I hate to admit it, but as I watch Teen Nick’s late night reruns of 90s classics, I realize that there are a lot of things that Clarissa didn’t explain. Like how subprime-mortgage bonds work. Or why her parents were totally OK with Sam crawling into her room with a ladder. Or how to apply to college. As great as 90s kid TV was, (and we all know how great it was), it’s admittedly left us a little ill-equipped to deal with life past the age of fourteen.* So I had to ask myself: Have I learned anything of value from children’s television? I started to think back. Way back. I sifted through my muddled heap of pop culture references and dredged up all that I could remember about Pete and Pete, Looney Tunes, even Sesame Street. Things that came to mind: The sheer joy of tuning into an episode of Ninja Turtles after Saturday morning breakfast and practicing some of their most violent moves on my sister. Hesitating to turn the light off after a particularly frightening episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? Going to the Cherry Hill Mall to purchase the most Alex Mac-esque hat that I
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In continuing with this month’s poetry theme, I couldn’t let April pass without throwing in a little etymology. “Poetry” comes from the ‘poiesis’/ποίησις , meaning a making: a forming, creating. The word implies a rigid concern with craft and aesthetic quality. So it’s only fitting that today I discuss The History of One Tough Motherfucker by Charles Bukowski, a poem whose lack of structure challenges the very meaning of the word “poem.” Bukowski won my instant esteem with The History of One Tough Motherfucker, mostly because as a high school student, I relished any opportunity to use the f-word in an academic setting. (This was before I discovered Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti). But beyond its crude title, this poem made a lasting impression on me. I love Bukowski’s poetry because it is utterly devoid of craft. That his poem would get an F in any high school English class doesn’t seem to bother him, for his very life is one heaping failure. (Bukowski’s love of alcohol, whores and barroom brawls make Ginsberg look like a saint). And yet his genius lies in his extraordinary correspondence between word and action. With its charismatic self-destruction and dismissive pain, reading a Bukowski poem
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In celebration of National Poetry Month (and yes, I know the month is almost over, but April is the cruelest month, so cut me a little slack) I’ve compiled a list of some of my favorite American poems. In one way or another, these poems have either influenced my relationship with the written word, or simply struck a chord with me. Over the next week I’ll be examining a few of them. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot This poem was everything that I wanted to say at the age of nineteen, which is admittedly odd considering Prufrock is an aging man’s soliloquy. In hindsight I was listening to a lot of The Clash at the time, and I perhaps wanted a more eloquent way to ask, “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” Like a lot of teens, I felt like the whole world had their act together except me. I was paralyzed by indecision and felt ill-equipped in expressing my uncertainty. As a late teen I was drawn to Prufrock’s same frustration, (“It is impossible to say just what I mean!”), his indecision (“And how should I presume?”) and his suspicion that he is
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Context The 1960s in America marked an age of youth and rebellion, as 70 million children from the post-war baby boom became teenagers and young adults. In a turn against the conservative fifties, young people ignited revolutionary changes in the cultural fabric of American life with accepted drug use and sexual liberation. Eric Carle, renowned children’s book author of the self-proclaimed Greatest Generation, dedicated his work to exposing the dangerous consequences of the new liberal movement. In his didactic bildungsroman The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Carle explores the relationship between a naïve young Caterpillar and an insatiable and self-indulgent society. The book was met with critical and commercial success. Carle’s work, which has been translated into 48 languages and has sold over 103 million copies, still resonates with children’s librarians for its duality as good-natured narrative and as an allegory of human gluttony. Plot Overview A caterpillar eats too much, gets sick and then turns into a butterfly. Summary/Analysis Carle’s magnum opus begins with a little egg that lies on a leaf in the light of the moon.  The prosaic opening evokes a sense of stillness and peace, reminiscent of a simpler time in pastoral America. The following day, a warm
