#86-Whole Foods and Trader Joe's

It was the decade when...

Supermarkets were so passé!

A dimly lit interior. An aging hippie with greasy ponytailed hair sits behind the register reading the latest issue of High Times. The aisles are replete with all the carob chips and high fiber cereals one can eat. Milling about, an aging lesbian couple (bearing a striking resemblance to Annie Liebowitz and Susan Sontag in ill-fitting denim and Birkenstocks) parse over various granola brands. Folk music or (better yet) a live acoustic guitar player provide the musical accompaniment.

Such was the mise-en-scene of the American Natural and Organic Food Store before the 21st century; before entrepreneurs realized that big money was waiting to be made on people's fetish for all things "natural" and "organic." And before consumers, that is, white upper-middle class consumers, realized that shopping at "regular" grocery stores was as gauche as choosing Taco Bell over Chipotle. It was the era that the anti-grocery store grocery store cleaned house.

Shopping at Whole Foods Market is an epicurean fantasy. The vegetables are gloriously fresh and beautifully labeled. The salad bar features all-American potato salad and exotic Indian curries, with all cuisines in-between. The environment is clean, spacious and tasteful. It is a modern bourgeois fantasy-land; fawning over the panoply of plenty, food shoppers assume a kind of existential import that justifies the extreme price-tag that is part and parcel with any trip down Whole Foods' check-out lane. This is expensive grub. Like, feed-Nairobi-for-a-week-off-the-cost-of-one-trip-expensive. But, there is the vague sense that buying such steeply priced produce is actually an investment in the environmental welfare of planet earth. The nebulous connection between organic food and environmental concern (a link necessitated by prosperous-liberal guilt) has been one of the major catalysts in the success of Whole Foods, even if the causal connection between a $3 apple and lower greenhouse gas emissions remains deductively elusive to most consumers. We like to take their word for it. Those who look closer may find a dark underbelly beneath all the the free-range squab and Manchego wedges but, for most, Whole Foods remains the nirvana of grocery shopping. But, like all wallet-shrinking activities, one, or at least most, can't indulge every day. For daily cheap foodstuffs that nonetheless fan the flames of our quasi-healthy, would-be ethical culinary aspirations, we travel to another popular organic food chain.

Though Trader Joe's opened it's first store in 1967, it was in the Aughts that Joe's reached total food-retail domination. Selling curiously affordable "natural" and "organic" food with nary a name brand in sight, Trader Joe's became the grocery store for people who wanted to shop at Whole Foods but couldn't afford to take out a second mortgage on their already devalued real estate. And what's really special about Joe's? The wine! 2 buck chuck made winos of us all (or at least me) and proved so popular even the New Yorker wrote a feature article about it. I mean, it's not good wine....but it's not bad either. And did I mention it's two-bucks? It is. It's two bucks. A bottle. A coke at a deli is $1.50. Get it? Two buck chuck is a miracle. That's Joe's secret weapon. Oh, and it's employees are really fuckable. So what that Joe's is now owned by a German discount grocery conglomerate? That shouldn't diminish the allure of Joe's as the organic, which is to say upscale, choice for the anti-corporate every-man, should it?

You AUGHT to remember...

#87-Man/Horse Love

It was the decade when...

The horse rode the cowboy.

The Internet is the greatest resource for communication and social interaction ever invented. No matter how alone and isolated people feel, no matter how trapped they are in their lives, the Internet provides a way to reach out and connect with those who share similar problems. It's the world's biggest support group, one that knows no borders and one for which distance between parties plays no role in impinging communication. It saves people's lives daily. It can also bring horse fuckers together.

