Somewhere between The Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones rests Robert Jordan's epic high fantasy series, The Wheel of Time. Spanning fourteen volumes and one prequel, the books total more than 10,000 pages and follow the adventures of four friends who leave behind their remote village after strangers from afar and unforeseen events upend their lives. As they travel further from home, they discover foreign lands, ancient legends, hidden powers, and new peoples, which in turn force each to wrestle with their own fate and responsibilities in the looming final battle between good and evil.
When whittled down to such a basic description, The Wheel of Time sounds pretty much like every other fantasy series ever written. And, in many ways, I'm sure it is. I often compare the books to J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings and imagine George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series echoes many of the familiar genre tropes featured in Jordan's saga. Similarities can even be found in J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter books. Where The Wheel of Time differs for me, however, is in its arrant and unmatched combination of a richly detailed and expansive universe, clear and distinct in-world lore, deeply captivating and approachable narrative style, and large yet manageable cast of characters representing almost every imaginable permutation along the spectrum of human morality. Sure, those other series I mentioned above exhibit those qualities, too, but just not to the same degree. While addictive as HBO's Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire has thus far failed to capture my attention. Though clearly an inspiration for The Wheel of Time, I find everything about The Lord of the Rings bettered by Peter Jackson's movie-trilogy masterpiece. Rowling's Harry Potter may actually be the most similar in my estimation, yet seems quite juvenile in comparison at times. Actually, come to think of it, if not for Rowling's Harry Potter saga, I may never have stumbled upon Robert Jordan's first Wheel of Time volume, The Eye of the World, in the first place. Not long after devouring the first four Potter books in a single week, I developed a new hunger for fantasy novels and needed something to fill the time between the release of Rowling's books four and five. It was at work one fateful day that I noticed a colleague reading a paperback adorned with the typical artwork featured on many a fantasy cover. Intrigued, I inquired about the book, and upon my coworker's recommendation, I slipped next door to the Barnes & Noble on my break and purchased The Eye of the World. Soon thereafter I was hooked, the only downside being I had found another incomplete series. Luckily for me, Robert Jordan had already written and published the bulk of his series by that time, and with each one ranging in size from roughly 650 to 1,000 pages, plenty of chapters stood between me and the end of what books were available. I thought for sure I'd still be working through them as Jordan finished writing the remaining planned novels. Unluckily for me, though, once engrossed in the epic series, I read through them quicker than I expected, eventually catching up with the series at book nine, Winter's Heart. I found myself in a predicament with The Wheel of Time not unlike the one I had with Harry Potter. Waiting. When Tor Books published book ten, Crossroads of Twilight, I decided I could wait a little longer for the new novel to also be available in paperback. Each time I walked past the new release shelf at Barnes & Noble or Target and spotted the hardcover, though, my resilience to wait wore down. Until, one day, I gave into temptation and bought the book. I longed to return to the world of The Wheel of Time and uncover what Jordan had in store for my favorite characters. The process continued with the release of book eleven, Knife of Dreams. Sadly, Robert Jordan passed away while writing what was slated to be the twelfth and final novel in the series. Before he died and knowing he was unwell, he met with fellow fantasy scribe and Wheel of Time fan, Brandon Sanderson, and tasked him with finishing book twelve. Soon thereafter Sanderson announced that Jordan left him with too much material for one book. He estimated three more were needed to complete the story as imagined by Jordan, bringing the total number of books to fourteen epic and unbridled tomes. The final contribution, A Memory of Light, arrived in January of 2013, practically 23 years after The Eye of the World kicked things off in 1990. (There's that magic year again.) And along with the Harry Potter books, The Wheel of Time further deepened my love for reading and its genre in general, even inspiring me to start the process of writing my own series of fantasy novels. Who knows where that will lead? Along my Wheel of Time journey, I met a few other fans of the series here and there, most recently including Bryce's brother, Peter. Our first summer together, Bryce and I made a trip to his mom's house in New Jersey, where I met the rest of his family for the first time. As any new significant other being introduced to the family, I was nervous about finding things in common to talk about. When Peter and his wife Susan invited us to dinner, somehow The Wheel of Time came up in conversation, and that was our in. Peter and I found something to bond over, particularly without anyone else around who understood the depth and intensity of Jordan's world. Following that trip, Peter graciously had each subsequent Wheel of Time release shipped to me, and I plunged into books thirteen and fourteen with renewed fervor...if not out of sheer anticipation, then out of a desire to be ready to discuss them the next time we would see Peter. There really is something special that happens when people connect over a book (or series of books in this case), and I will take that feeling with me forever. I still recommend Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series to friends and acquaintances searching for something new and immersive to read and am happy to lend anyone my copies of the books. I also remember thinking that the anthology would make excellent fodder for Hollywood, especially following the critical and commercial success of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In recent and cautiously optimistic Wheel of Time news, the wife of the late author announced in April of 2016 that a major studio had obtained the rights to turn the books into a television series, obviously owing such a development to the critical and commercial success of HBO's Game of Thrones. Either way, the prospect of bringing The Wheel of Time to life through another medium positively excites me.