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The rooms on the northeast corner of the Amada Hotel in Cancun, Mexico look out, to the north, over the brush on tip of the island, the entrance to the harbor, and the Caribbean Sea, and to the east, to Isla Mujeres, the roofs of all the distant houses a pastel stucco. If you sleep with your feet toward the east, the sun will shine on your face and wake you up no matter where you were the night before. You might roll over or turn your feet the other way but pretty soon the sun will have its way with you and creep into every corner of the room. This morning I do not choose to turn around the other way in the bed or roll over, and I let the sun shine on my face as I prepare for a day on the water. I slip on a pair of cut off shorts and green cotton t-shirt, exit the room, walk downstairs, and sit down at the café and have breakfast. If I wanted to be honest with myself this morning I would admit that my going fishing is not about catching fish but writing books. Somewhere along
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Most artists are never satisfied with their own work. Long after the paint brush is put back in its drawer, the artist wrestles with lingering questions of self-doubt. Is this good? What will people think? What was I even trying to do here? The artist is her own worst critic. But as an artist and a philosopher of aesthetics, perhaps no one has grappled with these questions more than Dr. Kevin Melchionne. Dr. Melchionne studied painting but left art school after two years to study philosophy at Hunter College in New York City. He eventually entered the graduate program in philosophy at Stony Brook University, completing a dissertation in aesthetics and receiving his Ph.D. Melchionne continues to write as well as paint. I had the pleasure of interviewing Dr. Melchionne about the relationship between his own artwork, his theories on the cultivation of taste, and our self-knowledge of aesthetic satisfaction. While Melchionne has published nearly a dozen articles in various publications dealing with Aesthetics, this interview addresses only his two most recent publications. In “On the Old Saw, ‘I know nothing about art but I know what I like,’” Melchionne argues that the cultivation of taste is dependant upon knowing
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Stuck on the 6 train with a lukewarm coffee in hand, I opened Nicholson Baker’s The Anthologist. The novel is about a man who cannot write the introduction to his new anthology of poems, Only Rhyme. Apparently it’s a worthwhile read, as The New York Times review notes: “With his hero trying, and mostly failing, to write an introduction, Baker’s novel actually does justice to poetry.” I can’t comment on this assessment, however, as I am protesting the novel on principle. Five minutes into my reading, I grew impatient. “When is he going to get to the haiku?” I started flipping through the rest of the book, hoping a little symmetrical, three-lined pocket of text would jump out from the page. I didn’t see one. Maybe I missed it? I scrutinized every page. Lots of Auden, Hardy and Tennyson, but no sign of the haiku anywhere. How can a novel that does justice to poetry overlook the haiku? I was so disappointed, I wrote a rebellious haiku on the spot: Good bye, Liz Bishop Iambic meter is done The haiku prevails I’m sure Baker’s novel fails to mention the haiku because the craft is the red headed step child of
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The day after New Year’s Day, I embark on my usual 10 mile weekend run. My run often includes a full loop around Central Park, which I affectionately refer to as, “My Park.” Now, to set the record straight, I’m not operating under the avaricious delusion that one of the most beautiful public parks in the world belongs to me.  I’ve merely developed a special predilection for the Park as I’ve run over 2500 miles through its roads and trails over the last few years. Central Park is “My Park” in the same way that The Office might be “Jessie’s Show” or the Eagles might be, “Rob’s Team.” Sure, “my” is a possessive pronoun, but it can also be a lovely term of endearment. As I round the Park and carry on with my jog, I realize that there’s a certain comic element to running in circles on New Years. In ancient times, the Romans placed Janus, a mythical king of early Rome, at the head of the calendar. With two faces, Janus could look back on past events and forward into the future. He is always depicted with two faces, one on the front of his head, to look
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Bring your lawyers, guns and money: SantaCon is coming to town this Saturday. For those who don’t already know, SantaCon is an annual mass gathering of people dressed in Santa Claus costumes who parade around and bar crawl.  Currently, there are 178 SantaCon locations in 24 countries. Father Christmas goes frat. Though I’ve never participated in the event, there have been several years when, as an unsuspecting holiday shopper, I’ve been caught up in the gaggle of drunk Santas. As I flounder in the ubiquitous sea of red hats, I’m always struck by the participants’ ability to stay in character the entire day—Can you pass me that beer, Santa? Here you go, Santa. Thanks, Santa. New York City Santas get really into their Santaness. While I get it—SantaCon is another excuse to be silly and day drink—I can’t help but think of the theatrical significance of the event. What happens when a group of people all play the part of one of the most recognized characters in the world?  Perhaps the event is more significant than we give it credit for. A little look at the history of theatre demonstrates that SantaCon is more than just a day of debauchery.
