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the archive(s):
issue no. 3:
Everything you think you know is fake / Uzodinma Okehi
You can rationalize one way or the other, you can worry the bushes, beat about them, as the saying goes but why not come right out with it and just say that there's something kind of fake about Catharine Zeta Jones . . . You can say that and also, third person, that we are a society that has long embraced our own frailties, our own dis-ingenuity, that the act of scrutinizing our celebrities frees us from these petty doubts about the worth of our own nature. That is, to allow if you will, for a quick epiphany . . .
And let's preface everything by first putting out the good word that Catharine Zeta Jones is surely a beautiful woman and probably a fine person too, and that one way or the other you have no stake in the matter. Also to note this essay is actually a de facto period piece‹not so much of the moment but months, seasons back to that period where you couldn't walk two blocks in Manhattan or pick up any newspaper, tabloid or glossy magazine without being reminded, even intruded upon by her glaring pulchritude. Or not even that, not even really beauty but the idea of it, the veneer. Not just those inane T-mobile ads but that on top of everything else, and seeing so much of her these days that it's as if she's your Siamese sister, not just shilling but really digging deep, really emoting for that paycheck; cooing, smiling, fluttering . . . from ten stories up, sighing, cheek against the phone, on billboards grinning full blast, doe-eyed, demure then ecstatic, from newsstands, storefronts and in the subways on blinking LED screens . . .
But this, in fact, isn't a "what's next/slippery slope" type of scenario. After all, what more really need be said about the fetishistic excesses and overblown idealism rampant in our entertainment culture? And what does any of that really mean to you on the couch, to any of us, basking in our inequity and when the truly disturbing aspect in all those pictures isn't the implication, big picture, but her teeth. Catharine Zeta Jones, like all of Hollywood lately, seems to have latched onto this notion that teeth are now like door knockers, like tiara jewels or hood ornaments. Not just clean or plaque-free but that they must be "Hollywood white" like radioactive bricks of polar ice sliding through sunlight. Not just white but white enough to be a conversation piece, as an instrument of naked ambition, a beacon of pretentiousness and a shield against poverty and misfortune . . . Nice teeth, you think, but in that same awed, speculative way that you regard artifacts from outer space, the complex engineering involved in an aqueduct or any other type of physical mystery that you can't quite understand. Whatever may be your final verdict on her or her teeth it's not too much of a stretch to begin believing that the fakeness has our culture in a stranglehold, and that it's a fascination, even an addiction that can begin anywhere from teeth outward, from "reality" TV to real life, so called and quote-unquote, until everything is bracketed, until it's not a question of whether you've succumbed but how much and until, finally, everything you think you know is probably fake.
So what is next then, what's next? . . . Not the slippery slope but a return to terra firma, or the world we live in which is a far, far cry from Hollywood hills. If our celebrities, nowadays, look like overquaffed monsters its a direct mirror to the grotesque nature of our own secret desires. Point in case: You step out for a drink after work. Anyplace, USA, it could be any bar in any city. For starters notice how many grown men now have little dyed strips and highlights in their hair. Howthe hair color and the clothes match, much moreso than, say, five years ago. Notice how many more of us, and almost subconsciously, get dolled up to resemble our favorite TV host or matinee idol. Not only that but how open we are, how free we've become while discussing our own puerile self-absorption. It's no long fall, no great jump for instance, to begin discussing with a complete stranger or girl at the bar about one's exercise regimen, about "toning up" or struggling to better sculpt "washboard abs" and "peaked" biceps. Even to compliment one's self, nakedly, in passing, in general conversation, to casually sprinkle in third-person capsule reviews about how so and so told you once that you're a brilliant writer, ingenious, that you have a "good cheekbones" or that you bear some striking, handsome resemblance to Benicio Del Toro . . . What else?! . . Moisturizer vs. body wash, boot cut pants versus flare, Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire; not home runs but the articulate points of celebrity buffness; creatine vs. human growth hormone, HGH; reassure yourself it's not natural, Brad Pitt in Troy . . .
