Jeremy's Ramblings, Babblings, and Other Pretentious Bullshit.
Monday, October 18, 2004
A friend of mine (the lovely Brey) turns seventeen today, and yesterday, one of her friends decided to treat her to a live taping of the WB show "In Search of The Partridge Family". In case you're one of the many, many people who haven't been watching this show (like me), it's apparently an "American Idol"-style show in which contestants compete to see who most resembles the members of the Partridge Family. The winners get to...I don't know, ride on a checkered bus? Go on tour as a fake Partridge Family? Re-enact Partridge Family episodes and concerts, much like the Civil War recreators seen at parks around the country? I'm a little fuzzy on the prize.

Anyway, I drive Brey and three of her closest friends (who were chosen in a Bingo-style game of elimination...okay, not really) to the KTLA studios in beautiful Los Angeles. We stand in a line outside the studio for about an hour, only to turned away by security because of our street attire (I was wearing my trademark cargo pants and "chicks dig scrawny pale guys" t-shirt combo. Everyone in Milan wears them now, and they've been proclaimed "the new black").

Now granted, I wasn't too thrilled about attending the show, but it was a birthday gift for Brey, and dammit, I got up before noon on a Sunday morning (which takes a lot of effort for me) and drove from Orange County to be there. So I try to figure out what the reasoning is behind this new rule, since the ticket didn't say anything about formal attire. And security tells me, "Well, it's the last show, and they want it to be sort of a prestigious event."

Now again, I didn't really want to see the show in the first place, but I'm sorry...What? A prestigious event? Do they realize that the show is called "In Search of the Partridge Family", and that it consists of auditioning people to recreate a fake band that traveled around in a checkered bus? Do they realize that the only member of said "family" that you see anymore is Danny Bonaduce, one of the most notorious publicity whores in Hollywood? Will my filthy, offensive street attire really offend that remarkable legacy that Shirley Jones, David Cassidy and Susan Dey left us, which will be lovingly commemorated with a fake Shirley Jones, David Cassidy and Susan Dey?

This is the problem with Hollywood. From its Golden Age, it's been this symbol of glitz and glamour, in which these wonderful people bless us with their wonderful services, and we reward them with insane amounts of money and several meaningless awards. It's almost laughable watching people like Marcia Gay Harden and Ed Harris strut down a red carpet in outfits that cost more than my yearly salary with a look on their face that says, "Oh yes, we are GRACING you with our presence, petty peasantry." The only thing that I can think of to top that is, oh I don't know, someone being turned away from "In Search of the Partridge Family" for not being formally dressed.

It also makes me appreciate people like David Cross, who couldn't take an awards show seriously if his life depended on it. Because he, like a handful of people in this town, realize that they are doing one thing and one thing only: providing entertainment. And while I am, of course, passionate about the arts and recognize their importance as both an element of escape from the horrors of society and a way to mirror those horrors in a way that is accessible to the masses, you have to stand back once in a while and say, "I'm not curing cancer. I'm not saving lives. I'm putting on a show."

But my heart goes out to the few and the brave who go out onto a stage, microphone in hand, in front of a formally dressed audience (and one uber publicity whore) and sing "Ohhhh, I think I love you, but what am I so afraid of..." Hats off, Partridge Family recreators!

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