It was the story that shocked America. On July 2, 2005, Kenneth Pinyan, a 45-year-old engineer at the Boeing corporation was admitted to a Washington hospital late in the evening. He suffered from a perforated colon and later died of the injuries. Upon investigation it was determined that his death was the direct result of some intense horse-on-man action. I'll venture to guess: not the way Mr. Pinyan thought he would expire (though, as you're being pounded by a horse, the thought must occur to you). What's more, this was no isolated incident. Pinyan belonged to a underground club of sorts: a consortium of men who, having found each other on the World Wide Web, bonded over their sexual predilection for horses. They took a name for themselves, and, indeed, for anyone with a romantic interest in all things bestial: zoophiles, or "zoos" for short. Catchy, no? Meeting at a ranch outside Seattle, this convocation of equine lovers would shoot the shit, watch science-fiction flicks, drink frozen cocktails, and then, as one does with pals after a few on a Friday night, proceed to have receptive anal sex with Arabian stallions. The last of these activities would often be videotaped and distributed free of charge on the Internet, giving all those lonely zoos out there some much needed stroke vids. (One imagines there was quite a dearth of options before.) When the story leaked out the media attention was torrential; the public sat slack-jawed with horror and fascination. We were beside ourselves with prurient titillation, adolescent snickering, and puritanical indignation. The Seattle Times reported that the story was its most read of the year. Washington State enacted a bestiality law in short order.

Now, man hath been laying with beast since time immemorial. (They didn't put these things in Leviticus because they were just worried about someone trying it.) But one imagines in the past that the activity was almost always somewhat, shall we say, private. The lonely shepherd scenario. Given that it is a topic moderately, ahem, difficult to bring up in polite company, to be a zoo is to be one in secret and alone. Until the Internet. The anonymity of the net gave these rather exotic libidos room to breathe: a space to discuss that which was formerly unspeakable. It took modern technology to facilitate organized bestiality—there is irony there somewhere, maybe everywhere.

The Enumclaw Horse Incident proved grist to the mill for the art-house cinema set when Seattle journalist Charles Mudede and filmmaker Robinson Devor teamed up on the languid (and occasionally soporific) quasi-documentary Zoo; the film was something of a scandal at Sundance in 2007, though it failed to achieve mainstream box-office success. Then again, I doubt Grizzly Man would have done as well if the lead had blown the bears before being eaten by them. Fortunately, the film Zoo maintains a tasteful and poetic visual style at all times, despite the obvious possible provocations. If Zoo's oblique visuals leave you unsated, and you want curiosity to really kill that cat, the strong of stomach (and the weak of character) can seek out footage posted online of Mr. Hands (Pinyan's online handle) and his equine companion in flagrante delicto. (The actual incident that precipitated Pinyan's ignominious end was not, thank God, filmed for posterity.) I myself want to continue sleeping at night and, ergo, do not watch.

Though the death of Kenneth Pinyan spelled the end of the Pacific Northwest's most unusual social club, horse-fucking lives on. In July of 2009 Rodell Vereen was caught in South Carolina making love to Sugar, a female horse—I think it's safer when the horse is the bottom—that was not his to seduce. He was subsequently arrested. The catch: Vereen was on probation at the time...for having sex with Sugar before! Now that's love.

You AUGHT to remember.

#88-Don't mess with the Oprah.

It was the decade when...

Franzen and Frey got schooled.


Dear You AUGHT to Remember,

So,I just wrote a mammoth door-stopper of a novel that is taking the literary world by storm. I'm what you might call a genius. My novel is being greeted with Hosannahs by all the critics, though I don't read Michiko Kakutani at all, she's "the stupidest person in New York." But really, the book is a masterpiece. I have a feeling that at the end of the decade a bunch of writers are gonna get together and declare my tome the novel of the decade. I think I'll win the national book award too. So what's my problem? Well, it seems that popular television personality Oprah Winfrey wants to select my little opus for her "Book Club." I mean, it's nice and all but I'm worried if I go on the show I may not be able to maintain my haughty elitism and air of casual disdain towards the kind of people who read a book because it's on Oprah. See, I'm struggling with the unique, parvenu brand of guilt that afflicts only those unlucky few who, plucked from relative obscurity, worry about being TOO popular, - after all, most of the hoi polloi are philistines, right? (And if you can understand what that sentence means you are neither one of the hoi polloi or a Philistine.) I am no corporate shill! I am part of the "high-art literary tradition". I think what I'll do is agree to go on Oprah but trash her and her petit-bourgeois club as much as possible on my book tour. For example I might casually mention the "the problem...is some of Oprah's picks. She's picked some good books, but she's picked enough schmaltzy, one dimensional ones that I cringe." Might this work? That way I earn mega-dollars from Oprah's readers and condescend to them at the same time! What do you think YATR?

