Tess Read a Booky Wook

Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun,
If the sun don't come you'll get a tan
from sitting in the English rain.
- "I Am The Walrus" by the Beatles



Russell Brand is a punk; his whole godforsaken life has been about being incendiary and disgusting. Let me tell you that there is probably nothing more punk than showing up to work dressed as Osama bin Laden on September 12, 2001.

Russell Brand is so punk that he even rebels against himself. His memoir reads like a scathing exposé of a notoriously vile human - which it is, except the author and the subject happen to be the same person. This accounts for the aura of detachment that coexists in the writing with a profound sense of intimacy. Brand will reveal the darkest, most nauseating and unbecoming parts of his existence to you, and he will do this with complete honesty and absolutely wicked humor. His autobiography (in effect, his life) displays a total disregard for his audience's standards and preferences: Russell Brand doesn't give two flying fucks if people want to read a happy ending, or if maybe they don't want to hear about his diarrhea or the babysitter that whacked off in front of him.

The only book I've ever read that compares to his is Marilyn Manson's autobiography; they both calmly contend with extraordinarily unpalatable subject matter, and actually the two characters are remarkably similar. Both are articulate, egomaniacal punks with warped psyches, traumatic histories and an insatiable taste for the perverse, and neither has much hope for becoming a functional member of society. (That's being a little harsh on Brand, but not at all for Manson.) However, there is one paramount difference of attitude that distinguishes one from the other: Manson's autobiography reads with a sick sense of pride, whereas Brand's is written with humility that's on par with shame. Manson says "This is my life and everything I've done, and it's made me who I am today" (who, to his obvious delight, is an Antichrist Superstar). Brand says "This is my life and everything I've done, and it's made me who I am today, and frankly it's all horrid". Both of their autobiographies could be called The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, but only Manson's is. Which name did Brand settle on? My Booky Wook. Fucking five-year-olds want to pick up a "booky wook". This is the sort of duality that makes his memoir so compelling.

Manson is relatively one-dimensional, because he's a big fat freak with very loose ties to humanity. Reading his book is like paying to see a freak show: it's done to seek entertainment from the incredible strangeness that exists among us. No one expects to relate to the deformed conjoined twins, nor to holding in enemas with groupies for sport, which is one of the many colorful items on Manson's resume. Au contraire, Brand tends to behave like a freak, but he's undeniably human, and in countless other ways embodies yin and yang: he's miserable, but he's a comedian; he's a womanizer, but he's a romantic; he's fiercely heterosexual, but behaves like a gay guy; he loved his dog, but tortured it; etc. Alongside his despicable tales exists an incredible pathos, and so the experience of reading his book is completely different. Brand's dualism lets the reader absorb his outrageous material while maintaining sympathy for him - relating to him - which makes his memoir deeply impressive. Manson devoted his memoir to his sickness, whereas Brand detached himself from his sickness to devote his memoir to comedy. Both Manson and Brand are walking the long hard road out of hell, but Manson loves it, like a freak would, and Brand hates it, like a human would. Ay, there's the rub.

So who is the greater punk? Manson, in his spectacular eternal fight against all God's chillun? Or Brand, who, torn apart from himself, is punk when no one watches? We report, you decide.

Tess Fought the Law

I like a lot of punk music, but I really shouldn't listen to it. My theory about punk is that its stylistic foundation is in being offensive. Punk is a force of revolution against how music should sound and people should act, and is definitionally incendiary and disgusting. If that's true, then I'm a total disgrace to the punk movement. I don't believe in anarchy, and I'm a wimp and a peacemaker, and having spent lots of time gravitating happily towards conformity, I certainly can't call myself a rebel. Here's the worst part: I listen to punk because I like how it sounds. *facepalm* That's exactly as wrong as possible. Punk at its best is shite music played by people who are too intoxicated to use their instruments as anything but symbols or weapons. Not only am I not supposed to actually like it, but it should be impossible to like.

Here's more about what this crackpot theory entails: the Sex Pistols, an obscenely ugly phenomenon, are the best punk band ever. The Ramones, with their radio-friendly riffs and matching outfits, may be the worst punk band ever. They are, though, one of history's greatest pop groups. The Ramones were rarely offensive (on a historically significant level - except when Dee Dee sang) or incendiary; au contraire, people love the Ramones. No one loves the Sex Pistols, because there's no place for love in punk. Plus, the Ramones demonstrate a small spectrum of emotions in their catalog, from energetic joie de vivre to lovesickness to melancholy. Punk doesn't leave room for emotions, either.

This theory portrays punk as a philosophy rather than a genre of music, therefore punk can be found in surprising places: Rage Against the Machine is absolutely punk, M.I.A.'s strange sound and behavior is punk, the startling cacophony of Modest Mouse's early days is punk, Beth Ditto is fucking punk, Lady GaGa is punk, Nirvana is plain punk (grunge was born of punk), Andy Warhol was punk, Brunelleschi was punk, the women's suffrage movement was punk, even Lil Mama is a lil punk... I'm not about to call her Lil Rotten, but the rebellious spirit of punk is reflected in all of these places, accompanied by a subtle threat to listeners' standards and preferences.