And mind you this is just men amongst men; listen carefully. Or better yet, make a connection, cross the gulf and make a play for a girl at the bar. She's no Zeta Jones, that's for sure, and there are no guarantees, but still, if you were a gambling man how would you rate the odds, would you really be able to vouch for what you see? Breasts are fake, we know that from the era past, but the pronouncement has been made that asses are now the new breasts, and if there wasn't a method to fake it back then, science, by now, must have surely found a way. . . Her dress, for instance, haven't you seen it, or in fact that whole outfit, even this very night and circumstance, all detailed on some billboard, Gap or Diesel? Those eyes, contacts, too bright(?) or can you even tell the difference anymore?
But don't be so superficial, you think. Pay attention to what she's saying, her thoughts . . . Pretty good right? Pretty beguiling? Then again, how often do you find yourself falling into the easy jibe and response style of conversation from your favorite sitcom. What would Chandler say to this? Or Joey? Or better yet, George Clooney, because you want to sound smooth. And what's to say that she too isn't just filling in the blanks; in laughing at your jokes, that cadence, that sweep of the body, toss of her hair; how can you be sure that this also isn't just more scripted nonsense, filed away from popular culture and regurgitated at appropriate moments?
Which is what you mean when you begin to say to yourself: Everything you think you know is fake. Which isn't an indictment. In fact, depending on how the conversation is progressing, your P.O.V., it could just as well be a reaffirmation of all that is hopeful and optimistic about humankind.
The great relief, you suppose, is to think that man has survived his tenure atop the food chain purely by the strength of his wits: by guile, with guts and when necessary by supreme fakery, by concocting and improving upon the basics provided by nature. Another interesting truth is that in no other species can there be said to be any true redemption, or failing that, any chance such as we all enjoy, inalienably, to climb in the hierarchy, to build ourselves up brick by brick into someone bigger, better. The rest of the animal kingdom, in fact, now that you're thinking about it is pretty unforgiving, a real desolate place. Every so often in a generation a creature is born with a plume of red in it's chest, with more vivid spots or a splendid tail of many colors. They are the Alpha, the few, irrevocably chosen. The rest have to live day by day, to scratch, claw and fight for every scrap of rotten food and precious minute of survival. There are no choices anymore, free will is meaningless and the best end to hope for is to be crushed swiftly underfoot while life churns heedlessly on.
Meanwhile in the kingdom of man we have sweeps week and television award shows to comfort us. We have billion dollar pictures of Mars and cloned sheep coded for melancholic dreams. We have genetically engineered fruit, lasers to scythe the hair away and pills to bring it back, to thicken it when necessary . . . Shoes to jump higher, spandex shirts so that our muscles can bulge, pads for our pimples and creams to make our hairless hides seem to shine . . . Like the sharpened sticks of old we triumph over the paucity of our species as we have been doing for centuries, with implements to establish the fake. Tragedy strikes, earthquakes rumble, either that or boredom settling, any great nemesis of man; in every case, when fight or flight beckons we challenge the unknown by becoming liposuction heroes, astronauts, metrosexuals; more giant leaps for humankind . . .
In other words, a daring human imperative, and it's a comforting thought. You don't say this to the girl but you reaffirm it with a big booming laugh, ostensibly timed to whatever the hell it is she's talking about. Comforting to think that even in our average everyday fakeness, in our Kenneth Cole (Reaction!) shoes and bartop conversation we're all enacting roles vital to the species. Like discovering fire, the double helix, like pasteurizing milk, splitting the atom and reinventing the wheel, faking it, again and again out of some pure psychosomatic necessity. You tell her about your thing with Catharine Zeta Jones and her teeth, the frightening feeling you get that Michael Douglas probably has to go to hell and back, that he has to phone in an appointment three days in advance just to get a slice of ass. Not only that, but about necropolitan nightmares where reality itself seems to peel away like wallpaper to reveal the guts of a Hollywood soundstage‹in other words, everything fake‹and looming above it all like a full moon, that set of disembodied, luminous, pearly teeth. You tell her all of this out of instinct and it works because it's true. Both true and also, probably fake and when she laughs obligingly you feint nimbly and move in for the punch. "Everything you think you know is fake‹it's only natural" You touch her hand, smile as you say this and the apprehension you feel trying to gauge your chances for the night is about all the grist you'll need for your daily lesson on the duality of man.
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