I was of the generation that grew up inside a shopping mall. This enclosed building was Mecca for a suburban teenager. The first mall was built in the late 70's in my Philadelphia suburban town, the new playground for me and my friends. The arcade and pizza shop was where we would congregate on Saturdays. Gaggles of girls would stroll up and down, gossiping, browsing, and trying to get the attention of their male counterparts, also strolling in packs. Orange Julius was as familiar as the Champs Elysee bakery where my mom would buy my croissants. This mall would soon be eclipsed by the newer version in another town where trendier stores like Benetton would draw throngs of suburban teens.
It seems this staple of our culture is facing a slow death all across the country. This phenomenon that had completely reshaped our culture in terms of how, and where, we consume is now becoming as obsolete as the plastic furniture covers, a staple of 70's homes.
This American phenomenon was created by Victor Gruen, a Jewish bohemian. He started designing shops for fellow immigrants in New York after failing in cabaret theater. By the 40's, department stores were moving to the suburbs. Commissioned to build a shopping center in Southdale in 1956, Gruen threw a roof over the structure and installed an air conditioning system to keep the temperature at a constant 75 degrees--perpetual springtime.
By the 80's the mall was as much a part of American life as Ford trucks. We saw food chains, created for malls, crop up. Can anyone say Panda Express or Cinnabon without immediately conjuring up escalators, canned music, and Victoria's Secret? We saw movies like "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and "Valley Girl" epitomize mall culture for the generation of mall goers.
By the 90's malls were in dire straits. The problem was in the sheer number of malls cropping up, competing for the same shoppers in their suburban haven. Another problem was the changing face of suburbia itself. The sedate life of subdivisions, soccer moms, and bored kids was evolving as immigrants started to arrive, and in some areas, in droves. The 90's also saw the resurgence of cities drawing hip white suburbanites to move downtown, leaving behind suburban life. So, this planned shopping community, created to keep out diversity, was now doing the exact opposite as communities started to change. It seems the rapid death of malls has spawned a new hobby: amateur shopping-mall history, namely on websites. It is a strange country indeed.
So, what's in store for American shopping culture? Rick Caruso, little known outside Los Angeles, is doing his part to reshape, redefine, the old mall. His creation, which sits on the corner of Fairfax and Third, otherwise known as The Grove, has created a faux-city behind walls where women, mostly white, feel safe and stylish enough to shop to their heart's content. Yes, there is something a bit Vegas like about the whole place, especially the fountain that sprays in tune to various songs like Kool and the Gang's, "Celebration". There is something sinister, even, about this fake city with its strange trolley that runs the length of the place. But this new outdoor shopping mecca with its minuscule green space, which people use as a park, is redefining the way we shop, yet again. Whether the success of the Grove will translate into other suburban towns tearing off the roof on their indoor shopping centers remains to be seen. Really, who in their right mind would walk around in an uncovered building in Minnesota during the winter months?
And even the Grove, during a rainy day, is quite empty as people head to the enclosed safety of the Beverly Center. But perhaps that is more a result of the thin-bloodedness of Angelenos, whose very existence is shattered if a few rain drops fall from the heavens above. Perhaps Minnesotans, quite at home with inclement weather, would happily stuff themselves inside their down jackets to do a bit of shopping. New Yorkers certainly have no trouble shopping in any type of weather. We only need to head down a clogged 5th Avenue, the largest outdoor mall in America, and see how weather really plays no part when people are intent on spending.
Whatever the outcome, the latest casualty of the changing face of American life, mainly in the suburbs, will continue to be felt on all levels. Those who've remained in suburban towns, perhaps their salaries not allowing them to move into cities, will have to face a reality where the Orange Julius will be replaced a Taqueria, or worse, a butcher shop that sells exotic animal parts. It's no surprise that immigration will be the biggest issue during this Presidential election. Global warming be damned! Suburban families are pissed that their towns are a changing.
Again, this country will reinvent how we shop as another 'thing' emerges as the next best thing.
Showing posts with label Pop Culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pop Culture. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Thursday, November 29, 2007
What is originality?
