Recycled entertainment reads differently every time

Published: Monday, September 28, 1998

Monday, September 28, 1998

COLUMN: Themes stay new with each perusal

as people keep changing

The theme of this year's registration issue, A&E Editor Trinh Bui informed me, was "the changing face of entertainment" and we had 400 inches of blank space to fill with our wisdom or whatever bit of text happened to be lying around the office come deadline.

As innocuous as the above paragraph seems, a closer inspection reveals, for better or worse, the largest change that has taken place in my life during the past three months. Notice that I had to ask what the theme was. Philanthropy and the ongoing need to blather in print aside, if timely poignant articles didn't surface, it wasn't me who would be grasping for old English 10A essays and wire stories about post-"Seinfeld" Must See TV.

In other words, I'm no longer A&E editor. I realize that a good portion of you never knew that I was, but those who frequent 118 Kerckhoff know that the zany, vivacious yet diligent team of Cheryl, Nerissa, Mike and Stephanie has passed the torch to the zany, vivacious yet diligent team of Trinh, Louise, Megan, Vanessa and Lonnie. That's the changing face of Team A&E.

And once The Bruin unhooked my electronic leash (a.k.a. the A&E pager), I was free to roam - to rediscover a few old passions and, in some ways, learn more about entertainment than the busy hum of the newsroom could tell me.

This promised to be a landmark summer: I was 21, living in Los Angeles and the proud owner of a spunky '87 Tercel (by spunky, I mean it runs with minimal coaxing). Now, of course, it's going to sound a tad anti-climactic when I announce that my big revelation this summer was reading for pleasure.

I must have read for fun during some fuzzy, pre-collegiate phase of my life. I mean, something must have prompted me toward English-majordom. I seem to remember a few kindergarten taunts aimed at my prairie-chic bonnet and braids inspired by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

But somewhere along the way, Cliff's Notes and my general contrary nature intervened. Books which preceded lengthy essays on symbolism lacked the forbidden glitter of the one-more-story that postponed bedtime. Snippets of pages skimmed between assisting customers at my book store job, however, were all about that glitter.

At Book Soup, Sunset Strip's overflowing anti-Borders, there was no foreshadowing or onomatopoeia, there were no reports or reviews. With this aimlessly delicious surge of bookworminess, I devoured Dennis Hensley's "Misadventures in the 213." It was as light and indulgent as a marshmallow, and I could read about the characters' Hollywood hijinks for no other reason than to exclaim, "Hey, I've been to that restaurant!" or "I saw Sheena Easton in 'Grease' too!"

I rediscovered Francesca Lia Block's "Weetzie Bat" series, which first dazzled me with its neon prose in junior high. At $6.50 an hour, I could justify combing the kids' section in hopes of retreating into a world of unicorns and orphans and girls who pray about their periods.

But of course I didn't. Retreat, that is. I read about all those things and I loved it - more so, perhaps, because every nostalgic sigh gave way to a bolt of realization, a giggle of nuance.

That's the art of entertainment. As much as English departments haggle about The Canon (which could use a facelift, a tan and some flexibility, but that's another column), the great thing about reading "The Great Gatsby" 12 times is that it's a different book each time.

Because you're a different person each time, and after you, there will be a new generation of readers.

After spending the first three years of my college career as a car-less Kerckhoff hermit, I also went to Venice Beach for the first time this summer. Part of me is cringing that I just admitted that in print, but another, loftier part of me is making a point. Venice is not "hip" or "underground" or any of those words that KROQ and grandparents use to describe the various bandwagons scrappier folks jumped on years ago. Venice is not even convincingly free of contagious diseases.

But for the newly Venetian, the beach buzz is electric, the street people have style, and the T-shirts and sundresses brimming from cardboard bins are alarmingly cheap.

Whether you're casting a new glow on your own memories or entering someone else's well-worn world for the first time, entertainment is at its best when it's just pure, unadulterated entertainment - especially when it's a big orange E with an exclamation point and a catty voice-over from Joan Rivers. And entertainment's when you let it change you - without trying too hard or thinking about how it will look on your resume.

I've churned out more theater reviews than I can count, many of which, come June, will be faxed optimistically to journalistic outlets everywhere. And I wouldn't give up complimentary orchestra seats for the world. But until this summer, I hadn't been on the other side of the curtain since I played the Ghost of Christmas Present in eighth grade. After all, I never had plans for an acting career.

As a result, one of the biggest adrenaline rushes of theater was lost to me. I found it via a small, disastrous campus production of "The Tempest" in mid-September. Small because it only ran for two days, disastrous because both performances were much shorter than Shakespeare wrote them, thanks to stanzas and stanzas of forgotten lines.

While others were wondering if our sets would hold up until intermission, I was putting into context all the quotes theater actors have supplied The Bruin with over the years.

"Eight shows a week?" I marveled. "I doubt we've even had eight rehearsals!" I appreciated their work with more sympathy and less random awe - I knew I'd arrive better armed at interviews in the future.

I guess, then, that I lied about the "nothing but fun" aspect. Entertainment has a way of sneaking into life lessons, even career boosts, as long as you initially offer yourself up as a pop culture tabula rasa.

When I did that this summer, I came away with a small collection of bad but soul-satisfying poetry. I reveled in the ADD tease of "coming attractions" where a year ago there were only sterile screenings that begun with no foreplay other than a dimming of the lights. I painted Keith Haring-esque stick figures on my back pack. I watched reruns of "Friends," and they were all new to me because I'd been at editorial board meetings during the first run.

The payoff is still debatable on some of the above activities, but I have no doubt as to its existence. Such sublime nuggets of detail recycle themselves in the otherwise dry pages of life. And that's how we get new victims.

That's why every "Dawson's Creek" fan and her brother will line up to see "Urban Legend" - they grew up without the Freddies and Jasons and Carries that turned cheap thrills into a career for the current ringmasters of meta-horror.

That's why every year, Team A&E - whoever its members are - will run a stories on Royce Hall, "The Phantom of the Opera," the coolest clubs in Los Angeles and the feasibility of life after being an art student. My own jaded senioritis aside, all those articles will be relevant because every year there is a whole new batch of Northern California transplants who don't know that there is a Venice completely void of gondolas.

Who knows what I'll discover this year? What I'll rediscover, or create for someone else to stumble across in a moment of stolen freedom. If my syllabus for English 118 has any say in the matter, I'll read "The Great Gatsby" again. And though Fitzgerald's words will remain the same, Daisy and Nick will grow college-induced patinas over the visages my 11th-grade mind fashioned for them. The faces of my classmates will be completely different. And all of us will continue hurtling forward, glancing backward along the way.

Klein is a fourth-year American literature student and can be reached at cklein@media.ucla.edu.

Cheryl Klein

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