Analyzing Real Housewives of New Jersey

One of my good friends is a Housewife addict. She watches seasons in a periods of two days... Ahh, that Housewife high. I asked her which episode is her favorite, and she texted me, "Real Housewives of New Jersey, Reunion episode. Shit gets real."

Like most reality TV shows, this episode opened amidst fragmented clips of high powered drama, charged music, and one of those announcers who sounds like he warming up for a five hour singing performance. "AAnnnDDDD HeeerRRRReee'SSSSSSSS REALLLLL HOUSSEEEEWIVESSSSSS!!!!!"

The camera flashes to the women on stage. They are middle-aged moms, yet are dressed in what look like prom dresses. They have full-out makeup with heavily drawn black eyeliner and orangeish foundation. Their bare legs are splayed at varying angles. They look like they are trying to be young. The gaudy colors and ill-fitting dresses seem tacky and the over-done makeup seems fake. But the hairstylists and producers did not have to make them look this way, it was deliberate. The show producers tried to make the women look over dressed: showing too much skin for their age, looking overly made up, to emphasize the stereotypes they are drilling in to us, "These catty women are fake and materialistic."

The man who is supposed to be "mediating" this reunion, slightly grey haired and innocent looking, warped the conversation as if theses women were his marionettes. He brought up subjects that he and the producers know are sources of tension among the ladies. He is payed to "make the shit get real."
He showed a flashback clip about one of the most insane, dramatic moments of the season, a family brawl. Literally punches were thrown in the clip. Remembering the pain of these memories, one of the women started crying, and I swear I saw this mediator-dude smirk in triumph.

Everything he says intentionally heightens the drama. "Oh my gosh, she said you have a big forehead?" This guy (backed my the makers of the show of course) makes the women look more emotional than they would have if he hadn't brought up tense subjects.

The ladies are from New Jersey, so they have the accent. They say "youse." There was a flashback of all the times during the season where their grammar was wrong. One was singing amazing grace and said "...save a wench like me."
The show is again enforcing the stereotype, by emphasizing their accents and grammar issues, that these women are unclassy and stupid.

People justify watching reality tv by telling themselves "Oh, I know these people are trash, but I am going to make the conscious decision to indulge." The producers heighten preconceived stereotypes even more to make viewers feel right. They capitalize on the idea of "indulging." If you are indulging, you feel above the drama, and justify wasting hours of time doing nothing. The more trashy it perceived to be, the better to indulge in,  which gets more views.

"Another Love"

Don't actually watch the music video, its super weird and boring. 

LISTEN TO HIS AMAZING VOICE! 

"Another Love"

Tom Odell 

I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care

But it's so cold and I don't know where

I brought you daffodils in a pretty string

But they won't flower like they did last spring

And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright

I'm just so tired to share my nights

I wanna cry and I wanna love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight

But my hands been broken, one too many times

So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude

Words they always win, but I know I'll lose

And I'd sing a song, that'd be just ours

But I sang 'em all to another heart

And I wanna cry I wanna learn to love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

I wanna sing a song, that'd be just ours

But I sang 'em all to another heart

And I wanna cry, I wanna fall in love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

This song is just so amazingly perfect. It relates to the reader, aka me. The feeling of yearning to feel a certain way, and failing leaves me in this stage of melancholia that almost feels good, because trying to force myself to feel was so impossible. (Though my feelings aren't love, I'm not that mature, outgoing, or teenagery.)

The imagery, though there is not very much of it, is clear and bittersweet. There is juxtaposition between the softness of what love should be, and his realization that he is not in it. "I brought you daffodils in a pretty string/ But they won't flower like they did last spring" 

The cadence of the song also reflects his feelings. Every other line the voice is higher with infliction, and then the next line is lower, and the voice dissolves quietly, sadly. This shows his moments of determined hope, he wants to be in love, and tries so hard to be, but just can't. He gives up, yet the feeling is still beautiful. 

So thats why this song is clearly awesome. Back to other homework! 

A College Essay, Madness Unveiled.

One of my college essay questions is simply "What would you do if you had a free weekend?" I have to answer in under 25 perfectly crafted words, hitting that subtle balance between quirky and unique, yet still demonstrating my charisma, big fat heart, and innate desire to improve the delightful planet we call Earth.

My first thought is to make this as over-the-top, insane as possible, yeah, I will totally stand out.
"I shall soar to outer space on Virgin Galactic, see God and My Soul amongst the twinkling stars, fly back down, and cure cancer."

 I cannot deny that my honest answer is "Walk around the house in my underwear, fuzzy socks and penguin snuggy, eating heaping spoonfuls of Nutella while simultaneously watching old Sherlock reruns and reading the Outlander Series."

I feel like I would be attacked by a vicious mob of sharp toothed, flesh shredding college admission officers for the truthful answer, and my application would be flushed down the gleaming red toilet of "You Suck" compared to what I am imagining my competitors would say,
 "Win my national violin competition, then donate overwhelming piles of money to the fund to end the homelessness of cats everywhere, then volunteer for 24 hours at a soup kitchen"

I HIGHLY doubt that any response like this is genuine. Ask any one of my try-hard friends what they genuinely would like to do in a period of free time, their (usually narrow) eyes become huge and whimsical and they utter unthinkable phrases like "have friends" or "Go out to dinner" "Find a boyfriend" or "Walk my dog, Biscuit."

