and Offset of Migos appear for two insanely catchy and energetic verses, but the content feels peripheral to the established theme of the song. But these guys are part of one of the most in-demand rap acts of the year, so for Frank’s character to be rubbing shoulders with them does more to establish the scene. “Slide” is also further evidence of Offset’s skillful, malleable flow, and if his recent joint album with 21 Savage is any indication, he has great potential as a solo artist.

But what about Calvin Harris, the main artist responsible for this song? “Slide” was the lead single for his excellent album Funk Wav Bounces Vol. 1, and served as a dramatic departure from the more conventional EDM he’d been producing for years. Sure, singles like “This Is What You Came For” and “How Deep Is Your Love” flirted with organic instrumentation and classic dance grooves, but the shimmering keys, palm-muted funk guitars, and the irresistible bassline add up to one of his best tracks to date. It’s a perfect summer song that provides an opulent backdrop for Frank and Migos, and it still sounds fantastic in the dead of winter.

2. “DNA.” by Kendrick Lamar

Don’t think I forgot about this one. Over the course of this year’s lists, I’ve already gone on multiple times about the impact of streaming on the year-end charts. All of this is especially true when it comes to “DNA.,” the first full track from DAMN. Despite receiving an incredible music video starring Don Cheadle, it was never released as a single. And considering the aggression on display, as well as the lack of a real hook, why would it be? Nevertheless, thanks to Kendrick Lamar’s staggering popularity on streaming services, it landed a respectable spot midway on the year-end Hot 100. It’s another landmark worth discussing, but more importantly, “DNA.” is just a goddamn incredible song.

Rather than just dissecting the individual components of the song, I’m going to do my best to explain “DNA.” in a more linear fashion. Kendrick breaks through the gate in full-force, once again accompanied by Mike Will’s hard-hitting blend of trap drums, warped synths and ominous guitar loops. The first half of the song can be boiled down to K-Dot asserting that he was born for his current status as a rap god, even comparing his own birth to the immaculate conception. He recalls all his struggles growing up, living in the projects of Compton and encountering all the “murder, conviction, burners, booster, burglars, ballers,” etc. the city had to offer, crossing everything off as effortlessly as one would do for a shopping list.

Then, “DNA.” nears its two-minute mark. After a dazzling extended verse packed with personal detail, a sample of sleazy Fox-News-correspondent-cum-sexual-harrasser Geraldo Rivera actively dismisses Kendrick’s self-justification. He claims that Kendrick exemplifies everything wrong with young black culture in an unabashed show of victim-blaming. Then another sample comes in: the countdown from Freedom 7’s takeoff in 1961. As this happens, Kendrick speeds up his flow, and the beat changes, leading into what might be one of the greatest musical moments of the decade.

At this point, the production becomes even more sparse and dissonant, built mainly on a Rick James sample and the thickest, most face-melting sub bass imaginable. K-Dot offers an intense, well-deserved rebuttal to the thinly-veiled bullshit his critics ever-so-gleefully dole out. He knows that his success was earned through blood, sweat and tears, not “sex, money, murder,” and proceeds to “[curve] all the fakes” and others who seek to undermine him or his message. In an age where Donald Trump and the GOP have been nearly given carte blanche to oppress whoever the hell they want on any given day, it’s so cathartic to hear some resistance to their rhetoric in our popular music, especially when it’s this stunningly well-crafted.

And, just like last time, before I unveil my pick for the best hit song of 2017, here are eight honorable mentions:

“XO Tour Llif3″ by Lil Uzi Vert: “XO Tour Llif3” marks the first time Uzi’s music truly connected with me, capturing both the hedonism and the mental trauma he experienced while on tour with The Weeknd atop a fittingly off-kilter beat. His vocals are among the most impassioned I’ve heard all year, making the decision to nudge this off the list in favor of SZA a particularly tough one.

“1-800-273-8255″ by Logic feat. Alessia Cara and Khalid: Speaking of mental trauma, Logic’s breakout hit exists to lend a hand to those dealing with suicidal feelings. It sees the rapper and guest Alessia Cara acting respectively as a caller and a receptionist for the titular suicide hotline. Top that off with dramatic string swells and Khalid’s potent outro, and you have a song whose impact can’t be undermined, even by the shouts of “who can relate?”

“Sign of the Times” by Harry Styles: This is undoubtedly the best solo single to come out of the 1D camp, a power ballad reminiscent of David Bowie’s best that nails the particular desire to escape that we’ve all felt at some point this year. Cut the runtime by about a minute and you’ve got the perfect template for what mainstream rock should sound like in years to come, rather than whatever commercial filler comes from Imagine Dragons.

“Mask Off” by Future: I wasn’t wild about Future’s decision to release two overlong albums in the span of a week, but both albums had their highlights, and “Mask Off” was one of them. The beautiful “Prison Song” sample is the closest thing to old school hip hop in the mainstream this year, and Future delivers a sticky hook and the sort of secretly personal lyrics that have become his forte.