Signed,
JF


Dear JF,

Say what you will about Oprah's book club, well actually, don't say what you will about Oprah's book club, not if you have been selected by the big O herself to be an entry in said club and are then invited on her show to discuss it - a turn of events that should all but guarantee that the sales of your book will skyrocket. If you should find yourself in this circumstance the best course of action - no matter how pressing your opinions on the the topic are - is to smile, say you're flattered, and then kiss some Harpo ass. I bet even camera-shy recluse Cormac McCarthy wouldn't be so foolish as to ruffle Ms. Winfrey's feathers. You obviously don't know who you're dealing with. How could you, seeing as you don't own a television? She is Oprah, destroyer of worlds. She can giveth and she can taketh away. If you go ahead with your little scheme, I predict a terse and brief disinvite from Ms. Winfrey. Of course, you can also expect a media blitz and literary maelstrom to follow in which, despite a few brave defenders, you will be raked over the coals as a total douche. So, sorry JF, sorry, you've been corrected.

Dear YATR,

Hi there. I've got this book idea see? I mean, I've been a successful writer of fiction in the past. I wrote some movies that you've probably never seen, but still. I think non-fiction is where it's at though, see? That David Sedaris fellow is doing really well for himself I hear. And my life, well, it's really interesting see? It would make a great book. I had drug addictions, run-ins with the law, rehab stories, you name it! But interesting as it is, I want the book to be BIG hit see? I want...well, I want to get on Oprah, see? Unlike that Franzen fellow - what a prick! No, I'll do whatever it takes to be Oprah's book club selection. WHATEVER IT TAKES, see? I mean, I think I can just embellish a bit here and there. Spice things up a bit, see? Who is gonna object to a little stretching of the truth in the service of good storytelling? Who is gonna even look it up? It's a great idea, see? Who cares that I claim to have been arrested on a count of "felony mayhem" when there is no such charge? No one. It's sounds great, see? I'll load the book with exciting little tidbits like that, see? Sure, I could write a fiction book inspired by my life but, no one reads fiction anymore. If it's true though...that's the hook, see? You think Oprah will buy it? I'm wanna be a millionaire see?

thanks,

JF (no, not that other jerk-off JF, see?)

Dear JF,

Oh, NO YOU DIDN'T. You did NOT! Heed this warning; don't fuck with Oprah. It's one thing to snub her. That's bad. You'll get the hook faster than a deformed stripper at Minsky's. But, lie to Oprah? Lie to her face? Well, I'd rather lie to a Corleone. At first, she wont want to believe it. No, she'll even try to defend you, at first. She doesn't want to lose face. She doesn't want to think she gave a punk-ass liar millions of dollars in book sales. But then, she'll come to understand. She'll actually read that six page expose, you know, the one filled with all that research about your story that your publisher failed to do. The story with the none-too-subtle subtitle, "The man who conned Oprah." Oprah does not get conned. Oprah does, however, get even. Oprah will show you what humilation means. Oprah will tell you to come on her show for a panel about "truth in America" - oh and bring your publisher - and she will change the topic of the show last minute to a more exciting subject: ripping you a new one. She will look at you with disgust, pause to let the stench of your embarrassment waft through every living room in America and then she will cut to commercial. The media wont be able to get enough. You'll have op-ed articles in the New York Times calling your smack-down a victory for truth. You wont want to look in the mirror JF. Don't do it. It can't be worth the embarrassment. Although it's still may be worth a million dollars, see? A million little dollars.

You AUGHT to remember...

#89-Juno Soundtrack

It was the decade when...

Children's music pretended to be real music.

I do not like music that's bad.
I do not like, it makes me mad.
I will not listen to music like Raffi
I will not listen, it's makes me barf-y.

If it's about fishes and trees.
If it's about the birds and the bees.
If it's about a tire that's a swing.
If it's about bells that can ring.
If it's a song that thinks it's cool.
If it's a song best sung in pre-school.

I do not like songs that are cute!
I do not like mold on my fruit.

Toss in the trash. Destroy! Destroy!
Destroy your toy!
Girl and boy!

You AUGHT to Remember.

#90-Lacoste Polo Shirts.

It was the decade when...

The crocodile got cool again.


