woobiquity

Why I love The Kennedy Center Honors

Why I love The Kennedy Center Honors, which is broadcast on national television in the USA every year during the week between Christmas and New Year... (If you missed this year's show, you can watch clips here.) It's not because of the biographical videos, although they're often very interesting. It's not for the pageantry, although it's touchingly spartan and ritualistic compared to more modern awards shows. It's not for the emotionless looks some honorees have when it's their turn in the spotlight. (Face lifts, age, antidepressants, the head-on collision of being deemed a national treasure?) Or because of the possibility that a successful tribute might send a single tear down a diva's cheek. Or because the symbol of this 'national honor' is a rainbow ribbon. And it's certainly not for the pleasure of watching George Bush in a monkey suit, visibly not getting jokes that weren't overly sophisticated really.

It's because here, for two merciful hours, is a show about fame but not about fame for fame's sake. (Shoot, there's always at least one classical 'star' slipped into the mix; it's good medicine.) And more than that it's because somewhere out there, beyond TV Land, someone watching is bound to be inspired by these stories to grow up (from whatever age they happen to be at the moment) to be a serious artist. Which could mean one less person in America spending their life in a passionless corporate job , complaining ceaselessly and about immigration and political vice, plunging headlong into the culture war that never was.

I might even give it a try myself. I guess I'd better get busy practicing my honored weep. It's not so easy to cut off the tear ducts at just one droplet, you know.

Taking the words out of your mouth

And into time and space. Quite by chance, I came across a promotional video for a company called ReadSpeak. It sounds like a company George Saunders should have invented, but no. Nor is it, as I at first assumed, a failed 1970s vision for supporting deaf people with an artful, well-meaning aid. Rather, it's supposed to help kids learn to read.

So after a short, low-budget promotional clip the classic animated version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer begins, with one conspicuous addition. Each word Burl Ives' snowman speaks appears in the space where his breath would show, if a snowman had breath warm enough to show in the cold.

It's the same right the way through, whether it's coach saying (rather awkwardly, like he's reading from song lyrics or something), "We're not going to let Rudolph play in any more reindeer games" or Yukon Cornelius saying, "Gadzooks! The abominable snow monster of the north strikes again. Wa-hee!"

I rather like it. In fact, being a bit hearing challenged myself, I wouldn't object if someone offered up this effect in life as well as on television. Surely such lens implants can't be far off. Just be sure you program it so I can choose the font and color myself. Thanks. (That's an audible/visible THANKS, just in case anybody out there has the necessary equipment to receive my signal.)

The joy of photocopying

It’s not just Starbucks, McDonald’s and high-budget glossy magazines. It’s also the Savoy sell-off, the ironification of perfectly fine pubs and the failed experiment that is Caffe Nero.

For that matter, it’s estate agent cars painted with cute slogans. It’s the local rag of a newspaper designed to high heaven and blogs with those airy templates the blog gods provide.

Like Christmas carols on the 80th sickly listen, even pretty good designs lose their cool when re-used just-so, again and again and again. Which is why I was so delighted a few weeks ago to turn down the short street that’s like the dot at the base of Deptford High Street’s long exclamation mark and find a hidden-away coffeehouse that is original to the littlest bohemian detail.

Deptford Properly opened recently. It’s run by Utrophia, a nearby project space for artists, musicians and wordy people. The china cups are mismatched. Ditto the friendly, quirky staff. And there’s not a laminated piece of Photoshopped signage in sight. Even the flier for this weekend’s semi-Cristmassy events (Awkward Winterval… “a festival/exhibition and stuff going on for 3 or 4 days”) was hand-drawn in ink and photocopied, badly. It’s wonderful.

No news is good news?

Something aired on The Writer's Almanac a couple of weeks ago that I haven't been able to get out of my head. It was about the popular and prolific poet Sharon Olds. It said:

She also tries not to watch any television or read any newspapers, because she just doesn't have time. To stay informed about the world, she looks at the front page of newspapers when she walks past newsstands, and she asks her friends to brief her on world affairs. She said, "It might be a bad thing, not to know what's going on in the world. I can't say I really approve of it ...[I just don't like] learning about so many things that we can't do anything about."

Now, I suspect this quote was uttered or written before the internet, because without owning a television or resorting even to reading other people's newspapers on the train, er, very often (don't... don't turn that page... I was reading that!) I get my share of news and entertainment. And don't a lot of people.

And just like a lot of people, I probably do nothing with the information I take in. (I mean, eye-popping outrage is not, in and of itself, an accomplishment. Is it?) But it makes me happy sometimes, too, and if you watch and listen long enough to the stream of addictive unconsciousness coming across the bandwidth you're bound to eventually hear or mishear something that would... actually... make a pretty good first line of a short story or whatever.

Still, I feel like a challenge has been laid down. And the ultimate response would be no news for, say, a year. It would be like the US elections never happened. It would be bliss. It would be awful. It would be this:

'Dangerous structure keep out', Blackheath Road, London, this afternoon