“Black Beatles” by Rae Sremmurd feat. Gucci Mane: Mike Will Made It hit a stride of excellence between “Formation” and “DNA,” and this song was caught in the middle of that period, boasting a dark, pounding beat topped with alien synths that sounded like little else in the Hot 100. Rae Sremmurd and Gucci Mane don’t really do much different from the norm, but the hook has an insanely catchy melody, and I’ll take anything over “Swang” at this point.

“That’s What I Like” by Bruno Mars: Look, pretty much everybody was hopping onto the trap bandwagon this year, but Bruno Mars made the sound his own by incorporating more organic percussion and a classic soul chord progression. The same goes for the lyrics about “strawberry champagne on ice” and “everything 24 karats.” You know, because the album and its lead single were both called “24K Magic”...

“Love on the Brain” by Rihanna: It’s the final single from Rihanna’s great comeback album Anti, and while I still think “Kiss It Better” should have been a lot bigger than it was, this is a perfectly fine piece of retro soul. 2016 was the end of the Meghan Trainor era, so it was only fitting that we ushered the new year in with what a song of hers might sound like if it were any good.

“Green Light” by Lorde: This didn’t make the year end Hot 100, so by my own arbitrary rules, I can’t formally include it, so I’ll just include it in the honorable mentions out of spite. How the fuck was this not a hit?

And now, for what I consider to be the best hit song of 2017:

1. “Praying” by Kesha

When I wrote my entry on the loathsome waste of space known as Kodak Black, I introduced it by addressing that content doesn’t exist without context. Sure, “Tunnel Vision” is a thoroughly unpleasant listening experience, but what makes it all the more abhorrent is how he lackadaisically prods at the very real allegations against him, all the while taunting those who want to see him lose. While that song is a very unfortunate reminder that rape culture is very much a real thing, it’s at least comforting to see a song from the other side of the spectrum.

Of the few criticisms I’ve seen of Kesha’s triumphant comeback single “Praying,” the only one that comes close to holding any water is if the song would hit nearly as hard if the details of the singer’s abuse at the hands of human shitstain producer Dr. Luke weren’t so well publicized. But for me, a song of this caliber can’t really be performed - let alone written - without this kind of experience. Over somber piano chords, Kesha recounts the feelings of uselessness and trickery she felt under Luke’s wing, only to overcome these feelings and make herself stronger as the haunting mellotron swells behind her. Her message is made all the more stark in the line “I hope you find your peace fallin’ on your knees.”

If this were all “Praying” was, I’d still adore it for its bold sincerity, but what certifies this song as the best of the year is the way the song builds. About halfway through the second verse, Kesha’s voice leaps an octave, and her tone shifts from vulnerable to utterly strident. Gradually, strings, backing vocals, pounding drums and horns enter the fold, giving way to the deeply moving second repeat of the chorus. And then the bridge happens, and after her crushing conclusion that “some things only God can forgive,” she lets out the note heard around the world. Though Kesha’s brand was established on semi-satirical autotune pop, it’s this moment that proves all her detractors horribly wrong in their assertion that she had “no talent.”

And while the high note is remarkable in and of its self, its potency is matched by the very end of the song, where the music fades away. As Kesha delivers her final lines, you can hear her crying as she steps away from the microphone. This moment is one of the rawest concentrations of lived-in emotion I’ve heard in the mainstream in years, and all the more evidence that this is real. Some people might call “Praying” the best Adele song that she never sang, but this is Kesha’s story. Unfortunately, it’s the story of far too many women in our society as well, but as more and more powerful men are being exposed and cancelled for their unacceptable treatment of women, this song couldn’t exist at a better time.

Thank you for reading! I’m considering writing about my favorite albums of the year, so if you’d like to see something like that, please let me know!

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may-shepard · 7 years

Text

s4, breaking the fourth wall, the arg, and gaslighting as literary device

And if the pretentious title didn’t frighten you away, or cause you to immediately unfollow / block me, I offer some thoughts:

Following the cues left by the hot mess s4, it’s reasonable to assert the following (which has been asserted just about non-stop since each of the episodes aired; I am not pretending to be original here):

s4 is fucky in a way that seems to call attention to its own fuckyness, especially if you take events and themes of the previous series as guidelines for what to expect / how things work in the world of Sherlock. (A ton of people have done a ton of work on this, but thanks to @antisocial-otaku for making it clear how frickin obvious this pattern is, here.)

The subtext is richer / more coherent than the text, especially in The Final Problem. (Links # 2 and 3 to videos by @marcespot--shameless self-promo in #1 and #4)

Breaking the fourth wall is a major theme. This includes s4 references to Twitter, and the #sherlocklive event, as well as the numerous and sometimes literal references to breaking the fourth wall. (post by @inevitably-johnlocked)

As much as recent arg developments have been A Ride, I really think we’ve missed the obvious, because it wasn’t nearly as much of a challenge as people were looking for / as the fandom genius hive brain is capable of meeting. I think we’ve been looking too hard.

