// end of the world //
Spring 2006
The End of the World: Trash as Treasure
Hillary Busis
The full definition of the word "awkward" is as follows: "uncomfortable and abnormal; see also Hillary Busis, ages 11-13." Just imagine this: a be-spectacled, be-braced girl with long, stringy hair and nails bitten so short that her fingers hardly look like fingers. But it wasn't just my appearance that was the epitome of embarrassing. I had a shameful secret addiction to hide.
While my peers were furtively sneaking sips of Manishewitz at bar mitzvahs and exploring the perils of first base in their friends' basements, I was busy reading Animorphs in secret. As you probably don't recall,Animorphs, from 1996 to 2001, chronicled the adventures of a group of five teenagers who fought evil brain-controlling aliens by turning into animals. They had been given this power by a different, good alien, named Prince Elfangor.
I was a loyal Animorphs reader from the age of eight until the very last book was released. I was in seventh grade by then, meaning I was thirteen and probably too old for kiddie sci-fi. The series eventually came to include 50 some-odd titles--okay, fine, I remember the exact number. There were 54 volumes in the regular series, along with maybe 8 super-specials (the Animorphs travel back to the time of the dinosaurs! the Animorphs go on summer vacation, in space!). I placed each and every one of these on a special shelf in my room, organized in chronological order according to release date.
It's been five years since I last read about the Animorphs, but I can't say that my taste in entertainment has really evolved since then. When given a choice between thought provoking, high-quality books or movies and their crappy, lowbrow equivalents, I'll inevitably gravitate toward the latter. My favorites tend to be those that straddle the line between class and trash--Gone With the Wind in both its incarnations, for example, which is basically prototypical chick lit that somehow managed to win a Pulitzer Prize and a truckload of Oscars.
I have an especially fierce passion for cheesy Lifetime movies. If Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? starring Tori Spelling as a coed caught in the web of a dangerous man comes on, I will drop whatever I'm doing and stay glued to the TV for the next two hours. It's all I can do to stop myself from cheering aloud when Tori and her dedicated single mother foil Tori's evil boyfriend's plot to murder her, the same way he killed his last girlfriend. I'm fortunate enough to own both Sex and the Single Mom and She's Too Young. Sex and the Single Mom is a film "for mothers, for daugters [sic], for our time," according to the blurb on the back of the movie.She's Too Young documents a straight-A student's fall from grace as she learns that romantic involvement with the hottest boy in school can only lead to heartbreak and a nasty case of oral syphilis. I also love melodramatic Harlequin romances. Take a close look at my bookshelf at home and you'll find that it's dotted with gems like His Royal Love-Child and A Virgin for the Taking. I did not make up those titles.
Not everyone understands my unusual affinity for trash. I use the term for convenience's sake, since I clearly think trash is really Grade-A entertainment. For instance, I was reading The Weekly World News (the tabloid that brought us Bat Boy) before Lit Hum once, and a girl in my class asked me, disdainfully, why I bother with that kind of crap: "Why don't you pick up a copy of The Economist instead?" I smiled sweetly at her, saying nothing as I imagined how quickly she'd become Bat Boy's lunch if she ever wandered into rural West Virginia alone.
I should have told her that the main reason I love trash is because it's the purest form of entertainment. It is the kind of amusement that's easily digestible and that's even easier to discard once you're done. You don't have to work to find any greater meaning in a trashy movie or spend time trying to analyze its message. There are no ulterior motives when it comes to indulging in low culture. A person doesn't read a trashy book because she feels an obligation to, or because she feels like it'll make her a better person as a result, or because she wants to be able to tell people that she did. Simply put, she reads it because she likes it. Trash is the cultural equivalent of comfort food. Like brisket and mashed potatoes, it's soothing, predictable, universally appealing and incredibly satisfying.
With this in mind, it's hard for me to understand why so many intelligent people are reluctant to admit that they love junk entertainment the way I do. What's wrong with shamelessly watching an episode of Mauryevery now and then, especially if today's topic happens to be "Send My Troubled Teen to Boot Camp?" It bothers me that the only socially acceptable way to get away with enjoying trash is to claim that you're only interested in it ironically. Case in point: I was walking past a group of girls the other day, and I overheard them discussing, between drags of their clove cigarettes, the movie Junior. That's the one where Danny DeVito convinces Arnold Schwarzenegger to test some wacky fertility drug which, defying the laws of nature and taste, miraculously impregnates the Austrian actor-turned-governator.
