| Cute Boys in Tuxes |
R. Crumb did it best with portrait illustrations of girls from his high school yearbook, but it was a project by wunderkind photographer Brad Troemel, aka Very Young Millionaire, that got me thinking about high school crushes. That project, “Every Girl I Had A Crush On In High School” displays a no-frills-at-all succession of 24 black and white yearbook scans.  These girls’ identities are placed only within the context of the author’s admiration for them, most likely an unreciprocated feeling. They’re portraits of tragic conflicts in emotional agenda– Cupid’s misguided arrows that strike every teenager at least once. Frozen in time, these girls, who have by now become young women, are even more distant than they were at the ground zero of their implicit rejection. Back then, they couldn’t give the author what he wanted– now, all they can offer is a universally identifiable sense of nostalgia. It’s like something out of Wong Kar Wai: “At the high point of our intimacy, we were just 0.01cm from each other. I knew nothing about her. Six hours later, she fell in love with another man.” I scanned the senior portraits of some of my own missed connections. A few of them I knew, most of them I never even spoke too. All of them are presumably straight, and a couple might even come across this post, adding a whole layer of Web 2.0 self-awareness to all of these misguided adolescent notions. Anyway, as I edge towards my twentieth birthday, here are a handful of ghosts from my almost-bygone youth:
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Perhaps, like in the picture above, you live in a huge loft full of antiques. You’re chilling out with your gay lover, Franz. Imagining that’s the case, you’ll say to him, “Franz, hand me the new Future Shipwreck podcast.” You’ll relax on a Baroque chaise lounge and Franz will fold his legs on the floor beside you. While he’s flipping through Life magazine, you’ll run your hand through his hair, and the first thing you’ll hear will be a campy, haunting love song from an episode of “Twin Peaks”. That’ll be followed by a fun indie pop tune by the band Fast Computers, who hail from Portland; and a song reminiscent of early New Order by New Zealand natives Shocking Pinks.
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Marc Jacobs is an American designer who has spent the majority of the past decade establishing a reputation for himself as the hippest, most refreshingly unconventional designer around. From his early work with Takashi Murakami for Louis Vuitton, to collaborations with Sofia Coppola, to his distinctive Jurgen Teller-shot ads (which have featured every hipster from Chloë Sevigny to Sonic Youth to Winona Ryder)– Marc Jacobs quickly defined himself as one of the only truly cool designers out there. Tom Ford may have the sex appeal, but the world of Marc Jacobs has been marked by depth and refinement, with an ample shot of youthful playfulness. Jacobs is cool because he understands how Lil’ Kim and Cindy Sherman are far more iconic and relevant than Gisele Bundchen or Heidi Klum.  I used to look up to Marc Jacobs as a gay role model. He’s one of our generation’s most prominent and relevant gay artists, and he (used to) refuse to pander to gay cultural conventions in his personal style or behavior. Finally, I thought– a high-profile gay man who’s self-confident enough to not care about waxing and tanning and looking like the archetypal Chelsea Boy. He was famous for his shaggy, bohemian appearance and oversized, bookish glasses. He looked every bit a Wes Anderson character come to life, and that was kind of groundbreaking for a gay celebrity. Marc Jacobs was untouchable. Everything was going peachy, until the Marc Jacobs we knew and loved vanished, replaced by an awful robotic replica.  At least that’s what I figure happened, because I can’t come up with a more valid explanation for the transformation that Jacobs has undergone this last year. Let’s break it down. Spring 2006: Marc Jacobs is on top of his game. For reference, here’s a flattering 6-page article from New York magazine calling him the “coolest, most influential designer”. He declares that awkward is nice, and triumphs nerdiness over de facto sex appeal. Not long after, Jacobs entered his mid-life crisis. He fell in love with a slick-looking young prostitute named Jason Preston, and quickly mutated into some horrible hybrid of avant-garde cool and West Hollywood cool. You can see the transposition of stomach-churning WeHo aesthetics at work in the side-by-side below:  The worst part about this whole sordid transformation is that in the Perez Hilton-dominated blogosphere, Marc’s new persona was deemed an upgrade. It seemed to be the consensus amongst gay bloggers that Jacobs had finally come to his senses and adopted the culture he was destined for all along. One excited South American commenter wrote, “Jesus Christ!!! How can Marc look even better each day?!? We love him down here, in Brasil!!!”  Then, early this year, Jacobs checked himself into rehab. For a moment, there was hope. Maybe, I thought, they’ll hit him on the head with a frying pan and reverse the traumatic spell that he’s been under lately– this whole thing could be a terrible Meth side effect they don’t warn you about in school! Much to my dismay, Jacobs came out of rehab looking even less recognizable than when he went in. Soon, he was posing on the cover of Out magazine, showing off those gross abdominal lines that every gay porn star/2xist model constantly uses to rape gay culture.  