The puzzle, the thing we are supposed to figure out, is s4 itself. The game is simply this: we are invited to have discernment with regard to what is and what is not possible in the world of BBC Sherlock, and to conclude, as most people did, that much of s4 is, indeed, not compatible with the world of Sherlock. The truth of the narrative is in the subtext, as almost everyone here has argued.

The narrative of s4 is, for the most part, really hard to get hold of, and full of content that blatantly works against everything the show has tried to set up so far. As much as I appreciate attempts to make sense of s4 as is, my mind, like a lot of people’s, recoils when asked to consider (for example) that the people who wrote this:

Also wrote this:

You’ve all seen the evidence. You’ve all watched The Final Problem and thought--what the hell is this?

People in this fandom were crying foul from the moment TST ended. I think we were already playing the arg then (if such a thing exists), and we kept playing it all through s4, because we were thinking critically about the episodes, and questioning the reality status of the story with which we were presented.

Up until recently, I would have said, meh, maybe this apparent lack of skill on the part of the showrunners was deliberate, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe they just threw in a ton of excess detail (like Mr. Glowy Skull) because why not? I am not very big on writerly intention. The text I’m presented with, I feel free to interpret however I wish, and this, to me, is the point of s4. It undoes itself. It undoes the text of series 1-3. It invites critique in a whole new way. Regardless of what does or does not happen next, I will always choose to question this narrative, to read against the text, because that reading is more interesting and less infuriating. s4, like mofftiss, lies.

But.

The part that makes me think the arg is happening right in front of us, and it’s still live:

youtube

This fucking thing.

This “John and Mary really love each other” barf festival video, released on 28 February. (Savage and efficient crit here, by @smoljohnlock)

WHY NOW?

I could see, maybe, that video flying as an s4 preview, but we have it released here, now, after...all that, when we know that the picture being presented in it is nowhere near the reality that we got in the narrative.

I don’t want to say it’s a sign. I don’t know, man. I’m tired. We’re all tired. But that video certainly did invite a renewal of the wtf-was-that outrage of s4, didn’t it?

The fourth wall, in my opinion, has already been broken.

The show has been teaching us how to observe, and not just see, to think critically, and to look for solutions to puzzles, since the beginning. Now it’s turning the function of detective over to us.

Just like the #sherlocklive game was designed to allow us to practice our puzzle solving on a small scale, so is s4. The entire narrative invites us to sit up, take notice, and say, come on, that can’t be how it really happened.

I’m still not going to predict the future here. The show has broken the fourth wall before, and paid off careful observation, via the “1895″ clues. It might be doing that with the “March 8″ billboard thing. It might not. When I say that the narrative is unfinished, I mean exactly that--it lacks an ending (much like my languishing WiPs...sorry about those, btw). What will happen next? Who knows? None of us. Signs (that’s literal, billboard-type signs) point to something more.

BUT IS IT ART?

So: we have been presented with not one, but two false narratives. If mofftiss finish their damn story, and offer some sort of explanation for all the fuckery of s4, then we’ll have been told a bunch of lies in-story, about “what happened” to John and Sherlock, and a bunch of extratextual lies, about s4 being finished after three episodes.

I will always assert, regardless of what happens next, that the in-story lies are there, and believing the textual level of the narrative makes less sense / is less happy making than believing that the story lies. As for the bigger lie, about the length of s4 / the end of this narrative--we’ll see.

It’s a peculiar choice, this, as modern storytelling goes. Rather than just, you know, tell the story they wanted to tell, about a detective and his blogger, they’re really going the long way round. If the “s4 is fake” reading is confirmed, and there is a plan in place, it’s show-offy. It’s audacious. It’s gaslighting the audience to make a point. It’s putting us through an experience--the textual level content of s4--and asking us to believe something contrary to that experience.

It’s not...enjoyable? Like with everything else, I think I’ll be left questioning why this way, and not some other way. It is, potentially, fascinating.

If this is what we think it is, we’ve been playing all along, without even trying.

Tags under the cut.

@221bloodnun @devoursjohnlock @marcespot @theelephantglassintheroom @swimmingfeelsinajohnlockianpool

please feel free to forward to any arg-ers / tinhatters

#sherlock arg #s4 speculation #gaslighting in sherlock #tinhatting

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brishu · 7 years

Text

My Week At Sea - Part 2

Day 5

Several years earlier, one of my closest friends visited Jamaica and came back more disturbed than relaxed. He said the Jamaicans at his resort were so insistent on servility that they left no room for him to relate to them as people. Knowing enough about the Jamaica not enmeshed in the vicious net of tourism, he would have loved to penetrate the hotel workers’ subservience, but nothing he said or did could disrupt their forsaking their own dignity, and he was never going to align himself with the kind of racist, paternalistic assholes who enjoy a dynamic like that. I felt like I had already experienced something similar on the boat with Addy (even though she was Trini) and I was bracing myself for a flow-going day where, for the sake of my family, I settled into the role of passive oppressor as quietly as possible. I understood that all concerns like this were predicated on acknowledgement of the inherent unfairness of American foreign policy, resulting in this dark-skinned person working harder and being smarter than me, but my portion still being much greater than his. And what little he does have is far too dependent on my caprices. I guess this makes me a “snowflake” because, upon confronting poor foreigners, rather than leverage my financial power for maximum enjoyment, I would rather abrogate belief in the Manifest Destiny and deal apologetically with the Jamaican, as though that restores any balance whatsoever.