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Since Nat King Cole's classic holiday standard, "The Christmas Song," ended up at #25 on my Hot 101 countdown, pairing it with the classic holiday film, Home Alone, seemed only fitting. Interesting aside regarding the year of the movie's release, 1990. Several other notable reflections focus on pieces specifically tied to the very same year, namely "Escapade," Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814, "Freedom! '90," Northern Exposure, "Nothing Compares 2 U," World Clique, and "Groove Is in the Heart." That this smattering of posts only covers the first fifteen days of my Countdown to 40, it stands to reason that a few additional 1990 relics may appear before the big day on March 12. The popularity of the year and its apparent influence on my taste in movies, television, and music also helps to explain my fondness for the entire decade, though I suspect my love for the 1990s relates more to my emotional and psychological stages of development than a sudden awareness of the pop-culture world around me. Enough pontificating on 1990, at least for now.
Much like my adoration for Janet Jackson, my love for Christmas and winter comes as no surprise to anyone. I proudly wear my Christmas-is-my-favorite-holiday badge twelve months a year. Drop by my office or jump in my car any day between August 1 and January 31, and you are likely to hear a few carols, both sacred and secular, emanating from the speakers, despite Bryce's (and the general population's) liturgically-based and fully justified disapproval. If it's November or December, you will only hear Christmas music in those two locations. Beyond that, you can catch me humming "Let It Snow" or "The Christmas Waltz" on any given day of the year. I giddily welcome snow between the months of November and April, using any measurable amount as an excuse to play my Pandora Classic Christmas radio station or sneak in a holiday-themed episode of one of my favorite television shows. Heck, I even remember when one of my best friends, Debbie, and I celebrated Christmas in July once during high school, complete with decorations, cutout cookies, festive music, and holiday movies. Clearly, my love for the December holiday borders on obsession, and I'm perfectly okay with that. Where did my obsession come from? For me, Christmas conjures up so many magical and wonderful memories that stretch back in time as far as I remember. To be clear, it does not at all revolve around gifts. Sure, when I was younger, presents elicited quite a bit of excitement and giving gifts has brought me a lot of pleasure as an adult. But my passion for Christmas completely comes from the feelings and nostalgia the holiday season recalls, like the crisp, cold Minnesota air and the twinkling night sky greeting me and my family as we left Grandma and Grandpa's house on Christmas Eve. The warmth of a crackling blaze in the fireplace. The peace, hope, and light promised by the message delivered at late-night church services. The meals and parties bringing together friends and family, some not seen in far too long. And the love, the love that abounds in every single memory. And what does Home Alone have to do with all of that? For one thing, the movie evokes many of the same feelings that make Christmas so special to me, particularly when Kevin wakes up on Christmas morning to a blanket of fresh snow and his family returning from a very short trip to Paris. For another, Home Alone arrived at precisely the right time in my life to leave an indelible mark. I had reached the age when my parents allowed me to see a movie with my friends and without requiring an adult chaperone, something I remember longing for. I was always in a hurry to grow up, connecting more with adults than the kids around me. I felt stymied by my age and therefore well beyond my years, ready for any experience or responsibility that made me more like an adult. When given the opportunity to see Home Alone without adult supervision, I did not hesitate for a minute to seize it. I proudly felt I had turned some major corner in the aging process. Today, I think back on my desire to grow up as quickly as possible and shake my head. What was I thinking? While I don't wish to go through adolescence and high school again, I long for the innocence, unbridled imagination, and wonder that accompanies childhood. In an attempt to hold on to as much of that as I can, I tend to identify myself as "still a kid" in many situations, whether it be through a video game, a book, a game of make-believe with nieces and nephews, or a movie. So, in addition to conveying the feelings of Christmas and symbolizing a stepping stone in my aging process, Home Alone also transports me right back to 1990, when I stood on the precipice straddling the awkward and confusing transition from child to adult. Plus, I've seen the movie so many times, I can pretty much quote it word-for-word.