It is not wrong that most of us want to just veg out and wallow, satisfied and warm, in life's delightful creature comforts. Our lives are insane mountains of homework, daunting college apps, and all kinds of extra-circulars, volunteering madness.

Instead of submitting my pho-philanthropic, what-I-think-colleges-will-want-to-see answer "Build a library for the starving children of Peru" I think I will just be honest, and say what I am positive nearly everyone who is writing this essay is subconsciously thinking. If the snooty college can't handle a slice of reality and truth, it's their loss.

Friday

Friday
 I glance over my shoulder and the grey road is crammed with aggressive rush hour drivers, but there is a small opening. I flick on my blinker and get off at 25th street. The sky is a light and cloudy grey and crumpled brown and yellow leaves blow and swirl through the air. I drive to Middlebrook Hall, a completely regular-looking red bricked edifice that holds all of the U's honors college students. Annie Thompson runs out of the entrance in a flurry. She looks so collegy and sophisticated with her brown messy bun, flowing peach scarf and black rectangular glasses. We have been trying to get together for months, and finally I am at the U! I park, and we put what feels like a hundred quarters into the meter. She leads me into her dorm and explains "Everyone in my dorm is super cuddly and close, but I haven't succumbed to the cuddling.. I don't want the germs all over me. My friends and I call ourselves the crew. Did I mention I am an avid West Ham fan now? I ordered a twenty dollar scarf from England!" We arrive at the eighth floor and walk to her cramped and dimly lit dorm. Her roommate, a round-faced Norwegian girl is laying on the bed with a curly haired guy, evidently napping and cuddling, and I large nerdy guy is sitting in the corner with his laptop. T.S. Eliot and Lord of The Rings quotes are strewn all over the walls and drying laundry hangs haphazardly everywhere.
Then we wander across the University. She shows me where her classes are and describes her weird professors. We pass some students slack lining and listening to Nelly Fertado. Sipping lattes and eating giant peanut butter cookies we walk down Frat row. Annie hasn't been to one party and finds Frat row disgusting. I love her.
We end up at the river. Its brown depths curve slowly to where it meets the maroon bridge, and it's lined with orange and green trees. We talk about inside jokes from last year, how quickly people from high school change, and how refreshing it is to start over. "Just be yourself. People will love you. You are going to have so much fun in college!!" Annie tells me enthusiastically.
For a moment I let myself slip into a yearning mentality. I want to go to college so badly. The slightly dreary hall of Wayzata High School are starting to get to me. I want change and to be surrounded by liberals. I want cool friends who randomly like British soccer and who hate football and partying! AH! I WANT!
I force myself to come back to reality. I have one more year, and I can choose to enjoy it and embrace it. Or, I can waste my life focusing on wanting the future.
I am beyond excited for what college will bring, but I am doing my best to stay in the moment. The moment is the only thing that is real. And life is so short, it is a waste of everything to constantly be thinking forward into a future that does not exist, and that is an illusion.

Analysis of Humor

Click Here!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyKZk4YxfPw

This skit begins by saying that this C-Span program is usually about politician's beach houses, but the program is being interrupted for Obama's message. Already SNL is portraying the idea that politicians are lazy disconnected from the average Americans, who of course cannot afford beach houses.

The skit goes on to show a variety of "typical Americans" and their reactions to Obamacare. They all are confused as they wildly and incorrectly interpret the health care's actual details and implications. Their absurd reactions to Obamacare illuminates the reality of most people being unsure about the details of Obamacare. This tension between the absurdity of these fictional characters reaction to the act and that generally people are ignorant about the act's details creates a humorous reaction and places emphasis on the argument: most of the country is confused about Obamacare's details. SNL also argues that while the president has good intentions, there will be people who take advantage of this, such as the young man who is a drug addict.

When the Republican comes on, he speaks only in allusions to Dr. Seuss stories. This reflects the real inability of the two parties to communicate as well as how the Republicans are not getting any serious work accomplished.

Then later, the juxtaposition between "healthcare Oscar" singing about how easy it is to get health care and when he falls and says he doesn't even have it himself so they shouldn't call an ambulance, again creates this humorous tension that exhibits how Obamacare is actually difficult to sign up for and would not apply to the people who need it the most, which are immigrants.

Rhetorical Mode

Narration

 I unwillingly sit in an uncomfortable, overly-squeaky computer chair and flick open my mom’s laptop grudgingly. The internet taunts me as the light blue loading bar gets bigger by fractions of millimeters and stalls. Over. And Over. Thirty minutes pass as I try coaxing it into cooperation. I think about the eight supersite activities, three newspaper articles, ten bookwork problems, and sheet of verb conjugations that I still have to do, all for stupid Spanish 4, and I want to cry with irritation. My heartbeat quickens angrily and my blood turns to liquid steel. I want to hurt something. My skin crawls with invisible irritation and I itch savagely everywhere leaving angry steaks of pink across my pale flesh. The inability to get my work done with the knowledge of homework hanging over my head is a terrible feeling.