And maybe for the cruisers who opted for a high tea on a plantation or a day in the life of Bob Marley or 18 holes on Cinnamon Hill, Rastafarian minstrelsy was a welcome aspect of the experience. But again, thanks to the superior research of my wife, we had a fantastic, and perfectly comfortable excursion. Latenya, our guide, and Desmond, our driver, were kind but hardly subservient. In fact, on the bus ride to our first stop, I asked a question about Michael Manley and when my wife said, “Now you’re just showing off,” Latenya chimed in with a confirming, “Mmm hmmm.”

Throughout the ride of about 80 minutes, on the left side of the road with Desmond’s steering wheel on the right, Latenya told us about Jamaica’s history, economy and education system. Jamaica has six National Heroes and one National Heroine. Bob Marley ain’t one of them, Marcus Garvey is. Latenya also invited everyone on the bus to introduce himself in Jamaica patois: “My niem a’Brian. Me come from Brooklyn.”We were a smaller group, with only three other families: one group from Quebec, one from Mexico and one from Rochester. Guess which group asked every Jamaican we met if he knew Usain Bolt.

Again it bears remarking what an excellent job my wife did picking excursions. Ours was a two stop trip. The first was Mystic Mountain, where we rode a sky tram from the bottom to the top, gliding higher and higher, away from road noise and above the tree canopy to the summit.

That is my parents with one of our daughters in the car ahead of ours. To the left is Dolphin Cove Bay. At the top we had the opportunity to ride a self-braking roller coaster modeled after Jamaican bobsleds. I thought it might be some kind of kiddie ride but I was thrillingly wrong.

After the ride, one of the older Quebecois dudes asked me about Brooklyn and mentioned that it seemed to be the epicenter of political activity these days. My father took this to mean the guy was anti-Trump, but, considering Quebec’s reputation for cultural purity, I was more cautious in my replies. He asked me if I thought people were really going to start moving to Canada in droves and I said that I doubted it. I did not ask him his feelings about Trudeau, nor Stephen Harper because I could care less. And there was something opaque about his line of questions, as if he didn’t want me to know whether he was looking for kindred anti-Trumpism, or trying to coax forth the specious arguments of a, well, snowflake. For whatever it’s worth (not much), I think he came away respecting me, as much for avoiding hairtrigger political opinions as for the contrast between our interactions with our kids throughout the day’s adventures and those of the people from Rochester with their little boy. “Look at this Dylan! Look at that Dylan! Hey Dylan! Do you like this? What about this? Dylan! Dylan!” At some point I arrived at the belief that he was neither named after Robert Zimmerman’s stage name, nor his Welsh namesake’s, but rather after Luke Perry’s character on Beverly Hills 90210 and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.

Our second stop was Konoko Falls. This is us at the bottom:

And we all made it to the top, some of us with a greater sense of accomplishment than others:

Above Konoko Falls was part of an old tea plantation now converted into a nature preserve, replete with caged tropical birds, towering ginger blossoms, two snapping turtles named Pretty and Ugly and the resting place of one of my compatriots whose visit didn’t go so well:

We got jerk chicken and pork with pigeon peas and rice for lunch and Latenya and our Konoko guides ate with us. I thought about complaining to them that the jerk wasn’t spicy enough, because it wasn’t, but then it would be all “Oh look at the white boy eating like an islander!” so I skipped it.

The bus ride back to the pier was fascinating for its foreign mundanities. I’ve noticed that every country seems to have dinstinctly shaped curbs along its roads, and that the grass can be a different species too. This may seem like nothing, but it etches different borders into your field of view, giving you the abiding sense that you really are somewhere else. And then there are the commercial accents that give you some sense of a place’s imperatives:

The silhouetted animals suggest Central Dealers is a great shop for hunters. But what about the explosion behind the bullet? Come on down to Central Dealers and fuck that nice blue sky up real good! Was this the area’s biggest munitions depot, asserting dominance via advertising a la Coca-Cola? Or was it a fledgling endeavour, betting the store on a billboard’s pyrotechnics? Whatever security Central Dealers offered its customers, here’s the sign that’s supposed to assure citizens of their official safety:

Pierside at excursion’s end, Latenya and Desmond bade us all farewell with their hands held out. At the outset of our tour, they had said they would take care of us and hoped we would take care of them. So everybody hunched over, trying to keep their larger bills out of sight, extracting what they felt was appropriate and stashing the rest away to let the money they held represent the pinnacle of generosity. I gave Latenya $20 and Desmond $10 and that seemed acceptable to them. As I got back on the boat, I wondered how long the guilt would have lasted if I had tipped poorly or even not at all. But, deprived of the opportunity to savor that regret, I resumed the grim business of enjoying a high state of privelege as we set sail for Hispaniola.

