{"id":66345,"date":"2014-02-07T18:19:43","date_gmt":"2014-02-07T23:19:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=66345"},"modified":"2014-02-07T18:38:45","modified_gmt":"2014-02-07T23:38:45","slug":"what-were-loving-being-stranded-being-stoned-krumping","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/02\/07\/what-were-loving-being-stranded-being-stoned-krumping\/","title":{"rendered":"What We\u2019re Loving: Being Stranded, Being Stoned, Krumping"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"DOCK-promo\"<\/a>

Promotional still from Dock Ellis & the LSD No-No<\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

When you grow up in Los Angeles with divorced parents, you\u2019re always getting stranded somewhere, usually in your own home. This particular conundrum, unique to the geography of LA, is novelized in Darcy O\u2019Brien\u2019s A Way of Life, Like Any Other<\/i><\/a>, a loosely fictionalized account of his sordid childhood in mid-century Hollywood, published in 1978. O\u2019Brien is the only son of two fading film stars, whom he is burdened to babysit. Like all proper LA novels, this one has Malibu, western stars, prostitutes, \u201cscreenplay ideas,\u201d Mexican food. But what I was most struck by was O\u2019Brien\u2019s portrait of the LA child as a captive audience. As our protagonist more somberly puts it: \u201cMy jailer had forgotten what I was in for but he wanted to keep me there for company.\u201d That is what happens when you are stranded. Parents confide in you, and not just your own parents\u2014anyone\u2019s parents, perhaps because they truly are seeking decent advice, or maybe just because you\u2019re the only other soul they\u2019ve encountered that day. Our hero learns all the right coping mechanisms: make friends with the kid that has a car, play your parents against each other, move in with a nice Jewish producer who has more rooms in his house then he knows what to do with, and then try desperately to convince someone to love you, or at the very least to sleep with you. \u2014Hailey Gates<\/b><\/p>\n

Ever heard the story of MLB pitcher Dock Ellis\u2019s having thrown a \u201cno-no\u201d in 1970 while he was as high (on LSD) \u201cas a Georgia pine?\u201d Well, now you have<\/a>. \u2014Stephen Hiltner<\/b><\/p>\n

Earlier this week, on a flight from the Midwest to the East Coast, I read William Morris\u2019s lecture \u201cThe Lesser Arts\u201d to distract myself from the ear-popping, the altitude, and the beginnings of a cold. It\u2019s Morris at his philosophical best: a manifesto on the use and value of the decorative arts, speaking against the notion that they\u2019re somehow \u201clesser\u201d than other fine arts. \u201cEverything made by man\u2019s hands has a form, which must be either beautiful or ugly,\u201d spoke Morris, \u201cbeautiful if it is in accord with Nature, and helps her; ugly if it is discordant with Nature, and thwarts her \u2026 the hand of the craftsman is guided to work in the way that she does, till the web, the cup, or the knife, look as natural, nay as lovely, as the green field, the river bank, or the mountain flint.\u201d As I engaged with the text, the interior of the plane\u2014with its many small miracles of engineering packaged in just as many sins of design\u2014felt more and more like a post-apocalyptic bomb shelter. To Morris, even late-nineteenth century London was an abomination of ugliness: \u201ca whole country or more covered over with hideous hovels, big, middle-sized, and little.\u201d One can only wonder what he would think of 2014 London\u2014or, for that matter, New York City. \u2014Clare Fentress<\/b><\/p>\n

A few weeks ago, when I wrote briefly about Howard Moss, Lorin recommended \u201cM\u00e9nage \u00e0 Trois<\/i>,\u201d a poem Moss published in The New Yorker<\/i> in 1969. (Subscribers can read it here<\/a>.) You might expect, given the title, a bit of titillation\u2014but this is Moss, and his is a household of jaded appetites. Wry, unforgiving, and larded with tart apercus, the poem tells of a trio on a harrowingly dull vacation: \u201cThe food is dreadful. The weather worse.\/ So much for all the touted joys\/ Of the Riviera\u2014or wherever we are.\u201d That kind of weariness pervades, and charges, the whole thing. Moss\u2019s exhaustion makes for oddly buoyant verse, and you have to admire the verbal precision behind his contempt: \u201cWe provide pornography\/ (mental) for the neighbors, who watch our blinds\/ As if they were about to disclose an orgy.\u201d That disclose<\/i> is spot-on. As we approach the treacle-fest that is Valentine\u2019s Day, a m\u00e9nage<\/i> as loveless as Moss\u2019s is a fitting aperitif: bitter, but stimulating. \u201cA little citrus kiss,\u201d to borrow a turn from the poem. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/b> <\/p>\n

As I watched Ben Wheatley\u2019s very black comedy Sightseers<\/i> (2012) last night, I couldn\u2019t help but remember a quote from William Gass, who said, when asked about his magnum opus, The Tunnel<\/i>, \u201cI don\u2019t think anything is sacred and therefore I am prepared to extol or make fun of anything.\u201d Wheatley belongs to the same camp, especially the \u201cmake fun of anything\u201d part of it. In Sightseers<\/i>, <\/i>he follows a seemingly milquetoast couple, Chris and Tina, on a caravanning trip through the English countryside\u2014it quickly devolves into an anorak Bonnie and Clyde<\/i> when the two kill a bunch of people. Its comment on the \u201cEnglish character\u201d is cruel\u2014after Tina harangues Chris for murdering an innocent person, he says, \u201cHe\u2019s not a person, he\u2019s a Daily Mail<\/i> reader\u201d\u2014but the film isn\u2019t soulless. Deep down, it\u2019s about what happens to quiet desperation when it grows extremely loud.\u00a0\u2014Justin Alvarez<\/b><\/p>\n

For my thirteenth birthday, I crimped my hair; for my twenty-fourth, I went to the ballet. Which one? Balanchine\u2019s Jewels<\/i>, accompanied with compositions by Faur\u00e9, Stravinsky, and Tschaikovsky. Mine was an evening of dazzling leotards, exquisite sets, delicate music, and even more delicate dancers\u2014it was all very mesmerizing. But even with the production\u2019s modern flare, I couldn\u2019t help but wish I were watching Rennie Harris\u2019s hip-hop company, Rennie Harris Puremovement, who\u2014as Joan Acocella convincingly advertised in The New Yorker<\/i>\u2014just finished a run at the Joyce. Don\u2019t get me wrong, for the classically inclined, I highly recommend Balanchine\u2019s take on cabochon. It\u2019s just that the transition from crimping to krumping makes a bit more sense for this gal. \u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When you grow up in Los Angeles with divorced parents, you\u2019re always getting stranded somewhere, usually in your own home. This particular conundrum, unique to the geography of LA, is novelized in Darcy O\u2019Brien\u2019s A Way of Life, Like Any Other, a loosely fictionalized account of his sordid childhood in mid-century Hollywood, published in 1978. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[12350,12815,12816,471,12637,12817],"class_list":["post-66345","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-ben-wheatley","tag-darcy-obrien","tag-dock-ellis","tag-george-balanchine","tag-howard-moss","tag-william-morris"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat We\u2019re Loving: Being Stranded, Being Stoned, Krumping by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 7, 2014 \u2013 When you grow up in Los Angeles with divorced parents, you\u2019re always getting stranded somewhere, usually in your own home. 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