I'm willing to bet that at least one of the smirking, skinny jean wearers--just because it's a stereotype doesn't mean you don't see these people outside of Butler every night--legitimately liked the movie but was afraid to confess and risk alienating herself. It seems that the only way to conceal a love of the lowbrow is to discuss it with a hefty helping of sarcasm. How else can you explain why Kim's used to keep a copy of Mariah Carrey's awesomely awful movie Glitter on the "avant-garde" shelf? Mocking crappy movies is fine, but enjoying them is as bad as divulging that you still collect Pogs and play with Tamagotchis.
I have to admit that I too have been guilty of trying to disguise my true intentions when it comes to trash. Britney Spears' movie Crossroads came out in the spring of 2002, when I was in eighth grade. I convinced a group of my friends to go see it with me on opening night, "just so we can make fun of it, guys!" I was lying to them and myself when I said that my interest in the story of how Britney, on a cross-country road trip, finds both her birth mother and herself, was purely ironic—I had genuinely been looking forward to the movie coming out for months. Of course, I was a young and insecure thing back then; nowadays I freely admit when I want to see a bad movie, regardless of how much my friends may ridicule me.
There is no use in hiding your true feelings in a coating of snark. I won't deny that part of trash's appeal is being able to laugh at unintentionally funny dialogue and situations, but the majority of its appeal lies in the fact that it's truly fun to watch and read. I think there should be a movement toward banning the phrase "guilty pleasure" from the lexicon--why should anyone have to feel ashamed for liking something, even if it isn't exactly Shakespeare? Pleasures should never have to be guilty.
So, go ahead, admit that you sometimes stay up all night to watch ElimiDate and dream about one day being on the show yourself. Jam to S Club 7's greatest hits in your room without worrying about who might be listening. Whip out your dog-eared copy of The Babysitter's Club #1 — Kristy's Big Idea on the Low steps and read it in broad daylight. You have nothing to lose but your chains, and the mental strain of coming up with a barb about Rachel Bilson's outfit on the cover of Cosmo when what you're really interested in is reading that feature on "What Falling in Love Feels Like for Him." A world in which people embrace their lack of taste would be a better world for everyone—and by "everyone," I mean "me." It'd mean that I could finally read Animorphs again, this time, in public.
While my peers were furtively sneaking sips of Manishewitz at bar mitzvahs and exploring the perils of first base in their friends' basements, I was busy reading Animorphs in secret. As you probably don't recall,Animorphs, from 1996 to 2001, chronicled the adventures of a group of five teenagers who fought evil brain-controlling aliens by turning into animals. They had been given this power by a different, good alien, named Prince Elfangor.
I was a loyal Animorphs reader from the age of eight until the very last book was released. I was in seventh grade by then, meaning I was thirteen and probably too old for kiddie sci-fi. The series eventually came to include 50 some-odd titles--okay, fine, I remember the exact number. There were 54 volumes in the regular series, along with maybe 8 super-specials (the Animorphs travel back to the time of the dinosaurs! the Animorphs go on summer vacation, in space!). I placed each and every one of these on a special shelf in my room, organized in chronological order according to release date.
It's been five years since I last read about the Animorphs, but I can't say that my taste in entertainment has really evolved since then. When given a choice between thought provoking, high-quality books or movies and their crappy, lowbrow equivalents, I'll inevitably gravitate toward the latter. My favorites tend to be those that straddle the line between class and trash--Gone With the Wind in both its incarnations, for example, which is basically prototypical chick lit that somehow managed to win a Pulitzer Prize and a truckload of Oscars.
I have an especially fierce passion for cheesy Lifetime movies. If Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? starring Tori Spelling as a coed caught in the web of a dangerous man comes on, I will drop whatever I'm doing and stay glued to the TV for the next two hours. It's all I can do to stop myself from cheering aloud when Tori and her dedicated single mother foil Tori's evil boyfriend's plot to murder her, the same way he killed his last girlfriend. I'm fortunate enough to own both Sex and the Single Mom and She's Too Young. Sex and the Single Mom is a film "for mothers, for daugters [sic], for our time," according to the blurb on the back of the movie.She's Too Young documents a straight-A student's fall from grace as she learns that romantic involvement with the hottest boy in school can only lead to heartbreak and a nasty case of oral syphilis. I also love melodramatic Harlequin romances. Take a close look at my bookshelf at home and you'll find that it's dotted with gems like His Royal Love-Child and A Virgin for the Taking. I did not make up those titles.