With two days left, we began to get elegiac. For some, that meant the trajectory of sloth had hit its nadir and it was time to start rousing back to the surface of baseline real world functionality. For others it meant make your memories now before you part ways from all of these other fine folks. For my daughters it meant writing a thank you note to Addy for bringing them cookies one night and a towel gorilla another:

Initially I was touched, but then my older daughter told me she just wanted to let Addy know “how great her service has been.” I was not the first parent, drunk or sober, to have to measure out the proper combination of approval and correction, but somehow I did manage to mask my horror at her blithe superciliousness, and suggest she say, “Thanks for taking such good care of us” instead.

The first time we saw Addy after we’d left the note in the room, she said thank you but I sensed that she actually felt put upon by the gesture, as though it demanded a stronger connection with us than she was comfortable making. It also occurred to me that she was worried we might leave a sweet note in lieu of a healthy tip, which seemed to impel her to convey that our kids’ note didn’t mean very much to her. I tried to signify to her that I totally got her cool reception of the note, but whether she got my wordless message, I really don’t know. The next night after I stuffed the envelope she had left in our room, she greeted me far more warmly. I guess the proper way to hold up my end of this interaction would have been to smile, pat her gently on the shoulder and move on, thus concluding our business together. But I’m afraid what I did, in some tiny way, was needlessly assert some kind of superiority, silently expressing “We coulda been friends but I guess all you care about is money. Oh well.” But of course, I only pulled that shit because I fell into the older and grosser dynamic of the little white snot who can’t get enough of mammy’s loving forebearance. This all happened quickly enough to play it off, as though we’d had a vanilla interaction without wrinkles or subtext, but I felt the gnarls and, no matter how professionally dispassionate Addy might have been, she must have felt it too. But before I took my millisecond plunge into the depths of racism, we went to Haiti.

Day 6

Royal Caribbean has the lease on Labadee, Haiti until 2050. It’s a peninsula they tout as a private island, but Haitians are barred entry by company employees with paramilitary backgrounds reinforced by rolls of razorwire. When ships aren’t in port, the only people there are maintenance crew and the aforementioned mercenaries. When ships do make landfall, a village comes to life. Crowds fill the beaches, giant palapas become cafeterias, trams convey cruisers to various recreations, and rows of stalls are filled with authorized merchants’ authentic Haitian wares. The excursions we booked for the day included one ride on the Dragon’s Tail roller coaster, which, like the previous day’s bobsled ride, was an alpine coaster. I actually liked this one better than the Jamaican one because on the bobsleds, you start at the top, hurdle down through the rainforest and then get hauled back up. The Dragon’s Tail pulls you up first and then you shoot down the tracks, careening through the mountainside forest, curving out over the sky-colored sea, applying the brakes as infrequently as you dare.

As our older daughter and I swooped to the bottom, we could hear her younger sister squealing gleefully from the shuttle behind us. Our ride ended about a minute before my wife’s and hers. My parents also rode, but they were more liberal with their brake application and finished long after we had all dismounted the ride.

Following this, we had tickets to spend an hour in Labadee’s aqua park, which was like a floating inflatable obstacle course. This was a lot less fun. The inflatable slides were very difficult to climb and our daughters were whining about the discomfort of the water. At first I just thought they needed to toughen up, but then my own skin began to crawl. My wife asked the lifeguard on duty and he said the water was teeming with micro-organisms that stung but the pain was only brief. Oh. We did not last the full hour.

Delivered from the duppy-infested cesspool masquerading as tropical amusement, my wife found a more secluded spot on the beach, away from a lot of the noise our boat had brought to the “island.” My parents parked on lounge chairs closer to the pop-up cafeteria and I took the girls to a playground with a sprinkler system not unlike that in the onboard kiddie pool area. I sat on a curb and watched them play with a group of other kids. To the left of them a 6 on 6 beach volleyball game was taking place. Some of the guys’ torsos were right out of the Top Gun scene(Did they lower the nets for the shots of Mav spiking it? I think they lowered the nets). Others were right out of Dollar Night at Molly Brannigans. But interphysique comeraderie was in full effect and all the players were having fun, possibly even more fun than my children were getting spouted on by a fiberglass hippo. I wanted to play. I wanted my kids to make lasting friendships so I could leave them and go make friends of my own. But I could neither dump them on some other unsuspecting parent at the playground, nor did I want to. They were so happy they’d lost track of time. And watching their industry flare up, even for something as trifling as dumping cupfuls of water down seasawing flumes ad nauseum, was its own pleasure, even if I had to miss a few sandy, heartfelt high fives for the marvelous plays I definitely would have made if I’d gotten into the game.

Back on the boat, we gathered for our penultimate dinner together. Something about the semifinality of the it, whether the extra snappy service from our waiter Richard or the table circulating of the executive chef, raised expectations that this meal would be special. So I was actually relieved that even the big night food was so mediocre because, spoiled as I am by my wife’s cooking, I was looking forward to getting back home rather than being sad that this wonderful journey couldn’t last forever.