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It seems like only yesterday that I was waxing philosophical about autumn beers. But alas, that was nearly two and a half months ago! The leaves have fallen, the days are dark and the sky is a hazy shade of winter. I can’t glorify winter the way I do autumn. To be honest, between the months of December and February, I refer to Mother Nature as “The Bitch.” The days of enjoying margaritas at Boast Basin feel as foreign as driving on the left side of the road. But rest assured, there is still drinking to be done. Hearty beers are aplenty in a season that inspires hibernation. Winter brings out unique small-production seasonal brews called “winter warmers.” There are no specific rules for how these beers should be brewed but winter warmers are typically malty, complex and higher in alcohol. Some have spice or fruit characteristics, while others are flavored with chocolate or vanilla. Here, Being for the Benefit presents some of our favorite winter beers of 2010-2011. While we focused mainly on domestic craft beers this season, there are a few “proletariat” beers in the mix as well. “Black Chocolate Stout” Brooklyn Brewery Brooklyn’s Chocolate stout is an
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If there were any woman in the world who could convince me to “bat for the other team,” it would hands down be Zadie Smith. She’s brilliant, beautiful, and one of the only people I’ve ever encountered who has mastered that “too cool for school” persona without being a total jerk. Actually, I don’t think it’s a persona; she really is cooler than the rest of us. Last night Smith did a talk and signing at the Barnes and Noble on 86th & Lex in New York City. I went mostly because I love her work, but also because a little part of me wanted to see if she were really the goddess that I imagined her to be. I mean, no one can be that exquisite, and thoughtful, and cool, and live half the year in Italy, and have a cute Irish poet as a husband, and write White Teeth at the age of 23 and not have some kind of major deformity, right? Can life really be that unfair? Well, it can. Zadie Smith is all the more radiant in real life. Sigh. Last year I devoured Smith’s three novels—White Teeth, The Autograph Man, and On Beauty. She’s
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I have a…complicated relationship with gingers. Both of my sisters are redheads, and throughout my childhood, adults often asked, tongue in cheek, “So why don’t you have red hair?” Apparently I didn’t deal well with rhetorical questions as a kid. Literal to a fault, I searched in vain for an answer. Why don’t I have red hair? Because I’m adopted? Because I’m a mutant? Because I wasn’t born, but rather hatched from an egg?  I discovered the pangs of ostracization in being a brunette. So when my youngest sister urged me to do an article about gingers, I didn’t exactly embrace the idea. After all, she is half-responsible for my insecurities as a non-redhead. But after some perfunctory googling, I found that the social history of redheads is a compelling narrative and, to my chagrin, worthy of an article on Being for the Benefit. (You’re welcome, Maura). The course of time shows that  gingers were revered as much as they were ridiculed. History is full of this dichotomy—redheads are goddesses and demons, kings and pillagers. Helen of Troy and Cleopatra had auburn locks.  The ancient goddess of love, Aphrodite, was a redhead. Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” depicts a woman with
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I apologize to my small base of loyal readers who were kind enough to add Being for the Benefit to their “favorites” and RSS feeds, only to be starved of new content for nearly seven weeks! Yikes! I have let you down, and I have let myself down. (Insert emoticon with quivering lip). But like hot pants and comic book heroes, Being for the Benefit is back with a vengeance. In an effort to express my sorrow and make amends for my absence, I leave you with a brief discussion of the loaded word, “sorry.” Sorry. O.E. sarig “distressed, full of sorrow,” from W.Gmc. *sairig-, from *sairaz “pain” (physical and mental); related to sar (see sore). Meaning “wretched, worthless, poor” first recorded mid-13c. Spelling shift from -a- to -o- by influence of sorrow Let’s face it: expressing guilt, sympathy, regret, humiliation, and/or sorrow is a generally awkward and uncomfortable experience. Perhaps this is why the English language lacks specific terms for the expression of condolence or regret, and instead lumps the wide scope of these feelings into an uncouth, “I’m sorry.” One might argue that we can say, “I regret that…” or “I’m embarrassed about…” and these terms might have the