The song "Escapade" basically introduced me to Janet Jackson in the spring of 1990, and if you want a specific sign to identify the start of my enthusiasm for the youngest of the famous Jackson clan, look no further. If you need more solid evidence to explain my infatuation, however, I completely understand your hunger for something a bit more meaty and substantial. Because, let's face it, no matter how powerful and symbolic, a single cannot justify a life-long, pop-culture love affair. With over 25 years and counting, there has to be more than a simple song to warrant my unending support of Janet. So, ladies and gentlemen of the non-existent jury, I present to you Exhibit B, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814.
I could ramble on about the album's numerous accolades and achievements, like how it became the biggest-selling album of 1990. Or how it has sold more than twelve million copies worldwide since then. Or how it earned Jackson the distinction of being the first woman ever nominated for a Producer of the Year Grammy. Or how it remains the only album ever to have seven commercial singles reach the top five on Billboard's Hot 100 chart. Or how it produced three number one hits over the span of three consecutive years, 1989-1991, and endures as the only album to have accomplished that. Or how the Rhythm Nation World Tour 1990 became the most successful debut concert by a recording artist. I could ramble on about all those things, but I won't. Instead, I'll tell you how the album was the second CD I ever purchased (after World Clique), but the first cassette tape I replaced after getting my first CD player. And how "Escapade" lured me to the album, but the title track, "Miss You Much," "Alright," "Black Cat," and "Love Will Never Do (Without You)" quickly established Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814 as one of my early all-time favorites. And how "Rhythm Nation," "State of the World," "The Knowledge," and "Livin' in a World (They Didn't Make)" helped open my eyes to the social injustices faced by many people, particularly children, around the world. And how, at the age of thirteen, it therefore taught me the meaning of privilege, white and otherwise. And how I subsequently used lyrics from two different interludes to start off a paper written in my 11th grade social studies class, the first being: "We are in a race between education and catastrophe." The second stating: "In complete darkness, we are all the same. It is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us. Don't let your eyes deceive you." And how these songs and interludes prove every bit as true and important today as they did when Jackson released the album in 1989. And how I whole-heartedly believed the album's opening words, "We are a nation with no geographic boundaries, bound together by our beliefs. We are like-minded individuals, pushing toward a world rid of color lines." And how I still believe those lines today and with every fiber of my being, perhaps more than ever before. So, if The Velvet Rope helped me to better see myself, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814 helped me to better see the world. Most of the items on my Countdown to 40 blog symbolize key transitional points in my life. Entertainment Weekly reconnected me to the suburban life I felt I had lost. Jagged Little Pill served as the soundtrack to freshman year of college for my friends and I. A major period of self reflection and realization began when I heard The Velvet Rope for the first time (and several times thereafter). Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends inspired my appreciation for the written word. A few other items simply represent a few of my favorite things (see Pushing Daisies, Super Mario Bros, and Game of Thrones). Somewhere between the the importance of the first set of examples and my pure affinity for the latter set lies World Clique.
Deee-Lite's 1990 album of dance-pop music boasts the distinction of being my very first CD purchase and therefore marks the beginning of an era of conspicuous consumption. (It was the 90s, after all.) Soon after acquiring my first CD player, I quickly grew obsessed with purchasing CDs and building my collection. By the time I graduated college, I owned over 400 of them, ranging in genre from classical to rap and from Disney to grunge. I considered them badges of honor and something to be proud of, proof of which was recently uncovered after rifling through a storage bin of photographs. Tucked away near the bottom of the container sat a box of wallet-sized senior portraits, including one of me sitting among piles of CD jewel cases with several of my favorites prominently featured in the foreground. Clearly I wanted people to know just how important those CDs were to me, and I also thought I would want to remember such banality. Talk about an awkward photo! I laughed out loud before promptly sharing the cringeworthy photo with my husband and one of our good friends, Jen. My addiction, for lack of a better word, was fueled equally by my susceptibility to the idea that buying stuff would make me happy and my desire to "broadcast" my own Top 40 using CDs (rather than music recorded on cassette tapes from the radio). I mean, how could I effectively accomplish creating and listening to my Top 40 without the CDs needed to play each song on cue? For a while, the CDs and Top 40 did bring me much happiness, at least superficially. I considered them my path to popularity, or at least acceptance. This, of course, proved a faulty line of thinking, but I was a teenager searching for acceptance by any means possible and didn't know any better, and the more CDs I purchased, the more accepted and understood I assumed I'd become. In reality, though, they provided more of a curtain to hide behind and false sense of identity. My CD collection never did provide me with the magic ticket to the in-crowd. More often than not, the random and numerous CDs I couldn't live without because of my love for a one-hit wonder were disappointments. Yet despite the glaringly obvious problem with my misplaced consumerism, it did introduce me to some great music along the way, beginning with my very first CD purchase, Deee-Lite's World Clique. I bought the album for "Groove Is in the Heart," number #28 on my Hot 101, but I also discovered that every one of the CD's twelve tracks proved just as delightfully catchy and enjoyable, a circumstance rarely repeated. What I didn't recognize was how World Clique would turn into one of my most listened-to albums. Today, I continue to thoroughly enjoy World Clique and still find myself returning to it a few times each year--far more than I can say for roughly 95% of the other CDs I thought I could not live without as a teenager.