After dinner my wife took our daughters to a show in the ship’s large theater while I took my parents to the Schooner Bar to play trivia. Seats were scarce so one man holding a whole table invited us to sit with him. He was a very friendly man and his name was Guy, so obviously he was Canadian. Guy was like the mayor of the boat. This was his and is wife Linda’s 13th day at sea and they seemed to know everyone- cruisers, waiters, vendors and officers. I felt assured that, for all of Guy and Linda’s good fortune, tonight was their lucky night because they got to be on my trivia team and few people alive knew more trivia than me. The subject that night was movie themes and just as the game began, Guy and Linda introduced us to Eric and Samantha, a couple from Atlanta. My smugness about my encyclopedic knowledge might have seeped out a bit as I assured all four other adults that they were in good hands on my team. But as the game went on and we got better acquainted, it became apparent that whatever winning ways I embodied were paltry compared to those of Eric and Samantha. A popular subject among cruisers meeting on cruise ships is their cruising history. With neither cockiness nor abashedness, Eric showed me a picture of him, Samantha and several other relatives crowded around Steve Harvey on the set of Family Feud. Then he explained that while on the cruise they had taken with 27 other family members on the steam of their Family Feud winnings, they wandered into a Bingo game and won the cruise they were on with us. So, while I doubted Eric could identify movie themes as quickly or accurately as me, I made sure he saw that I understood that, contrary to initial impressions, me wagon, him star. Though when we did not win (19 out of 20 I could answer within two bars, but I am not ashamed of my unfamiliarity with the soundtrack from Divergent), I took responsibility while still ceding leadership to Eric and Mayor Guy.

Eric told us that his free cruise did not include drinks, so he was probably the soberest of our lot. Guy explained that he had purchased one of the beverage packages and then greased a few waiters with $20 apiece. Now they brought Linda and him whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. I think Guy put away more than I did, so it seemed unwise for my father to try to keep up with him. On the other hand, once the trivia game was over, Guy, Linda, Eric and Samantha insisted that my parents join them at something called The Quest. They actually discouraged me from coming along and warned me that my wife and children should definitely skip it, as whatever The Quest was was decidedly NSFW. But they didn’t know my kids, who were as proud of their grandpa as Guy and Linda were for how game he was:

The Quest was sort of a concentrated scavenger hunt where the entire auditorium was divided by seating area into teams while the cruise director commanded each team to bring him a man in drag, a man with a hairy back, a picture of a woman in front of the White House, etc. I’m still not entirely sure why Guy and my dad were barefoot, but I think Linda wanted them prepared to drop trou. Samantha, Eric, my mother, wife (elbow pictured to my left) kids and I were less competitive about The Quest than my father and his new Canadian bff’s, but no less amused.

By some dubious criteria, a different section was proclaimed the winner of The Quest, but we didn’t care. We had laughed hard and expressed unabashed fondness for folks we just met, and at some point, my wife did a headstand in her seat, which garnered evening-long admiration from our neighbors in the seats. It all felt like the postmodern equivalent of the conga line, a postmodern letting down of the hair and kicking up the postmodern heels. I have no idea what postmodern means, nor any interest in learning. What I do understand is that socially, this was the most fun we’d had all week. We drunkenly struck up new acquaintances and took each other to new heights of enjoyment. I was so glad this had happened and deeply appreciative of Linda, Guy, Samantha and Eric for enfolding us so easily into their little band. As we parted ways, Linda asked for my personal info so she could send me some of the pictures and videos of my father’s antics. In the spirit of the moment I envisioned remaining in touch with our new friends for years to come.

Throughout the cruise I had been missing my brothers and cousins, who had made the family cruises we’d taken 15-20 years ago so much fun. And probably because that evening was really the only time we had been truly sociable with other cruisers, it was at that moment that I started thinking about my grandma and aunt, who were no longer alive. I know that part of what evoked their memories was the surrogacy assumed by my parents, now grandparents themselves, and Guy, with his Canadian Jimmy Buffet avuncularity. But of course, I was also thinking about mortality, and that if my departed relatives could have been on this trip with us, they’d have known from their time on the other side of the grass not to spend one second wallowing or actively seeking despair aboard the world’s second largest ocean liner. So ultimately, their specters were conjured to goad me into maintaining the warmth I felt toward our new friends before relapsing into dyspepticism, to stand vigil over my own happiness until it became more habitual. Weeks later, Linda did email me several pictures and videos from The Quest. And they were nearly all of Guy. I am still wondering whether I should reply with a slideshow of our trip. Or a link to this account…

Day 7

At sea all day. Spiritually too. I think at one point I saw Eric at some distance and found myself retreating the other way. I felt too much pressure to recapture whatever bonhommie we had established the night before. It occurred to me that I’d had a platonic one-night stand. But I also just wanted to be comfortable and relaxed and standing around, maintaining eye contact while chuckling about last night’s zaniness could not compare to finding somewhere to lounge, read and nap.

For the kids’ benefit I rode the zipline, one last time, delivering on a promise I had made weeks earlier, that I would invert myself while zipping, and hang like a bat, a feat I’d performed at summer camp 30+ years earlier, and presumed I still remembered how to do.