Whatever else they may tell you, true punks must have enjoyed high school, because it's the best place to be punk. Punks are warriors, and high school is a battlefield. I'm not nostalgic for it. I didn't like being so oppressed by fear as to sneak a water-bottle pipe behind the train tracks to smoke weed, or dropping a 12-pack and running from the cops, or lying to my parents to cover my tracks. I raised my middle finger reluctantly. Ironically, the high-schooler's fight against the law eventually ends in compromise: "Okay, now you can stay out late and drink, but I'm still not letting you smoke weed. Truce?" Yes, for some, including me.

I will always love the Ramones, and I will never love the Sex Pistols. Punk is a scary place, and my heart isn't anywhere near it. But I will gleefully crank Never Mind the Bollocks while driving my mom's Prius, chanting words that mean nothing to me with a snarl that isn't mine.

Tess is Super Serial

I like That 70's Show even though it has a laugh track, which is amazing. Why? I think everything I like about it is summed up by its being set in the 70's. Choosing to set a sitcom in the most ridiculous decade of the century creates a solid foundation for endless tongue-in-cheek humor. That 70's Show isn't innovative; its humor is unabashedly retro and garish, but it's very self-aware. It doesn't take itself seriously, and it's much easier for me to enjoy television if I don't bother trying to take it seriously (example, America's Next Top Model; exception, Metalocalypse, which I consume with deadly seriousness). Plus, it's actually funny. Plus, I have a huge crush on Laura Prepon. [Edit: Nope, I was wrong. That 70's Show is definitely innovative. Its humor pays homage to the garish style of the time, but it has a modern sensibility. I still have a crush on Laura Prepon, though.]

Taking things seriously is not a favorite hobby of mine. I dislike most euphemisms because they demand to be taken seriously despite their literal absurdity. "Passing on" is something done with a note that says "Do You Like Me? Yes - No - Maybe". "Making love" makes me think of Keebler elves icing heart-shaped sugar cookies. Blech. Do couples that "make love" flatter themselves that the sweaty mechanical interaction of their genitals is conjuring some magical attraction? They're probably confused about the chicken and the egg, too. In the unnecessary event that love and sex are related, love makes sex, not vice versa. [Edit: That was narrow-minded of me. Sex definitely precedes love sometimes, but not enough to justify the euphemism.] The closest I've gotten to "making love" with someone is especially tender cuddling, when I felt the distinct possibility that love between us was actually being created. I think euphemisms are like using rubber-tipped bullets to break up a riot: a cowardly method that smacks of douche. (Smacks of Douche, my anthology of feminist poetry, will be released later this year.) I can, however, definitely be caught using ridiculous euphemisms on purpose, especially when sex is involved. And kids, when you make whoopee, remember to wrap your willy.

Tess Lets It Be

Yes, I do "love the Beatles". Their oeuvre and history entrance me; I bought a illustrated book of their lyrics used on Amazon; I won't claim that I could listen to their music continuously, but I believe I could listen to it forever.

I love the Beatles like I love their song "Across the Universe", which is relatively new to me (Let It Be was one of the last of their albums for me to listen to completely, which I first did sometime last winter). I was surprised to have gone without hearing the song so long, since it usually pops up amongst the big songs associated with the Beatles. I even watched the movie Across the Universe (more about that later) without ever having heard the original song. Such impertinence! I was pretty convinced that I, as a Beatles fan, was doing something very wrong by not having associated with this particular ditty.

When I first heard the song, I was disappointed: it sounded strange, and I couldn't understand why everyone was so enamored by it, which was disappointing per se. It had been overhyped to the point that disappointment was inevitable. Discouraged, I resigned myself to the "C" grade I deserved as a fan. I heard the song many more times before I noticed that the opening twangs of guitar were lingering in my head; later I would come to crave the moment that the singing starts, the sentimental melody, the potent rhythm of the lyrics, the unearthly ambience. Eventually it was obvious that I was in love, and I was relieved until I realized I had no idea why I was in love. I'd never paid enough attention to the lyrics to actually listen to them, and when I did, I was unimpressed. Clearly I was oblivious to the true meaning of the song and had been seduced on an empty, superficial level, and I became disappointed again.

I decided to give up on my aspirations of sagacity and greatness as a fan, instead simply indulging my id by playing the song over and over again. I found this less stressful and more rewarding... and when I recognized that, the epiphany struck. I wasn't in love with an elaborate philosophy, I was in love with the song because of how it made me feel. The song really has no concrete meaning; in fact, the lyrics are distinctly abstract, connoting fluidity and rapture and illusions. I wasn't missing out on the meaning of the song because of how I loved it - my love encapsulated the song itself.

In the clarity of this enlightenment, I understood my love of the Beatles similarly. The Beatles are a transcendent phenomenon, a timeless source of love and illumination for the people of the world. (I assume this to be fact, and any arguments of that fact should probably be directed to the authors of the encyclopedia.) This limitless undying love shines around me like a million suns, and now I can see no point in trying to intellectualize the situation or straining my eyes to see who else has been captured by the light. My only obligation is to sunbathe.

About Across the Universe: I'm glad I saw it and I'd like to see it again, but I can't fully appreciate it. I respect the ambition and passion that went into it, but it relied on a concrete interpretation of the Beatles' music, which is contrary to my belief of how the Beatles are best experienced. Also, musicals creep me out.