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New York City real estate is like a heroine in a Russian novel— it is none more beautiful than when it begets suffering. The typical apartment search is an ill-fated love story. You spend agonizing hours on Craigslist in the search for “the one.” You meet a lot of great apartments, but each one has a hang-up that you just can’t live with (or in). At times, you’re convinced that all the good ones are already taken and you should just move to Long Island. But then an unexpected one comes along, and you’re so happy to have found a place that’s so seemingly normal that you throw down a security deposit before anyone else can snatch it up. Everyone tells you that you’ll be happy together. With a twinge of hubris, you assure friends who are mid-search that you’ve been there before, and that things will only get better. But the honeymoon ends all too soon. Right after you settle in, unforeseen problems show their ugly faces. Cockroaches come out of the woodwork. Your hot water lasts two minutes, tops. Your walls are paper thin and your neighbors have loud sex at all hours of the night. There’s a
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Several months ago, the New York Times and a number of different internet-marketing websites dedicated articles to “The Google Alphabet.” If you’ve asked Google to “show suggestions” in your browser toolbar, what pops up when you just type the first letter of your search? The overwhelming consensus was that the “Google Alphabet” is really just a glorified Home Shopping Network. A is for Amazon. B is for Best Buy. C is for Craigslist. I is for Ikea. R is for RadioShack. Out of 26 letters, two thirds lead us directly to a site that offers home décor. Google suggests that we shop. A lot. Mostly for furniture and electronics. Unfortunately, I have little use for the Google alphabet. I live in a 400 square foot apartment—I’ve no need for more house wares. So the philosophy major in me turned to open-ended questions. Let’s be honest, we love Google Suggest in part because it assures us that we’re not alone in our eccentricities. Type in, “Am I?” and an impatient Google, ill-equipped to let you wallow in your insecurities asks: “What’s that? Are you…oh, just taking a guess here…Crazy? Pregnant? Google can be a mom, a shrink, a physician, or a
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Dear Donovan, I know I told you never to contact me again. But it’s just…I don’t know. When I saw you on TV in that Redskins jersey, I broke down a little inside. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t obsess over you.I can’t believe that after 11 years, we’re not even talking. Sometimes I lay awake at night and wonder how the twins are doing. Or if you ever miss it here. But mostly I just think about us, and the way we were. Whenever I hear a group of drunk tanks sing, “Fly, Eagles, Fly,” I still half-expect to hear a “McNabb sucks!” at the end. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe you’re really gone. You seem pretty happy in Washington. I wish I could say that I’m happy for you, but you and I both know that I want you to end up with a 1-15 season. If we can’t win together, then I just can’t bear the thought of seeing you with a ring of your own. I’m seeing other people too. Multiple Quarterbacks. I guess you could say that things are getting pretty serious with one of them. Just
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Ah, autumn. A time of chunky sweaters, crunchy leaves, crisp air and pumpkin-flavored everything. It’s a time to saddle up and buckle down as kids exchange beach toys for new notebooks and college students return to sleepy towns. A time to enjoy that beautiful kind of in-between. But let’s be honest: We love fall in part because it’s a season that has the word “beer” written all over it. Cooler evenings unleash an inexplicable craving for hearty, leaf-colored ambers, as the tastes of the season call out for malty partners. A good fall beer will demand your full, upright attention. It will not tolerate mindless swigging, the way all those sugary, thirst-quenching summertime drinks do. Each sip telegraphs a terse forget-me-not message to the tongue, demanding respect and contemplation. Ok, enough waxing philosophical about  beer. What we really want to know is: What should I drink? I scoured the internet, consulted some friends, and did a little tasting myself to bring you this Autumn 2010 Guide to Beer. Cheers! “Red Rocket Ale” Bear Republic Sonoma County may be better known for wine, but Bear Republic gets it right with a series of quirky and delicious ales that deliver a punch.