I made it about 10 feet before the lifeguard yelled “Don’t go upside down!” and I immediately complied. In retrospect, I doubt they would have thrown me off the boat for disobeying the guy, and even a ban from future zipline use would have been meaningless since the zipline was 10 minutes away from shutting down for the rest of the cruise. Maybe I wanted the younger, world-traveling recreation specialists to think I was cool, and, zipping along 80+ feet above the ground, my version of cool was readily obedient rather than daringly rebellious. So, while I can say I stopped my stunt because the boat made me, a braver man would have held his pose a bit longer.

As we gathered for our final dinner together, nobody else in my family had seemed eager to track down our friends from the night before, opting instead to drink, read and relax free of recent entanglement. And while we did little to reinforce whatever social bonds had been forged during The Quest, I wondered how many lasting friendships had been struck up that week, how many Facebook and Instagram connections made, how many romances burgeoned, or breached. How wide did the spectrum of emotion, from sadness that this magical time was ending to eagerness to get home, stretch? I had been surprised throughout the week by how many people I talked to who owned their own business. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. But I could understand why they would value a week of lethargic gluttony more than somebody whose real life entailed fewer pressures and better food. Just to steer clear of consequential decisions, to be able to screw up without harming anyone, must have been quite a tonic. I didn’t have those worries to leave behind, so I was less likely to embrace the daze.

All week long I had been pressuring myself to blow past whatever gulf there was between my personal inclinations and the style of indulgence that seemed to make my fellow cruisers the happiest. I tried convincing myself that transcendant pleasures were available if I could just ignore my myriad reservations. And even though I felt like the social version of a picky eater, I found plenty onboard to enjoy. I just didn’t have a deeply restorative experience, nor did I need one, nor did I need to care about as little as possible to enjoy being with my family. And I should note that when we left the dining room after dinner that night, the number of faces basking in the glow of devices, sometimes 10 out of 10 people at one table, was staggering. Throughout the cruise I had posted a few pictures on Instagram, but nobody in my family had taken their phone out at dinner. The tv in our room never went on, and the iPad I brought for the kids to watch on the plane stayed in my backpack all week. Surveying the dining room, I felt considerably less guilty for not connecting with more people who seemed to prefer remote electronic relationships to the friends and loved ones right in front of them. I was cautious not to milk too much superiority out of the tableau of ghostlit faces atomizing families’ last night together, but I also felt vindicated and relieved, that by remaining aloof of the vapidity, I really hadn’t missed much. Meanwhile, I knew that while the onboard sense of community had felt robust to some and anemic to others, I was so ready to return to my village of snowflakes that my departure felt like more of an escape than my arrival had.

Day 8

We got off the boat with considerably less fanfare than than we had boarded it. As the massive Port Everglades processing center spit us back out into the world, I wondered whether the feel of unceremonious credential-stripping was intentional, a touch of unpleasantness designed to make you long to return to the company’s care and good graces. Or was it simply the jarring difference between being active paying customers and former paying customers? I don’t know much about branding, but I know that Royal Carribean is a multi-billion dollar corporation and I could intuit that hundreds of suits were working every angle they could think of to open new revenue streams, and then it was another department’s job to integrate these ideas into the unified identity of a bona fide Royal Caribbean product, which was something like island pleasure, sanitized by Scandinavian experts. Based on their financial performance, these initiatives were well-executed. But held up to the scrutiny whose discouragement I so zealously ignored, the swarm of photographers, dangling of status upgrades, nutritionists of obscure nationalities selling secret fat cures in the spa, licensced gemologists convincing cruisers that this boat was among the world’s finest jewelry shops, delighted welcome vs. slightly disgusted goodbye, felt unified only by the anchor logo and the feel of aggressive upsell. Woe be unto any of these poor bastards who found themselves in Marrakech.

On the bus from Port Everglades back to the Miami airport, I recognized an older Israeli couple I had overheard speaking Hebrew at breakfast one morning. They seemed strangely un-Israeli in that they were A) Befuddled by travel and B) Polite. At the airport a large line formed outside to check bags. My wife went inside and came back telling us the lines were shorter. The Israeli couple asked where we were going and in Hebrew I told them about the smaller lines inside. On our way in, they asked my parents why I spoke Hebrew and they didn’t and, though the answer wasn’t that complicated, I think my parents were just happy to interact with fellow Jews who weren’t from Long Island. And maybe the Israelis were happy to talk with us for our hamishness, though at the moment our most attractive feature seemed to be my ability to explain the various options a typical airport kiosk offered them, and to help them make their choices. In a way, their cluelessness about airplane security gave me great hope for Israel’s current safety situation, but conversely, a grim outlook on Israel’s regional prospects, since her progress in security had not been accompanied by commensurate diplomatic strides.