What is a motion picture without its score, I ask you? Not much different, I suppose, than macaroni without cheese. Or Ben without Jerry. Or Mary-Kate without Ashley. Or Laverne without Shirley. Or Bert without Ernie. Or C-3PO without R2-D2. I could go on listing famous pairs almost indefinitely, but I think you get the point. In each example, one of the individuals can most definitely stand alone; however, something magical happens when the two join forces. Together they create a whole much greater and sometimes more powerful than the sum of their parts.
The same symbiotic relationship holds true for movies and their music. When you think about it, could you imagine Jaws without the music of John Williams? It certainly amped up the film's suspense level (...and convinced me never to swim in the ocean, but that's another story for another time). What about Braveheart without James Horner, The Lord of the Rings without Howard Shore, and American Beauty without Thomas Newman? No, I would venture to bet you could not separate a film from its score, not in a way that would keep intact a movie's connection with an audience. For, as in each example listed above, the composer interprets a film's narrative using music, thereby establishing the emotional core of its accompanying motion picture and conveying its tone. Fairly early on, I recognized the power of film scores to leave their lasting impressions on me, largely because of John Williams and his work in Jaws, Indiana Jones, and Star Wars. It was his soundtrack for Schindler's List, though, that stuck with me the most, so much so that I went out and bought the original score on CD. When listening to it, the film's haunting theme, played on violin, prompted equally haunting images and scenes from the film, eliciting many of the same emotions I experienced while watching the movie. The soundtrack evoked such an emotional response, it intensified my personal connection to the film and marked the beginning of a new appreciation for the power of movie music. Before long, my newfound appreciation for film scores turned into more of a fixation, particularly as my love for movies intensified. From that point on, it seems I could not get enough of movie music. Over the years I amassed quite the collection of film scores, both digitally and on CD. Along with the soundtrack to Schindler's List, several others join an elite group of all-time favorites, including The Last of the Mohicans (Randy Edelman and Trevor Jones), Braveheart (James Horner), The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (Howard Shore), American Beauty (Thomas Newman), Gladiator (Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard), Atonement (Dario Marianelli), The English Patient (Gabriel Yared), Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (John Williams), Elizabeth (David Hirschfielder), Shakespeare in Love (Stephen Warbeck), Brooklyn (Michael Brook), and Finding Neverland (Jan A.P. Kaczmarek). Beyond and within those full scores, many individual pieces stand out in memory and importance, like "The Park on Piano" from Finding Neverland, which served as the processional music for our wedding ceremony. Additionally, about 10 years ago, my love of movie music even inspired me to create a set of compilation CDs for a good friend of mine, Carrie. The resulting collection spanned twelve discs and featured many of what I considered to be the greatest film score selections at the time, grouped according to quality, mood, or emotion and showcasing just how deep my passion for movie music ran. Since undertaking that project, I've continued to expand my collection of motion picture scores, further highlighting the importance movie music plays in my life and sense of cultural identity. And because I couldn't spend an entire post waxing on about such wonderful pieces of music and not share them with you, below you will find a Spotify playlist with highlights from the 12-disc collection I mentioned as well as several more recent pieces that have joined my iTunes library during the intervening years. In today's political climate, when division and refusal to compromise reign supreme, I long for the idealism of Jed Bartlet and his administration. Yes, I realize full well The West Wing fictionalized the president and his staff from a left-leaning perspective, but they managed to hold steadfast to the tenets of their ideology while recognizing the need to reach across party lines and allow for some give and take when necessary. Politicians on the show may not have agreed on every issue, in fact they often argued vociferously over contentious points, yet they listened to one another instead of speaking at and over one another. Believe it or not, they actually tried to understand where each other was coming from, an approach that would be all too welcome in 2017.