I've been listening to Alicia Keyes new album. I've always heard the influence of Prince in her music, someone she does credit as inspiration. On that one song, "If I Ain't Got You," it sounded like she was channeling Prince in every cadence of that song. It sounds more like a Prince than Prince's new music. This is not to acknowledge what a formidable talent she is, when compared to her contemporaries, namely, Brittany Spears.
This new album has one song "No One", which sounds like an amalgamation of Annie Lennox and Prince. It was while listening to this song that the question of originality came to my mind. Any artist will read, listen to, paint like, an artist that came before them. This former artist provides inspiration and also guidance in shaping the new artist. Lord knows, in the world of literature and writing, most of the writers today will talk about Raymond Carver's influence on their work. Which really means we're crediting Ernest Hemingway since Hemingway came before Carver, and undoubtedly, influenced Carver's work. We've now learned Gordon Lish, the famed editor, is really the one who shaped Carver's spare style. Again, we can argue Lish was influenced by Hemingway.
This passing on of traditions creates a strange simulacrum of each art form, thereby forcing artists to find their originality in form, not necessarily content. This certainly happened in literature with the advent of Meta Fiction, the form most associated with the Post-Modern era, although some of us will argue we're still in the Modern era. In music, the idea of changing form happens rarely. Rap is, perhaps, the newest form that has now become entrenched in our culture, spawning its own simulacrum in gansta rap and an artist like Kid Rock.
For a writer, we understand no new stories are truly available, in the true Aristotelian model. The only thing we offer is voice and perspective. The same could be argued about songs. How many different ways could we write a song about the loss of love? Or sadness? Or death? How many metaphors are available for us to convey these very human experiences of any life? How many melodies are there that hasn't been heard? Some musicologists would argue that all of music dates to a few great composers, each of these melodies we hear as original just a new version of something that had been created before. But yet, each song, those that merit more than one listen, has something that offers a different shading to these common experiences. Each writer's voice is unique to that writer, their own experiences, insights, creating a new rainbow on to these shared human experiences we are all subject to experience at some point or another. And perhaps that is what drives each of us, those narcissistic enough to think ourselves worthy of telling stories or writing songs that others might find as comforting.
So, I listened to Alicia Keyes new album over and over, as I'm prone to do when something strikes me. Lord knows, my poor neighbors probably hate Alison Krauss by this point. And I took comfort in the familiarity of the melody of her songs, knowing she was drawing from artists worth drawing from.
This new album has one song "No One", which sounds like an amalgamation of Annie Lennox and Prince. It was while listening to this song that the question of originality came to my mind. Any artist will read, listen to, paint like, an artist that came before them. This former artist provides inspiration and also guidance in shaping the new artist. Lord knows, in the world of literature and writing, most of the writers today will talk about Raymond Carver's influence on their work. Which really means we're crediting Ernest Hemingway since Hemingway came before Carver, and undoubtedly, influenced Carver's work. We've now learned Gordon Lish, the famed editor, is really the one who shaped Carver's spare style. Again, we can argue Lish was influenced by Hemingway.
This passing on of traditions creates a strange simulacrum of each art form, thereby forcing artists to find their originality in form, not necessarily content. This certainly happened in literature with the advent of Meta Fiction, the form most associated with the Post-Modern era, although some of us will argue we're still in the Modern era. In music, the idea of changing form happens rarely. Rap is, perhaps, the newest form that has now become entrenched in our culture, spawning its own simulacrum in gansta rap and an artist like Kid Rock.
For a writer, we understand no new stories are truly available, in the true Aristotelian model. The only thing we offer is voice and perspective. The same could be argued about songs. How many different ways could we write a song about the loss of love? Or sadness? Or death? How many metaphors are available for us to convey these very human experiences of any life? How many melodies are there that hasn't been heard? Some musicologists would argue that all of music dates to a few great composers, each of these melodies we hear as original just a new version of something that had been created before. But yet, each song, those that merit more than one listen, has something that offers a different shading to these common experiences. Each writer's voice is unique to that writer, their own experiences, insights, creating a new rainbow on to these shared human experiences we are all subject to experience at some point or another. And perhaps that is what drives each of us, those narcissistic enough to think ourselves worthy of telling stories or writing songs that others might find as comforting.