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The abbreviated version of Plato’s Symposium might go something like this: (A Bunch of Greek Men GET HAMMERED. They DISCUSS LOVE) Greek Men:    Love so confusing!! Socrates:        Yup. (Greek men develop a SECRET CRUSH on Socrates. They proceed to PASS OUT.) THE END Historians and philosophers read Plato’s dialogue as a way of better understanding the institution of the symposium in ancient Athens. I read it to better understand “the mancrush.” I first became aware of the mancrush when my boyfriend started to talk excessively about Fernando Torres, the Spanish striker for Liverpool’s Football Club. I was a bit irked when he started referring to the striker affectionately as “Nando,” but I wrote it off as a silly scouser nickname. But soon other, more telling comments surfaced: Look at Nando’s hair today—He has the perfect faux hawk. I wonder why he always wears long sleeves when he plays? Does his stomach look a little paunchier to you today? I love the way he tries to speak English. Finally, everything came crashing to a head one morning when I heard him singing, “Fer-nan-do Tor-res, Liverpool’s Number Nine!” (sung to the tune of “The Ants Go Marching In”) in the
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They’re out there. The butt-grabbers. The nail-clippers. The loud iPod-listeners. The open-mouth coughers. And they’re ruining your subway ride. Let’s face it, there are people out there who get away with some pretty unsavory underground habits time and time again. To the delight of the masses, New York artist Jason Shelowitz (aka jayshells) decided to do something about it. After surveying New Yorkers about their subway grievances, Shelowitz wrote rules about people’s “top peeves” and made them into screenprints resembling actual MTA posters.  Last April, Shelowitz posted over 400 prints in various stations. (And as a true etiquette artist, he used double-sided tape that wouldn’t leave a mess once the sign was removed). The world took note. The New York Times, New York Magazine, The Huffington Post, and dozens of other newspapers, magazines and blogs embraced Shelowitz’s “guerrilla politesse.” Now, five months after the campaign, I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with Jason as he reflects on his campaign and the state of public art. What motivated you to launch a guerrilla campaign about subway etiquette? Just from riding the train for a decade, I decided to say what most people were already thinking. So I used my skills as
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First, an attempt to make this article culturally relevant: September 20, 2010 marks the 160th Anniversary of the fifth law of the Compromise of 1850.  In a tricky technicality, the law prohibited the slave trade, but not slavery itself, in the District of Columbia. Obviously, the “Compromise” was weak and short-lived, and we no longer consider it a major landmark in American History. The term “compromise” is generally a positive term, denoting a “coming together” of sorts.  However, in light of The Compromise of 1850, I’d like to take this day to celebrate the sneaky inner-workings behind  “give and take.” My boyfriend and I have a bizarre method of keeping track of who gets to select the next movie to watch together. We refer to it as “The System.” “The System” is admittedly an ill-chosen phrase, because “system” implies purposeful structure and formulaic procedure. Our System is more like a game created by two five-year-olds: The rules are made as you go, no one can possibly know all of the rules at any given time, and a new rule is introduced only when both parties secretly think that they can benefit from said rule. It is an endless game of
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The ampersand. Sexy yet subdued. Teeming with curves yet irresistibly restrained. The cocktease of typography.  Veiled in mystery, she weaves her way in and out of texts, only to leave us pondering: “What is the point of you?” And yet, however uncertain her usage, there’s no denying that she’s here to stay. I’ve always had a mild, middle-school-natured crush on the ampersand, but upon learning its history, I fell deeply and passionately in love.  Even its name is brimming with charm. The word, “ampersand” is a conflation of “and per se and,” a Latin-English hybrid meaning, “the character ‘&’ by itself is and.” What other symbol refers to itself in its very name?!? Swoon. Traditionally, in English-speaking schools, it was common practice to add the ‘&’ sign (pronounced ‘and’) at the end of the alphabet. The recitation of the alphabet would end: “X, Y, Z and per se and.” The last phrase was routinely slurred to “ampersand” and the term crept into common English usage by the 1830s. Although its original name was butchered and it is long banished from our alphabet, the ampersand holds a special place in our culture and language.  Typography designers relish the use of the
