Peduures
pu

Cool is the Kiss of Death

Carly Reid, OP Contributor

hen did success become syn-
\ \ ) onymous with suck? Probably
when we forgot how to recog-

nize a good thing and stick with it. As a
society, we seem incapable of allowing
quality to speak for itself, in its own quiet,
understated way. Instead, we immediately
glom.onto anything with even the slight-
est eau de hit in order to modify or “jazz it
up” for mass consumption. I dread the
moment when something genuinely good
graduates from cult to pop-culture suc-
cess, because inevitably someone is going
to try to capitalize on that and screw
it up royally in the process. Well,
enough already—it’s time we
remember how to leave well enough
alone.

A prime example is a former
favourite TV show of mine, TLC’s
reality design show Trading Spaces.
The premise was simple: two cou-
ples switch houses and redecorate
one room with the help of a design-
er, carpenter, and a budget of $1000.
During a less busy (and more
pathetic) period in my life, I partial-
ly structured my day around this
show, which was unassuming and
“real.” Then it became a hit.

The changes were subtle at first,
such as the odd celebrity episode
with the likes of Andy Dick. Then
they felt the need to introduce an
entirely separate new show, Trading
Spaces Family—exactly the same as
the original, except with a few paint-
covered kids running around, doing
nothing, and contributing very little
entertainment value.

As the show’s viewership grew,
there popped up those inevitable
dorks that formed a fan base for the
regular designers and carpenters,
who were then raised to semi-
celebrity status. The show began to
revolve more around these “stars”
than the actual designs, and they
were becoming more like characters
than people. The drama became
increasingly contrived and a self-
consciousness and awareness of the
camera crept into the actions of both cast
and homeowners. It was as though every-
one knew they were on a “hip” show, and
so began acting like morons, trying to
grab their 15 minutes and distinguish
themselves from every other Dick and
Mary who came before them.

It was sickening to watch. After Ty, the
juvenile, sex-symbol carpenter, got his
own show and appeared on Oprah, I
stopped watching. I was saddened, but
accepted that all good things eventually

20 | www.theotherpress.ca

must end, or turn to crap.

And yet the crap persists. I recently
flicked to TLC, just out of curiosity, and
ended up more annoyed than ever. Now
the network has launched two Trading
Spaces spin-off shows: Town Haul and
Moving Up. ve watched snippets of both,
unable to make it through an entire
episode of either. They are just two more
ridiculous permutations of the original
show that are banking on the questionable
celebrity of their hosts, both designers
formerly of Trading Spaces.

None of this is particularly sensation-
al, or even exciting. But it is frustrating,
because the push to capitalize on the pop-
ularity of the show changed its whole
character.

The result is junk, and it’s not just lim-
ited to TV. You can see it in the marketing
of any product, from movies to food to
people.

The way I see it, there are usually three
results of screwing with success:

1. You come up with something better.

2. You spoil a good thing.

3. You highlight how ctappy your
product was to begin with.

The first outcome is rare, and may be
limited to the Double Stuff Oreo. The
Trading Spaces fiasco falls under the more-
common second result, while the third
result, unfortunately, may be the most
common of all. An example is the multi-
coloured Heinz Ketchup. We could
stomach a sugar and tomato mixture
when it was red and we could pretend it
was just pureed tomatoes. Then some

 

genius introduced ketchup in colours like
green and purple, grossing out everyone
in the world, except maybe people who
eat Spam.

There’s also the rash of over-exposed,
under-talented celebrities that’s irritating
all of North America. An almost-too-
obvious example is Ashlee Simpson, a
pop star of little talent or charisma who I
was already sick of the first time I heard
her first single. Like many young pop
stars, she’s everywhere, but everything she

 

does, from her Saturday Night Live appear-
ance to her snore of a reality TV show,
only highlights her mediocrity and rein-
forces the fact that she has little right to
be famous. If she’d toned it down, stick-
ing close to home and just letting us listen
to her digitally altered albums without
splattering her idiocy across every camera
lens on the continent, she might have
fooled us.

It’s common sense, really. If I’m
primping for a date and notice a big pus-
tule of a zit on my chin, do I take a
marker, draw a circle around it,
and add a few arrows pointing
towards it? Sure, I'll attract atten-
tion and create a buzz, but I
probably won’t get a second date.
A smarter move would be to
remind myself that, although the
zit isn’t attractive, it isn’t me. It’s
just a tiny part of me that I can
downplay with a little concealer,
allowing me to highlight those
parts I do consider attractive, or
at least avoid distracting from
them completely.

But distraction seems to be
the word of the hour for mar-
keters. You can almost picture
these guys panting, “They like it!
Quick, before they think too hard,
let’s slice, boil, and mash it, maybe
throw in a can of tuna, and stuff
it down their throats till they gag
it back up.” I wonder if there real-
ly is an insatiable appetite for
garbage out there, or if this phe-
nomenon is a function of the
MTV generation’s reported need
for constant stimulation. Maybe
we are all programmed monkeys
who get bored and start to beat
on each other if images aren’t
flashing and morphing before our
eyes.

I don’t believe we’re that stu-
pid, fickle, or easily manipulated,
though—at least not all of us. So
there must be some way to break
this vicious cycle. Not buying it is
a start. Don’t watch it, eat it, wear
it, whatever. Just don’t. Let’s start
demanding quality instead of mindlessly
devouring whatever we’re served. Then
maybe we won't have to watch the train
wreck of another Trading Spaces.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it’s almost
eight o’clock. Time to crack open a low-
catb beer, maybe one of those new,
white-chocolate Kit-Kats, and watch
Survivor, Season 9. Or is it The Bachelor?
Anyways, I hear there’s a twist tonight that
I won't believe.

April 6/2005