Regardless of which side of the political fence you fall on, such empathy and patience would be refreshing, wouldn't it? We citizens of this planet really are not all that different, needing clean air to breathe, nutritious food to eat, and sufficient shelter to protect us. Sometime over the last decade or so, though, we Americans seem to have lost any sense of common ground as we transitioned from championing compromise and civil discourse to demonizing both as character flaws or worse--as flat out weaknesses. Instead, our society celebrates rigidity and considers sticking to your guns, no mater what, a sign of strength. It's as if backing down from an argument, acknowledging the validity of someone else's perspective, and/or admitting when one is in the wrong somehow equates to failure. Perhaps superhero movies are to blame, which until recently perpetuated the falsehood that life fits nicely into good versus evil. Or maybe the end of the Cold War challenged how we think of right versus wrong. The impossible dichotomy of one over the other, however, fails to take into consideration the existence of any variables, and variables persist in every place, time, and situation. Resident of the United States versus Thailand? Variable. Born in 1977 versus 2017? Variable. Learned to speak German instead of Spanish? Variable. Learned to speak both German and Spanish? Variable. Born gay rather than straight? Variable. Identify as Christian and not Buddhist? Variable. Grew up in Minnesota versus Texas? Variable. Life exists in and endless set of variables, and so it ends up somewhere along the hard-to-define spectrum between good and evil, right and wrong. Life fills that murky space between two inadequately defined binary opposites, no matter how you describe them. Just like no two people share the same fingerprints, no two people share the same life experiences. That also means no two people fit perfectly into a neatly arranged box that conforms to the expectations of society. Growing up in the historically "blue" state of Minnesota, you might think the roots of my liberalism formed there, and in many ways, they did. After all, I grew up and spent much of my life in the land of MPR and A Prairie Home Companion. Still, conservatism surrounded me living in rural Minnesota, and I don't mean that negatively or as something I am ashamed of, it was simply a fact of life. I could see and feel the very real tension between urban and rural America that has since come to dominate much of our national dialogue, particularly when my small-town high school invited students from a high school in the Twin Cities for a symposium on diversity. Some parents were so upset by this that they kept their kids home from school that day, a decision and form of protest I could not understand. When news of the reason behind student absences spread through the school well before our guests arrived, all I could think about was how those teenagers would feel if they found out. It saddened me, and I made it a point to attend as many of those sessions as I could and make those students feel welcome. Nevertheless, we remain almost singularly focused on Republican or Democrat, Left or Right, Liberal or Conservative. All of those political qualifiers are labels we identify with, not labels we need in order to identify ourselves. Still, our culture demands that we choose one over the other, and I can honestly say that I considered myself a Republican for much of my adolescent years, primarily because that's the political party I thought my parents preferred. Things started to change for me after I traveled to Germany during my senior year of high school. Walking down the streets of a city more than an ocean away, I began to see my life as smaller and less significant. I discovered I wasn't so special, in the grand scheme of things. Suddenly, the world outside my small hometown and everyone in it felt less anonymous and remote, and I felt ignorant and naive. Leaving home for college and striking out on my own afterwards only intensified those feelings. I had a difficult time connecting with and defining my changing political views. Until I discovered The West Wing, that is. An instant fan of the show's whip-smart banter and unconventional narrative style, I saw my personal beliefs reflected more and more in the characters of Bartlet, CJ Cregg, Bradley Whitford, Toby Ziegler, Donna Moss, Leo McGarry, Josh Lyman, Sam Seaborn, and Charlie Young. A personal highlight of mine is the season premiere episode Aaron Sorkin and the series' creators ran in the fall of 2001 following 9/11. In the episode, the White House deftly confronts the very real threat of terrorism without equating entire countries, regions, or religions as blanket terrorists. (Remember the variables thing I mentioned earlier? This particular episode tackled the issue honestly by portraying a certain amount of natural tension, fear, and uncertainty and not allowing that tension, fear, and uncertainty to cloud the judgment of characters and transform into unwarranted prejudice.) While The West Wing certainly did not turn me into a liberal as this post might imply, the show helped me to better define my own political leanings and beliefs and recognize not everyone thinks the same way--and that's okay. Well before the off-beat and quirky Pushing Daisies aired its first episode, the comparably off-beat and quirky Northern Exposure pulled me into the eccentric world of Cicely, Alaska. The show's charmingly idiosyncratic characters and often-time bizarre episodes quickly endeared themselves to me, and before long I found myself tuning into the series regularly. On a side note, I might be detecting a pattern among my most cherished television shows emerging here, one that I had not previously considered. Along with Pushing Daisies and Northern Exposure, at least one other television series TBA in my Countdown to 40 shares these exact descriptors, too. A couple notable favorites not on the countdown fit the same mold as well, like Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt and 30 Rock. Things that make you go hmmmm.