I know what you're thinking. Lacoste? How is Lacoste, the original casual athletic shirt, a trend of the Aughts? OK, it's true that the company was formed in 1933 by tennis player Renee Lacoste, (le crocodile was his courtside sobriquet) who designed the shirt out of dissatisfaction with the cumbersome clothes he was wearing on the court (the term "polo shirt" is something of a misnomer), and it's also true that the crocodile-d shirt has since become a classic of American (well, French, if truth be told) fashion. The reptile emblazoned polo has long been the chemise of choice for yacht-club millionaires and yuppie douche-bags on casual Friday. And Lacoste has been through periods of swollen popularity before - take a look back at those Brat Pack movies or early 80's slasher pics; they're everywhere. Lacoste and prep have long been synonymous. So, I concede the point that the Lacoste-look is not the sole province of any particular era. But what happened in the middle of this decade was ridiculous.

Displaying the kind of groupthink that comes only from inflated fashion trends or Stalinist-level propaganda decimation, the Lacoste shirt dominated the polo market this decade. Hell, during part of 2005, Lacoste dominated the shirt market entirely, or so one might surmise were they to stroll down the the streets of Soho on a Sunday afternoon. A person wearing a polo without the status symbol, I mean, lacoste logo became the exception, not the rule. Don't believe me? Check the numbers. The company saw sales grow 800% in just 3 years. In 2005 Lacoste sold over 50 million products. TIME magazine was jizzing all over the company in a 2005 article that read like copy from Lacoste's publicity department. In the heat of the moment, and radiating insecurity, I too succumbed to the pressure, forking over $80 for, essentially, an inch long alligator cartoon.

None of this was an accident of course. Lacoste, divorced in 1993 from it's longtime partner in prep, IZOD, was in the doldrums for the rest of that decade, reduced to selling their shirts at WAL-MART. But when former Levi-Strauss designer Robert Siegel was hired to run the company 2002 he had a brilliant business plan: restore Lacoste's status as the choice attire of would-be privileged fey country club WASP's everywhere. Oh, and paying tennis dreamboat Andy Roddick 5 million a year to wear the brand on the court didn't hurt. In Pavlovian droves the public bought the product with ferocious alacrity; shirts flew off the shelves like a new Harry Potter book, the outrageous price tag only reinforcing the impression that the Lacoste shirt was something special. Sure every store and every designer makes a polo shirt, but only one brand has a Croc on it! Lacoste's renewed success was such a punch to the solar-plexus at Team Ralph Lauren, all they could summon up as a riposte was making their little polo man, hee-hee, BIGGER.

The real secret to Lacoste's success? Woody Allen found the answer:

And it came to pass that the man who sold shirts was smitten by hard times. Neither did any of his merchandise move nor did he prosper. And he prayed and said, "Lord, why hast thou left me to suffer thus? All mine enemies sell their goods except I. And it's the height of the season. My shirts are good shirts. Take a look at this Rayon. I got button downs, flare-collars, nothing sells. Yet have kept thy commandments. Why can I not earn a living when my younger brother cleans up in children's ready-to-wear?" And the Lord heard the man and said, "About thy shirts..." "Yes, Lord," the man said, falling to his knees. "Put an alligator over the pocket." "Pardon me, Lord?" "Just do what I'm telling you. You won't be sorry." And the man sewed onto all his shirts a small alligator symbol and lo and behold, suddenly his merchandise moves like gangbusters, and there was much rejoicing while amongst his enemies there was wailing and gnashing of teeth, and one said, "The Lord is merciful. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. The problem is, I can't get up."

What a croc of shirt!

You AUGHT to remember.

#91-Jukebox Musicals

It was the decade when...


People wanted to hum the showtunes on their way into the theatre.

What's the giant sucking sound you hear? It's the sound of artistic inspiration being drained away from Broadway Theatres. In a decade when Stephen Sondheim (SONDHEIM!) couldn't get his newest musical produced on the Great Way White (the closest he could get was a Road Show), and the first in which an original musical did not win the Pulitzer Prize for drama, the Rialto saw an influx of musicals that threatened to put musical theatre writers out of work altogether. The jukebox musical. Part of the great feedback loop that is commercial pop culture, a culture in which every product and source of entertainment is a reference back to a previously consumed commodity, jukebox musicals traded in artistic ambition and original scores (the lifeblood of Broadway) for nostalgic comforts and instantly recognizable musical hits from yesteryear.