So, I listened to Alicia Keyes new album over and over, as I'm prone to do when something strikes me. Lord knows, my poor neighbors probably hate Alison Krauss by this point. And I took comfort in the familiarity of the melody of her songs, knowing she was drawing from artists worth drawing from.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The New Graying Parent
Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how old parents are these days? Particularly in urban centers? As I write this, I am one of those who had their child well past the age of 30, having delayed motherhood, and apparently adulthood, because I thought I could do it all, meaning the self-focused drive for advanced degrees, world travel, and just plain growing up before feeling mature enough to have a child. And whether I was ready or not is not the issue since we now have him, for better or worse--poor little man.
With that said, I am forever seeing couples, who look old enough to be grandparents, pushing strollers of youngsters, obviously their own offspring. One can no longer assume just because a woman or man is gray, wrinkled, and tired that they are the lucky grandparents since such questions could alienate your child rather quickly from the neighborhood. Now, when I say older, I mean older. I now see with greater frequency couples, who look well into their forties, if not pushing early fifties, the proud papa or mama of a toddler. There was a fair amount of this in LA, the city notorious for men having, not just second families, but working on their third when most of the peers, in other parts of the country, are shopping for retirement communities. But in those sitations--most visible at school functions--their counterpart, otherwise known as wife number 3, was usually blond and younger, significantly younger, like thirty-something to their sixty or, god forbid, seventy-something.
But the aged couple as new parents is a trend, occurring with greater frequency in cities like New York. When I tell people how old I am, they immediately suggest with great optimism, I should have another baby. If one were inclined to do such a thing, then I'm sure I could. Older women with the help of invitro, surrogacy, and all the other aids for couples facing infertility, are having children later than was possible, even ten years ago. Usually at this point, I tell them I have no interest in having a child at my age, even if 40 is now considered young enough to still have another baby. See, we can delay motherhood or parenthood with all the technological advances available to us. But in truth, my body is still 40, each year another muscle a bit achier or just cranky. Tiredness is a constant in my day since my body, which knows its age, is 40. I may appear youthful--with the help of die for the gray, diet and exercise, no botox yet--but I am still 40. Before long, I will be writing and b**ching about night sweats brought on by menopause. There is no getting around this reality of my own mortality. So, no, I don't want to forgo the little sleep I'm able to get, even with my insomnia, for a new little addition to our family.
I guess I have strong views on this new trend. My parents, for their generation, were older parents. Therefore, my mom and dad were always a good 10 or so years older than my friends' parents. Back when I was growing up, women were generally having kids at the ripe old age of 20 or 21, so having a mom who had had me at 30 something was exotic, different, strange. I never thought I would be an older mom, although in this new trend of parents being older, I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. The say the national average for women having children is 25.1, up from what had been the average age in previous generations. I have one friend who'd had her kids, or started having kids in her twenties. She is the only one of my friends, whose kids are now teenagers or tweens, and who herself is in her early forties.
There does seem to be a cultural shift or bias toward women who'd started having kids younger, or rather, closer to the national average in my world. See, if you'd had your kids in your twenties, chances are you don't have a graduate degree since you were a tad too busy being a mom. And forget trying to go to grad school with kids in the house. How anyone would manage such a feat is beyond me. One can also assume you may not have had a full blown career before starting on the "Mommy Track." So, here's the big assumption: you are somehow less accomplished, less educated, and less something since you started a family at an age that is biologically more appropriate, if not culturally appropriate, for those of us so inculcated by the Feminist Movement. And as I watch my friend, the end in sight when her house will be quiet as her kids head off to college in plain view, I have to wonder if she wasn't the smarter one since I'm now just starting Kindergarten, years before I can drop my son off to some remote college far, far away from home.
What does it mean for a generation of kids, whose parents will be in their fifties, if not early sixties by the time they start college? Our mortality keeps getting extended, so that people living into their 100's is happening with greater frequency. And if you'd read the New York Times article from a few months ago, Korean women who live in Fort Lee, New Jersey outlived their counterparts in any other part of the country. Why anyone would want to live that long is beyond comprehension. That 'cutesy' Today show segment where these old, old faces are imposed on the backs of Smuckers jars is my worst nightmare. Needless to say, I will not be moving to Fort Lee, if, God forbid, there is something in that New Jersey drinking water that serves as a strange fountain of youth for Korean women, specifically.