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Despite participating in one of the most corporatized nations in the world, Americans can’t shuffle off the notion that once a product enters the “mainstream” it loses a great deal of its original appeal. It is a threadbare tale in any consumer-driven society: By the time Kmart sells ankle boots, fashion snobs will brandish them, “out of style.” A band has all but lost its indie charm once it signs with a major label. We love to hate on McDonald’s and Wal-Mart because their products are “too accessible.” There’s no denying that likeability—and luxury—requires a little game of hard-to-get. A gourmet breakfast sandwich But if “corporate” implies a watered down, mass-produced version of the “real thing,” is it even possible for the mass-produced product to ever be the “real thing?” Can authenticity emerge from the mainstream? A brief history of the breakfast sandwich confirms that luxury can travel both down and up. The story begins at a likely place: McDonald’s.  Legend has it that in 1972, Herb Peterson, a food scientist for MacDonald’s, covertly asked former President Ray Kroc to “look at something,” without giving any details because, according to Kroc: It was a crazy idea—a breakfast sandwich. It consisted
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Is language first and foremost an artifact of culture? Or is it largely determined by human biology? This issue has been argued back and forth for a couple of centuries with no clear resolution in sight. Guy Deutscher places himself firmly in the pro-culture camp with his book Through the Language Glass: Why the World Looks Different in Other Languages. Deutscher’s book is a fascinating read for anyone remotely interested in the nuances of language. Who knew that Russian water—a “she”—becomes a “he” once you put a tea bag into her? Or that Babylonians have no future tense? Or that some languages don’t have a word for “blue?” Through the Language Glass is peppered with enough quirky details and language factoids to satiate even the nerdiest of word nerds. The meat of Deutscher’s argument is another issue, however, for a lot of facets of language that he attributes to culture appear to be a shifty nature in disguise. Deutscher devotes the first half of his book to a discussion of color. He reasons that if language is a collection of concepts and their corresponding labels, nothing blurs these distinctions better than our understanding of color. Linguists who champion nature have
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Fall 2010 is a transitional era for fashion, as designers cling to a down-trodden minimalist look that’s pervaded the runways the last few years, and at the same time, welcome a return to luxury. 2010 fashion also evokes a lot of history. Women’s lines echo “Mad Men” and “Grey Gardens” styles and men’s double breasted suits are made in the stylings of their grandfathers. For the first time in years, men’s and women’s fashions are inextricably linked. While we’re a far cry from an 80s glam kind of opulence, designers are reverting back to a more “practical luxury.” In this season, we see fashion take on a slightly more “dressed up for work” feel, a look that is far more sophisticated than the “street wear” that has dominated runways since the collapse of the economy. Smoking jackets and good old fashioned enter 2010. Here are some worth while styles to watch. Military remains in fashion for both men and women in Autumn 2010. But just as this trend has changed for women, so too has it evolved for men. And in exactly the same way. Taking more inspiration from early 20th Century military conflicts, the look takes in both army
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While Old School Nick characters persevere to trump authority, current Nick kids effortlessly sidestep it.
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Reality TV is arguably a far more intense engagement with the cultural process than anything literature can offer, as it gives the undeniable sense (or illusion) of the individual controlling, managing, running, making up her involvement with the cultural product. The viewer herself plays the part of a deus ex machina- swooping in from above to determine the outcome of the spectacle at hand.
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