He had his big spring show for the Marc line a couple weeks ago, and it seemed to reflect the schizophrenic schism that must be tearing the designer apart inside. Many of the looks were hybrids of two pieces sewn together down the middle, like some juvenile Project Runway competition. Most of the clothes weren’t even cute on a conceptual level. And I won’t even get into those fucked up heels he made for the Marc Jacobs line. I guess my point here is: Is Marc Jacobs a real life Two-Face, straddling the line between his formerly hip, intelligent self, and the hegemonic West Hollywood world that Jason Preston/meth/mid-life crisis/The Illuminati/Scientology is pulling him towards?! And if so, is there anything that can take him back from that hideous place? Or is Marc Jacobs gone for good? |
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Having a press pass is fun and fancy. I got to go into that special row for photographers in front of the audience! It was hella exciting. Check out my photos from the show after the jump! continue reading |
This is the 100th post on Future Shipwreck. After eight months, that doesn’t sound like a lot– but I go for quality over quantity ;) What exactly is this blog about? Good movies, new music, life in Los Angeles, rad artists– it’s mainly a forum for me to disseminate recommendations to other people, to clue others in on the things that I think are worth getting excited about. I plan to keep the site evolving in alluring and unfamiliar new directions, to keep things fresh for hundreds more entries. Will you all stick with me on this marvelous journey through the depths of cyberspace? Let’s explore the unknown together, and sail straight into the untamed heart of human nature! Or at least, you know, drool over cute t-shirts together, while listening to fun indie pop. In honor of all you beautiful strangers who some how ended up on my blog, here are some weird, scary and awesome Google search terms that people used to find Future Shipwreck. Maybe these will help you understand (or perhaps, confuse you further) about the purpose of this blog:
I just want to say to the person looking for unicorn pandas… I really hope you find them, and when you do– let me know. Also, I don’t know where your robots went, but they haven’t been this way. And to the racist wondering about the black girl from Bratz: The Movie– she has a name, you know. It’s Sasha. Thanks for reading, everyone! See you at post #200. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
War of the Worlds is a work of genius. I’m not referring to the H.G. Wells classic, or the Orson Welles radio play, or even the Steven Spielberg/Tom Cruise blockbuster. What I’m talking about is the disco rock opera adaptation created by Jeff Wayne in 1978. As quaint as the concept may sound in the context of contemporary pop culture, epic rock operas were not so unheard of back in the golden haze of the 1970’s. The Who pioneered the genre in the late 60s with Tommy and Quadrophenia, and Yes front man Rick Wakeman went on to release a number of deranged prog-rock concept albums in the early 70’s. Wakeman’s muddled masterpieces were based on classic British tales such as Jules Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth, the legends of King Arthur, and even a conceptual interpretation of the six wives of Henry VIII (with each dame receiving a song suited to her distinct personality).  Perhaps Wakeman’s LSD-fueled nationalist concept albums are what inspired Jeff Wayne, a largely unknown television jingle-writer, to create what is undoubtedly the most epic document of human creativity ever laid down on vinyl. There is no way to do justice to this seminal album’s depth in writing. The music retells the classic apocalyptic invasion story through incomprehensibly dynamic orchestration, with sparse (but perfectly dramatic) narration by 7-time Academy Award-nominated actor Richard Burton. The characters occasionally burst into songs, sung by Moody Blues front man Justin Hayward, Philip Lynott of Thin Lizzy, David Essex, and Andrew Lloyd Webber muse Julie Covington. While Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of The War of the Worlds went multi-platinum in the UK, it failed to catch on in the United States, mostly because of a bizarre shipping snafu. Justin Hayward’s chart-registering single, “Forever Autumn” initially attracted some attention, but Columbia Records was so slow getting the actual album onto shelves that by the time it arrived in stores, the public had mostly forgotten about it. The legacy doesn’t end there, but I’m sure you can read the Wikipedia entry if you really care about all the specifics. The point is, every human being must listen to War of the Worlds at least once in his or her life, or else they will die without knowing true beauty. If you don’t believe me, check out this amazing track from the second disc, a dire existential debate between a fallen pastor and his wife.
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