So, I wander around the city, noticing all the old parents, wondering, how do they do it? I'm just tired looking at the ring of fatigue under their eyes. And forget it if they have two. You know my eyes are frozen like that famous Munch painting, "The Scream," with: fear, dread, incredulity, all mixed with a look like, 'you must really be crazy.'
With that said, I am forever seeing couples, who look old enough to be grandparents, pushing strollers of youngsters, obviously their own offspring. One can no longer assume just because a woman or man is gray, wrinkled, and tired that they are the lucky grandparents since such questions could alienate your child rather quickly from the neighborhood. Now, when I say older, I mean older. I now see with greater frequency couples, who look well into their forties, if not pushing early fifties, the proud papa or mama of a toddler. There was a fair amount of this in LA, the city notorious for men having, not just second families, but working on their third when most of the peers, in other parts of the country, are shopping for retirement communities. But in those sitations--most visible at school functions--their counterpart, otherwise known as wife number 3, was usually blond and younger, significantly younger, like thirty-something to their sixty or, god forbid, seventy-something.
But the aged couple as new parents is a trend, occurring with greater frequency in cities like New York. When I tell people how old I am, they immediately suggest with great optimism, I should have another baby. If one were inclined to do such a thing, then I'm sure I could. Older women with the help of invitro, surrogacy, and all the other aids for couples facing infertility, are having children later than was possible, even ten years ago. Usually at this point, I tell them I have no interest in having a child at my age, even if 40 is now considered young enough to still have another baby. See, we can delay motherhood or parenthood with all the technological advances available to us. But in truth, my body is still 40, each year another muscle a bit achier or just cranky. Tiredness is a constant in my day since my body, which knows its age, is 40. I may appear youthful--with the help of die for the gray, diet and exercise, no botox yet--but I am still 40. Before long, I will be writing and b**ching about night sweats brought on by menopause. There is no getting around this reality of my own mortality. So, no, I don't want to forgo the little sleep I'm able to get, even with my insomnia, for a new little addition to our family.
I guess I have strong views on this new trend. My parents, for their generation, were older parents. Therefore, my mom and dad were always a good 10 or so years older than my friends' parents. Back when I was growing up, women were generally having kids at the ripe old age of 20 or 21, so having a mom who had had me at 30 something was exotic, different, strange. I never thought I would be an older mom, although in this new trend of parents being older, I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. The say the national average for women having children is 25.1, up from what had been the average age in previous generations. I have one friend who'd had her kids, or started having kids in her twenties. She is the only one of my friends, whose kids are now teenagers or tweens, and who herself is in her early forties.
There does seem to be a cultural shift or bias toward women who'd started having kids younger, or rather, closer to the national average in my world. See, if you'd had your kids in your twenties, chances are you don't have a graduate degree since you were a tad too busy being a mom. And forget trying to go to grad school with kids in the house. How anyone would manage such a feat is beyond me. One can also assume you may not have had a full blown career before starting on the "Mommy Track." So, here's the big assumption: you are somehow less accomplished, less educated, and less something since you started a family at an age that is biologically more appropriate, if not culturally appropriate, for those of us so inculcated by the Feminist Movement. And as I watch my friend, the end in sight when her house will be quiet as her kids head off to college in plain view, I have to wonder if she wasn't the smarter one since I'm now just starting Kindergarten, years before I can drop my son off to some remote college far, far away from home.
What does it mean for a generation of kids, whose parents will be in their fifties, if not early sixties by the time they start college? Our mortality keeps getting extended, so that people living into their 100's is happening with greater frequency. And if you'd read the New York Times article from a few months ago, Korean women who live in Fort Lee, New Jersey outlived their counterparts in any other part of the country. Why anyone would want to live that long is beyond comprehension. That 'cutesy' Today show segment where these old, old faces are imposed on the backs of Smuckers jars is my worst nightmare. Needless to say, I will not be moving to Fort Lee, if, God forbid, there is something in that New Jersey drinking water that serves as a strange fountain of youth for Korean women, specifically.