Anyway, back to the show at hand. For those of you unfamiliar with the wonder and awesomeness that is Northern Exposure, the 1990-1995 series centers on Dr. Joel Fleischman, who, upon graduation from medical school in New York City, gets placed as the resident doctor for a tiny Alaskan town. Provided he successfully fulfills his agreement to the town of Cicely, his medical degree will be paid for. Of course, Joel finds the transition rather difficult, and he struggles adjusting to his new home, remote as it is, and his new neighbors, weird as they are. Where can he find a bagel? How do people get into town? How do they get out? None of the backward, uneducated locals could possibly understand his worldly, cosmopolitan, and highly-educated perspective or refined tastes. (Sounds prescient considering our current political atmosphere and the increasingly bitter conflict between urban and rural America, doesn't it?) The truly peculiar townspeople, for the most part, graciously accept Joel into their fold, despite the Empire State Building-sized chip on his shoulder and his abrasively stereotypical New York personality. Their genuine concern for the doctor's well-being coupled with their immense pride in their hometown eventually breaks Joel's guard down, and Cicely becomes his home, too. During the process, some truly bizarre episodes take place--ones that have stuck with me for the past 20 years. There's one in which the local DJ, Chris Stevens (played by John Corbett), hoists a grand piano several stories into the air with a crane, only to drop it crashing to the ground. The reason? Sheer curiosity for what the experience would be like. Other episodes, or maybe one of the same--memory does come and go these days, chronicle life in Cicely during the summer and winter solstices, when the town experiences 24 hours of sunlight or darkness. The impact those days have on the show's characters only made them more strange and therefore more endearing. Apart from satisfying my recently uncovered penchant for off-beat, quirky television series, Northern Exposure shares a common trait with my connection to Entertainment Weekly. As I reflected in my first Countdown to 40 post, I felt a sense of isolation after moving from suburban Saint Paul to rural Minnesota. Entertainment Weekly certainly helped alleviate that feeling, and so did Northern Exposure in its own way. Sure, no matter how rural and disconnected my life seemed to be in west-central Minnesota, it definitely was not as rural and disconnected as Cicely, Alaska. On some level, though, I think I connected to Joel's experience as a stranger in a strange new land among strange new people. That the decision to relocate was not his own made the similarity to my situation all the more striking. At the same time, I, too, eventually grew to love my new home, my new surroundings, and my new friends, particularly once I started letting my own guard down and opening myself up to the wonderful people and space around me. Reduced to a base level comparison, we were the same, Joel and I. When I started the process of writing about Northern Exposure, I generally knew the direction it was heading. One thing I failed to see coming at the outset was identifying a pattern of television show qualities I tend to gravitate towards. Surprisingly, two other revelations surfaced as I continued to write, both having to do with the character played by John Corbett. First, most if not all of the scenes and episodes I remember the most feature Corbett's Chris Stevens in a prominent storyline. I never spent much time thinking about that before this project. I primarily thought the show's radio DJ simply epitomized what it meant to be cool. But now I am pretty sure my fascination with Chris Stevens amounted to one of my first adolescent crushes. Second, my crush on the DJ character may have also inspired me to create my own DJ alter-ego, which I talk about in more detail on the Hot 101 page. Of course my fascination with Top 40 programs undoubtedly played a role in that, too, but I don't think it a coincidence that I initiated my Top 40 around the same time I started watching Northern Exposure. Consider my mind blown. So far I've thoroughly enjoyed examining the elements of pop culture that provide some point of reference in my life. Regardless of their impact, writing about them has been both challenging and fun. The posts about Entertainment Weekly, Schindler's List, Jagged Little Pill, and The Velvet Rope proved especially cathartic and meaningful, as I never sat down to put my thoughts and feelings about them into such coherent reflections before. Considering the depth, gravity, and importance of my three most recent posts, though, I figured the time had come to lighten things up a bit and focus on pure, unadulterated fun. What better way to accomplish that than with Super Mario Bros, one of the all-time great video game franchises?