Usually described as a "fun!" show that'll "make you want to stand up and dance," a jukebox musical more often then not features skittles colored sets and costumes, a cast of scantily-clad pulchritudinous young performers, a hackneyed plot cribbed from older, better musicals, and, at the center, a score by a once-cool baby-boomer rock&roll icon or band, sung and arranged with all the subtlety of a Cher Oscar dress.

Pop music's most sacred cows couldn't escape Broadway's gravitational attraction; even John Lennon (Sans THE BEATLES catalog. Great idea that!) was summoned from beyond in one of the more embarrassing entries into the genre. The Beach Boys, Elvis, Johnny Cash, Earth Wind & Fire (don't ask), The Bee-Jees, The Four Seasons, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan(really...don't ask!), and yes, ABBA were represented on Broadway in the Aughts with varying levels of commercial success, from blockbuster to Joe Allen wall art.

The only thing that these shows really had in common was a cynical fear that American audiences only wanted to buy tickets to something they could be certain they already liked before walking in the theatre. But at $120 a pop, who can blame them? Unless the American Musical Theatre can find a way to make itself both vital artistically and affordable financially I fear we have far more jukebox in our future. In 20 years time I don't want to have to sit through "Lucky: The Britney Spears Story."

You AUGHT to remember.

#92-Terror Alerts

It was the decade when...

Our anxieties were color coded.

The following is a confidential document from the Department of Homeland Secuity. It was a leaked by a disgruntled color-blind staffer in the department. The document was an internal reference for agents to decipher the meaning of the various color codes and learn when it would be appropriate to activate them.

Homeland Security Advisory System - Inter-office Memo #9786.7 (Confidential)

Please use the following as a reference when enabling the Homeland Security Advisory System :

RED(Severe) - If you are reading this, then good news, there is life after death! You're dead. By the time this color is activated it'll be too late. Major terrorist attack is inevitable and has probably already occured. America is now a scorched wasteland. Somewhere, Mel Gibson is riding a motorcycle around the desert and Will Smith is stranded on Manhattan with blood-thirsty zombies. If it's RED...you're toast.

ORANGE(High) - This is what the HSAS is all about! If we could get away with keeping the terror level at ORANGE we'd be set. It totally covers our asses! If an attack happens we can always say we warned the people. We were on top of it. We're the government! I mean, let's be serious, an attack is going to happen eventually, right? If we could just stay at ORANGE we'd always be prepared. If we go to RED and there isn't an attack we look like asshats who are just trying to manipulate the fears of the citzenry. But, if we set the alert to ORANGE and there is no attack...well, it's probably because we went to ORANGE. We scared them off. That's the beauty of this strata of alert; at ORANGE...we can terrify people and look efficent at the same time. We should try to be at ORANGE as much as possible. And Republican poll numbers go up to boot!

YELLOW(Elevated) - Since we can't stay at orange all the time (some people might find it suspicious) we had to come up with a day-to-day color that could still instill a little fear in the populace. So it's an "elevated" alert. We're saying with yellow, "It's not really safe out there, but there is a fair chance you might survive today. Just keep your concern elevated." After a period of time sufficient to make us look relatively safe, feel free to jump back to ORANGE as you see fit, especially if the Democrats' numbers are looking good.

BLUE(Guarded) - This color is really a formality. We had to include to make sense on the continuum. We're never going to actually use it. I mean, how would that help us in the next election cycle?

GREEN(Low) - Hallejuah! Praise Jesus! After the long battle of Armageddon all the infidels were cast down with Satan into the lake of fire. The rapture has taken all the true believers in a glorious moment of mass assumption. The lion and the lamb are busy doing the nasty together at the Bronx Zoo and Jon and Kate have to decided to re-marry. Yes, the terror alert is finally green.


P.S.- To the mid-level government official currently reading this blog after it got a red flag in your vast secret spyware network installed illegally on all home computers, please know this: this post was a joke! I don't really have any secret government documents. This is just satire. HA HA. I'm sure you have a great sense of humor down in Langley. Please don't put a sack over my head in the night and send me me to Gitmo. I was just making a funny. Just making sure you knew....

You AUGHT to remember.