So, I wander around the city, noticing all the old parents, wondering, how do they do it? I'm just tired looking at the ring of fatigue under their eyes. And forget it if they have two. You know my eyes are frozen like that famous Munch painting, "The Scream," with: fear, dread, incredulity, all mixed with a look like, 'you must really be crazy.'
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Cultural Woes
Our son, who is not only biracial, but also bi cultural, is displaying unexpected anxieties about being the mixture that he is: Korean and Black. I can't imagine the confusion for him since there are so few people in the world that are like him. My husband I always knew what a complication our love would result for our child, but yet I don't think either of us truly understood the scope of it all. We are trying to raise him with an understanding and appreciation for both his 'ancestors,' one of his favorite words to place himself into some context that is comprehensible. We are, all of us, always placing ourselves into some context. And how much of that is successful or not is based largely on your family and how it honors those traditions that defines the meaning of culture and family.
For my son, this understanding of his cultural baggage occurs through food and language. He is an adept eater of both Asian and Soul food. His comprehension of being half Korean is largely about food. I'm to blame since my own knowledge of my culture is centered around food more than anything else. The other ways in which he tries to understand himself is through language: English at home, obviously, and Korean, well, Korean at Tae Kwon Do. It is a personal regret I didn't become more proficient in Korean, an oversight or neglect, largely due to my parent's wish to have me be as assimilated as possible. When my son asks whether I can count to a 100 in Korean, I am saddened to admit that I don't know how.
Even in a city as diverse as New York, we, our family, still draw stares of curiosity. We are the 'exotic,' 'interesting,' family pretty much every where we go. This subtle, sometimes not so subtle, objectification is now commonplace for each of us. I try to do what I can to shield my son from it, but I know he is taking it all in unconsciously. My husband and I have our individual experiences of being a specific color or ethnicity. But even these experiences can't compare to what our child is, and will, experience in his lifetime. When I get too overwhelmed by it all, I try to draw comfort from the fact that he is a happy, for now, child with the normal worries of someone his age. And on a good day, my delusion about the simplicity of his worries prevents me from spiraling downward. Of late, there are more good days than bad. I assume as he gets older, it will be harder to ignore the complexities he faces each day as the blended child born out of hope and love.
For my son, this understanding of his cultural baggage occurs through food and language. He is an adept eater of both Asian and Soul food. His comprehension of being half Korean is largely about food. I'm to blame since my own knowledge of my culture is centered around food more than anything else. The other ways in which he tries to understand himself is through language: English at home, obviously, and Korean, well, Korean at Tae Kwon Do. It is a personal regret I didn't become more proficient in Korean, an oversight or neglect, largely due to my parent's wish to have me be as assimilated as possible. When my son asks whether I can count to a 100 in Korean, I am saddened to admit that I don't know how.
Even in a city as diverse as New York, we, our family, still draw stares of curiosity. We are the 'exotic,' 'interesting,' family pretty much every where we go. This subtle, sometimes not so subtle, objectification is now commonplace for each of us. I try to do what I can to shield my son from it, but I know he is taking it all in unconsciously. My husband and I have our individual experiences of being a specific color or ethnicity. But even these experiences can't compare to what our child is, and will, experience in his lifetime. When I get too overwhelmed by it all, I try to draw comfort from the fact that he is a happy, for now, child with the normal worries of someone his age. And on a good day, my delusion about the simplicity of his worries prevents me from spiraling downward. Of late, there are more good days than bad. I assume as he gets older, it will be harder to ignore the complexities he faces each day as the blended child born out of hope and love.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Everything is a Competition
I've noticed a trend in the world of reality television that proliferates as entertainment. Competition is the driving modus operandi behind each of the shows premise with the exception of "The Nanny," and the strangely tragic, "Wife Swap." It seems our country, our cultural consciousness is all about competing for some prize, whether it be money, weight loss, or a boost to a lagging or nonexistent career. The newest addition, the one that should truly give us pause, is a superficial take on William Golding's allegorical novel, "The Lord of the Flies," usually popular in the middle school years, as a study of how man's need for hierarchy pushes these stranded youths to form tribal communities that reflect the greater world from which they had survived.