In their various adventures and iterations, the constantly evolving Italian plumber and his friends provided countless hours of fun throughout much of my life (and still do), accompanying me all the way from my preteen years up into my late thirties. I could always count on them to bring the fun. The best thing about my favorite Mario games? They brought together family and friends for a bit of innocent, good-natured competition. Well, mostly innocent. And usually good-natured. Like with any game that pits players against one another, there were heated verbal exchanges at times, but they were relatively rare and never transformed into physical altercations. Nevertheless, we always enjoyed ourselves and the time we spent immersed in the worlds of Mario, and here I highlight a few of my favorites: Super Mario Bros. 3 (NES): The first two Super Mario Bros. for the original Nintendo Entertainment System ruled, no doubt. But #3 brought things to a whole new level by giving Mario and Luigi a Tanooki Suit (aka the Flying Raccoon Suit). My younger siblings and I spent many winter afternoon hours plodding our way through the game until one of us would get frustrated and quit or the game system would unexpectedly shut down. Take out the cartridge and blow--that'll fix everything! Super Mario World (SNES): My best friend in high school, Jonathan of CJJ5 fame, and I played this Super Nintendo game incessantly for a while. Who could blame us? Yoshi made everything more interesting. Plus I had a TV in my room at that time, so who could stop us? MarioKart 64 (N64): A racing game featuring Mario, his friends, AND his foes? Yes, please! I swear my college friends and I played this game for a solid decade, even after new systems and updated versions came out. No new offering could ever beat the Nintendo 64 versions of Rainbow Road and Wario Stadium, though. Only time and skill helped master those boards. And Donkey Kong. He was my go-to guy. Mario Party (N64/GameCube/Wii): As mature adults in our late twenties and early thirties, my friends Dianna, Allison, Kara, and I were known to spend many an evening engrossed in a lively round of this board and video game hybrid. We tended to gravitate toward the mini games, each of us gifted in our own unique specialties. Sometimes frustration with an outcome would prompt a curse word or two to escape from one of our mouths. Normally not an issue, except when my niece and nephew, Brittani and Jordan, were visiting for a weekend. Jordan chided us after a particularly salty evening as he proclaimed, "No swearing!" On more occasions than I can recount, we laughed so hard we cried. New Super Mario Bros. (Wii): I never really got into the open-world concept of the Nintendo 64, Game Cube, and early Wii platform versions of Super Mario Bros. I understood the potential of Mario unbound by the constraints of side-scroll games, but they never drew me in. When Nintendo released an updated version of a more traditional Mario game for the Wii, I knew instantly it would be a hit. Bryce and I spent much of our first summer together mastering every level, going back through each on diligently to get all three coins. I think he was supposed to be working on his dissertation, but neither one of us could resist the throwback nostalgia and infinite fun of the New Super Mario Bros. Such great times and memories over the course of three decades! It's easy to understand why I cherish the Super Mario games to this day. My love and adoration for Janet Jackson runs deep and true, and if I had to choose a single musical artist as my all-time favorite, it would be her. No contest. For most of my family and friends, this confession is neither surprising nor particularly revelatory, since I never kept my fandom much of a secret. Posters of Jackson adorned my bedroom walls. I celebrated her May birthday rather than the end of the school year and never missed an opportunity to insert her music or lyrics into my homework. A number of passages scribbled on the pages of my senior-year yearbook mention my infatuation with Janet as one of my defining characteristics, a badge of honor I was all too happy to carry with me to college and into adulthood. Even one of my tattoos--the first one, actually--is Janet Jackson related: a symbol from The Velvet Rope on my upper left arm, the significance of its permanence not lost on me.
Whereas Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill defined an era for millions of people the world over, my friends and I included, Janet Jackson's The Velvet Rope seemed more singularly important in my journey of self-discovery. Though I fully recognized my adoration for Jackson was well established and others obviously connected to The Velvet Rope for a variety of reasons, I felt as if this Jackson album spoke directly to me and my burgeoning sense of identity when it arrived in the fall of 1997. I was 20 years old at the time and serving my second year as a Resident Advisor in the on-campus apartments at UMD. Many of the close and life-long friendships made that first fall grew stronger over those two years. Others faded. New lasting friendships developed as my position as an RA connected me to new people on an almost daily basis. The days of living within a shell were officially gone, and with the awkwardness of freshman year receding into the past and my first year as an RA successfully under my belt, my self-confidence and sense of purpose never seemed stronger. I felt like I had found my calling and finally began to understand who Chris was. In short, life was great. Never before had I felt so alive or so connected to my fellow human beings. I lived for socializing with my friends, hosting programs for residents, and going to class more often than not (most weeks). I threw myself and all of my energy into the people and activities that brought so much fulfillment to my life. Despite my amazing circle of friends and profound sense of happiness, however, something inside of me was just not adding up, something I couldn't quite identify. Or, more appropriately phrased, there was something I wasn't quite ready to acknowledge and accept. I was having the time of my life but felt as though part of me was missing and false, and I worked really hard to focus energy on everything else. Turns out leaving that shell I lived underneath proved more of an evasive maneuver than a courageous declaration to the world that I had arrived. Shells and living underneath them provide a certain amount of protection from the outside world, this much is true. But they also sometimes facilitate the time and space needed to engage with the type of