Not everyone understands my unusual affinity for trash. I use the term for convenience's sake, since I clearly think trash is really Grade-A entertainment. For instance, I was reading The Weekly World News (the tabloid that brought us Bat Boy) before Lit Hum once, and a girl in my class asked me, disdainfully, why I bother with that kind of crap: "Why don't you pick up a copy of The Economist instead?" I smiled sweetly at her, saying nothing as I imagined how quickly she'd become Bat Boy's lunch if she ever wandered into rural West Virginia alone.
I should have told her that the main reason I love trash is because it's the purest form of entertainment. It is the kind of amusement that's easily digestible and that's even easier to discard once you're done. You don't have to work to find any greater meaning in a trashy movie or spend time trying to analyze its message. There are no ulterior motives when it comes to indulging in low culture. A person doesn't read a trashy book because she feels an obligation to, or because she feels like it'll make her a better person as a result, or because she wants to be able to tell people that she did. Simply put, she reads it because she likes it. Trash is the cultural equivalent of comfort food. Like brisket and mashed potatoes, it's soothing, predictable, universally appealing and incredibly satisfying.
With this in mind, it's hard for me to understand why so many intelligent people are reluctant to admit that they love junk entertainment the way I do. What's wrong with shamelessly watching an episode of Mauryevery now and then, especially if today's topic happens to be "Send My Troubled Teen to Boot Camp?" It bothers me that the only socially acceptable way to get away with enjoying trash is to claim that you're only interested in it ironically. Case in point: I was walking past a group of girls the other day, and I overheard them discussing, between drags of their clove cigarettes, the movie Junior. That's the one where Danny DeVito convinces Arnold Schwarzenegger to test some wacky fertility drug which, defying the laws of nature and taste, miraculously impregnates the Austrian actor-turned-governator.
I'm willing to bet that at least one of the smirking, skinny jean wearers--just because it's a stereotype doesn't mean you don't see these people outside of Butler every night--legitimately liked the movie but was afraid to confess and risk alienating herself. It seems that the only way to conceal a love of the lowbrow is to discuss it with a hefty helping of sarcasm. How else can you explain why Kim's used to keep a copy of Mariah Carrey's awesomely awful movie Glitter on the "avant-garde" shelf? Mocking crappy movies is fine, but enjoying them is as bad as divulging that you still collect Pogs and play with Tamagotchis.
I have to admit that I too have been guilty of trying to disguise my true intentions when it comes to trash. Britney Spears' movie Crossroads came out in the spring of 2002, when I was in eighth grade. I convinced a group of my friends to go see it with me on opening night, "just so we can make fun of it, guys!" I was lying to them and myself when I said that my interest in the story of how Britney, on a cross-country road trip, finds both her birth mother and herself, was purely ironic—I had genuinely been looking forward to the movie coming out for months. Of course, I was a young and insecure thing back then; nowadays I freely admit when I want to see a bad movie, regardless of how much my friends may ridicule me.
There is no use in hiding your true feelings in a coating of snark. I won't deny that part of trash's appeal is being able to laugh at unintentionally funny dialogue and situations, but the majority of its appeal lies in the fact that it's truly fun to watch and read. I think there should be a movement toward banning the phrase "guilty pleasure" from the lexicon--why should anyone have to feel ashamed for liking something, even if it isn't exactly Shakespeare? Pleasures should never have to be guilty.
So, go ahead, admit that you sometimes stay up all night to watch ElimiDate and dream about one day being on the show yourself. Jam to S Club 7's greatest hits in your room without worrying about who might be listening. Whip out your dog-eared copy of The Babysitter's Club #1 — Kristy's Big Idea on the Low steps and read it in broad daylight. You have nothing to lose but your chains, and the mental strain of coming up with a barb about Rachel Bilson's outfit on the cover of Cosmo when what you're really interested in is reading that feature on "What Falling in Love Feels Like for Him." A world in which people embrace their lack of taste would be a better world for everyone—and by "everyone," I mean "me." It'd mean that I could finally read Animorphs again, this time, in public.