In television talk, it's "Survivor" meets a bunch of young kids stranded on some remote location, playing out dangerous games for prizes. Here is the question which kept cropping up as I read bits and pieces about the long lasting damages this experience will, or might, have on the young kids, whose parents had signed up to participate in this ridiculous show. Why? Why sign your kids up for such a contrived, ridiculous experiment, documented on television and watched by people who really don't care whether your kid ends up becoming the Piggy of the show. Not that there will be the sacrificial lamb as Piggy became, but then we're only into the beginning of the season, so who knows what the end of the series will bring.
This cultural emphasis on competing, which we know exists in all forms, subtle and not so subtle, has now became the basis for entertainment. We have gone way beyond the days when Bob Barker's "Price is Right," dominated as the game show to watch. The greatest difference now is that each of the reality shows pretends to not be a game show, which in essence it becomes. Instead of luck and chance determining whether you walk away with that refrigerator is now based on talent, hard work, and gamesmanship--conniving.
Have we become a nation of voyeurs because our world is shrinking in prestige and power? Our dollar is now at all time low on par with the historically laughable Canadian currency. In epochs of civilizations, we are truly on a downward trend, or so each bad news seems to point. How far, and how badly our demise is still to be determined. And more scarier is who or what will retain that dominance since we know that in the natural hierarchy of life, there is always a dominator. Does our general helplessness about our world contribute to our nation's new focus on life where there is always a winner and a loser? Or is it merely the limited, and I mean limited, creativity of an industry, much like our great nation, unable to compete with the advancement of technologies, whose only remaining originality is in shocking us? Or is our national gluttony--although those who live below the poverty level would disagree with my characterization of our country as being plentiful--contributing to our demise, much like the hedonism of the great Roman Empire?
Whatever the reasons, each of us--and I'm not immune or guilt free--contributes to this downward spiral of our cultural lives as we turn in each week to see who will become "America's Top Chef." I glanced at the new show offered with little remorse or apology by CBS called, "Kid Nation." My stomach turned over seeing such young faces talking directly into the camera about how they had out maneuvered or out performed their peers to be that week's winner. It was too disquieting to sit through. And again, the question that begs to be answered is: who are their parents? And more importantly, why?
In television talk, it's "Survivor" meets a bunch of young kids stranded on some remote location, playing out dangerous games for prizes. Here is the question which kept cropping up as I read bits and pieces about the long lasting damages this experience will, or might, have on the young kids, whose parents had signed up to participate in this ridiculous show. Why? Why sign your kids up for such a contrived, ridiculous experiment, documented on television and watched by people who really don't care whether your kid ends up becoming the Piggy of the show. Not that there will be the sacrificial lamb as Piggy became, but then we're only into the beginning of the season, so who knows what the end of the series will bring.
This cultural emphasis on competing, which we know exists in all forms, subtle and not so subtle, has now became the basis for entertainment. We have gone way beyond the days when Bob Barker's "Price is Right," dominated as the game show to watch. The greatest difference now is that each of the reality shows pretends to not be a game show, which in essence it becomes. Instead of luck and chance determining whether you walk away with that refrigerator is now based on talent, hard work, and gamesmanship--conniving.
Have we become a nation of voyeurs because our world is shrinking in prestige and power? Our dollar is now at all time low on par with the historically laughable Canadian currency. In epochs of civilizations, we are truly on a downward trend, or so each bad news seems to point. How far, and how badly our demise is still to be determined. And more scarier is who or what will retain that dominance since we know that in the natural hierarchy of life, there is always a dominator. Does our general helplessness about our world contribute to our nation's new focus on life where there is always a winner and a loser? Or is it merely the limited, and I mean limited, creativity of an industry, much like our great nation, unable to compete with the advancement of technologies, whose only remaining originality is in shocking us? Or is our national gluttony--although those who live below the poverty level would disagree with my characterization of our country as being plentiful--contributing to our demise, much like the hedonism of the great Roman Empire?
Whatever the reasons, each of us--and I'm not immune or guilt free--contributes to this downward spiral of our cultural lives as we turn in each week to see who will become "America's Top Chef." I glanced at the new show offered with little remorse or apology by CBS called, "Kid Nation." My stomach turned over seeing such young faces talking directly into the camera about how they had out maneuvered or out performed their peers to be that week's winner. It was too disquieting to sit through. And again, the question that begs to be answered is: who are their parents? And more importantly, why?
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