We had several hours to kill before our flight. My wife’s AmEx platinum card got us into the Miami Airport Centurion Lounge. This was a lavish prospect, and one that I was somewhat reluctant to enjoy because it extended our access to food and drink at a time when I had already shut the door on such perks. My wife’s card granted admission for the four of us and at her insistence, we bought guest passes for my parents. My father almost never lets me treat him to anything, but in this case he did, for which I was glad. And it was nice to have this extra time together, relaxed, needs met, surrounded by traveling Miamians who may or may not have been drug lords.

After nearly three hours passed pleasantly in the lounge, it was time to go to our gates. My parents and daughters exchanged warm goodbyes and then my wife and I covered whatever shortcomings lace through our expressions of gratitude with vague but intentional maneuvers meant to convey that we deserved a great deal of credit for the joy they got from their granddaughters. It could be something as outwardly innocuous as, “Hope y’all had fun with the girls, “ but subtle as it was, I could neither deny the ulterior motive in saying it, nor harness my identification of this shittiness as means of surmounting it.

Our gate was full of crying children, which tested my inner saint. On one hand, I genuinely cared about these kids, and felt confident that I could cheer them up in short order. I often did just that with funny faces or even conversations if the sad kid was close enough that it didn’t seem weird. But on the other hand, I felt helplessly triumphant that my kids were such sanguine travelers, and the attendant feelings of parental superiority were hard to avoid.

We had purchased our tickets with an American Airlines credit card, which I was led to believe accorded us some type of boarding priority. But by the time active military, first class, business class, diamond star medallion, platinum status and American Airlines Advantage Preferred had been invited to traipse planeward across the special carpet, we were one of maybe 10 families left to board. Once again the special feeling extended on point of sale was withdrawn post-purchase.

I had booked the aisle and window on both sides of the same row, knowing it would give us flexibility to offer an aisle or window to whichever middle-seater was willing to switch so we could sit three on one side and one on the other. Instead, we got entangled with a scattered group of elderly Italians and again I felt like an unacknowledged superhero for being able to help another family in their mother tongue. The Italians reunited, our family contiguous across the aisle and a formerly middle-seater on the aisle ahead of us, we were seated comfortably and the plane took off.

On our flight down to Miami, each seat had its own entertainment system. The older plane we rode back to new York was equipped with monitors hanging intermittently from the ceiling, all broadcasting a long-form infomercial for a new show on NBC. Mostly I read or napped, but sometimes I would look up at the screens and watch behind the scenes clips about a show called Emerald City which was set in Oz well before Dorothy’s arrival. Cast members were interviewed in full costume, while special effects experts and producers wore t-shirts and stubble. Even though I couldn’t hear any of it, it was clear they were speaking with great seriousness. But a sublte aspect of their postures betrayed network brass compulsion. The cast included unknown actors plus a few “prestige ones” like Vincent D’Onofrio and Joely Richardson and there was something performative about the passion they exuded, which in some respects I found comforting, since it showed a tiny but perceptible leaking of the awareness that they were all involved in something expensive, derivative (it was clearly meant to be Wizard of Oz meets Game of Thrones) and preposterous. Maybe some of the younger cast extolled the show without irony, just young beef- and cheesecake thrilled by the chance to be on TV. But while the older actors and creative types all seemed engaged in a chaarade, it struck me that the millions of people who might be interested in watching this drek would have to actively ignore the micro-signals emitted by the more aware members of the show’s creative team. And this more effortful form of ignorance, this determination to elude the minefield of buzzkills that spoil superficial entertainment, even at the expense of sensitivity toward loved ones’ feelings, was as prevalent on land (or in the air) as it was at sea. Millions of enormous people geared up to consume, consume, consume, happy to think as little as possible, all while remaining vigilantly unaware of even their lack of awareness that no amount of material plenitude would turn them away from devices and toward the friendly people at the shore at whom they had such a hard time waving.

But what did that say about me, flogging the same distinctions over and over again, careening headlong into the buzzkills, coopting any human foible I could find as an excuse to remain aloof of the fray? Was I afraid of what might happen if my brain just shut up and let me enjoy the festivities too? Yes. I was.

Back home that night, we settled in to watch the Oscars. I imagined a Monday to Monday voyage at sea, where we attended an onboard Oscar party. My musings got specific as I pictured cruisers name-checking the Vanity Fair party as proof of their cinematic sophistication, and then my own parsing why their citation felt obtuse while my own impassioned takedown of Whiplash signified a superior comprehension of what was good and bad about movies. But why was I still litigating arguments that never even took place out loud? Surely I didn’t think the Quebecois from the Jamaica excursion, or the guys I’d watched a basketball game with one night, or even Linda, Guy, Samantha and Eric were sitting at home now wishing we’d gotten to know each other better. And neither was I. So what the fuck was my problem? Well, I have many. And it’s not a cruise’s job to solve them. If I didn’t fit in on the boat as snugly as other folks, I needn’t see it as a loss, nor justify it philosophically. I’m me, they’re them, and none of them will read this anyway.

#Cruise #Cruise Ship #Royal Caribbean #Family Vacation #Family #Neurosis #Homegoing #Yaa Gyasi #Allure of the Seas #Oscars #Vacation #Winter Break #Brooklyn

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