introspection required for self-discovery. You see, I had a secret I didn't want to confess or confront. I liked men. I REALLY liked men. I lingered over images of shirtless men in print ads. (Marky Mark's famous campaign for Calvin Klein comes to mind.) I anticipated movies starring Hollywood hunks. (Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall anyone?). In the very early stages of the Internet, I also chatted with guys I'd never meet. (Anonymity was key.) But I didn't quite fully understand that part of myself. I definitely did not embrace it yet, and I avoided sharing this information with anyone for fear of rejection, though I'm pretty sure they all knew and accepted me for who I truly was. All the signs were there, stereotypical and otherwise. My ever-so faint lisp. My slightly effeminate affect. My obsession with Disney movies. My love but not lust for Janet Jackson. And, of course, my ogling of guys passing by. So, as aspects of my identity became more difficult and scary to face, I ventured further and further away from that shell, and my introverted self tried very hard and mostly succeeded at appearing as an extrovert. For a while. Along came The Velvet Rope. I plopped the CD into my player and pressed play. The first words Janet spoke were, "It's my belief that we all have the need to feel special. And it's this need that can bring out the best yet worst in us." Wait, what? Something triggered in my brain. Was that what I was doing? The wonderful friends around me made me feel special, that's for sure, and I cherished every moment of that. But by completely embracing that feeling of being special and being part of something special without regard for the scary yet honest truth within myself, was I also bringing out the worst by justifying a false life, a lie? Okay, Janet. Where are you going with this? And did you write this just for me? Over the subsequent 75 minutes of songs and interludes, Janet continued reaching out to me, relating all too closely to my emotional and psychological journey at the the time with lyrics like: "You spend most your life pretending not to be the one you are but who you choose to see" and "Boy meets boy, boy loses boy, boy gets cute boy back. Girl meets girl, girl loses girl, girl gets cute girl back. One rule, no rules. One love, free Xone." She even tackled the subject of meeting strangers online: "How could it be that you knew me? My deepest fears, my fantasies...confide in you what no one knows, but it feels so real." In almost every way, The Velvet Rope proved the album I needed most in the fall of 1997, and to be perfectly honest, that need still resurfaces from time to time. At one point during the title track, Janet sings a line that rings as true today as it did 20 years ago: "One love's the answer, you'll find in you." I'm still working on that, though I recognize and acknowledge that I'm now in a much better place in terms of self-identity and self-acceptance. After all, I didn't have to leave my shell behind, I simply needed to come out of it. It would take another two years before I fully came out. Many wonderful friends helped me through the process, but, in part, I also have The Velvet Rope to thank for that. Once in a great while an album comes along that truly defines an era, one that proves impossible to ignore yet equally impossible to resist. A pop-culture phenomenon that defies convention and unites an entire generation. A zeitgeist, if you will. Such was the case in the mid-1990s when Alanis Morissette released her angry-pop masterpiece, Jagged Little Pill.
I distinctly remember when the album exploded onto the scene. It was my freshman year at the University of Minnesota Duluth. Like all who leave the comforts of home for their first year of college, I floundered to find my footing as a fledgling adult and solo human being. Who am I? What is my purpose in life? What do I want to be when I grow up? Who are all these strange people? Unsure of myself, I spent the first half of freshman year focused almost entirely on my studies. Sure, I socialized some and established a few friendships early on, but drinking and parties weren't really my thing. They never had been. Instead, I put my nose to the proverbial grindstone, did my homework diligently, and spent much of my free time keeping up with my Top 40, a security blanket of sorts. That's not to say, however, I was a total recluse. It just took time for me to come out of my shell. As fall progressed, I started to attend more of the programs and office hours held by my Resident Advisors. These events fostered connections with my fellow hall mates, many of whom also preferred hanging out, watching movies, listening to music, playing games, sharing meals, and hiking around campus to binge drinking and house parties. As a result, a core group of close-knit friendships gradually blossomed and grew in the weeks leading up to winter break. In fact, the shared intensity of our first-year experiences in that specific time and in that specific place meant that I could not wait to return to campus after break. I needed to reunite with my new friends, the people who knew and understood me better than I thought anyone had before. I was officially done living under my shell. So what does Jagged Little Pill have to do with all of this? My newfound college friends and I bonded over many things. We introduced one another to new games and television shows. We took turns hosting movie nights. We checked out each others' Christmas decorations. We ordered and shared pizza late at night. We left messages for each other on white boards fastened to our room doors. We devised secret phrases to help one another avoid awkward situations. And we all listened to Jagged Little Pill. Repeatedly. It seemed you couldn't walk by one of our rooms or have someone's car pass by without hearing Morissette's lilt emanating from within. The tunes were catchy and lyrical. Some were angry power anthems, some confessional ballads, and some poppy love songs. They were introspective and non-conventional. But as freshmen initially feeling lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces and experiences, I think the album's emotional rawness may have been what we connected with most as we found our way through the year together. |
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I am a self-proclaimed pop culture geek and list enthusiast who is celebrating the big four-zero by counting down the most important, influential, and favorite music, movies, television shows, books, and video games of my life so far. Categories
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