Watching the wheels

I went to Sonic a few nights ago for a late night milkshake. Why there? Because it’s open till midnight and they have a very large drink selection. Though this restaurant and its menu are not the point of this post, there’s no getting to the point without discussing the scene.

Sonic is distinguished from its fast food brethren by its drive-up stalls, where you order from your car while parked, a stationary variation of the ubiquitous drive-thru (which Sonic also has), but with a lick more personality. Winsome girls on roller skates wheel up to your driver-side window to deliver your tater tots and limeades. This set-up is obviously meant to conjure a nostalgia for the 1950s era of drive-in burger joints, soda jerks, sock hops, girls with bows in their hair – real Back to the Future stuff that may or may not have ever existed.

I order a pineapple shake and a short while later, I hear not the whirring of roller wheels, but the clompety-clomp of a lead-footed pedestrian walking (walking!) up to my window. What gives? Maybe this late at night, they figure there won’t be any photo ops with Governor Schwarzenegger, so they lock up the skates and trot out their second tier Bettys. Indeed, the girl who delivered my shake was not exactly what you’d call a “looker.”

So be it, I thought, at least the edible half of the Sonic experience should be tolerable. And then my delivery girl spoke: “I made it myself, so I hope you enjoy it.” By that, you mean you took a cup of vanilla ice cream, tossed in some canned pineapple chunks, and mixed it all together in a machine, according to a company formula? That’s what the cynic in me was thinking. And yet, she seemed completely sincere, like she had done this just for me, and truly hoped I would be pleased.

It’s been said that minimum wage workers, especially in the fast food industry, tend to be looked down upon by customers, and yet I can’t stay that they treat their customers much better. I know this from personal experience having worked in a miserable minimum wage job at a very large and deplorable retail store. But it wasn’t the fact that this girl was nice to me that astonished me; it was the strange notion that she was actually taking pride in her work, in what was surely a minimum wage job.

I’m sure she didn’t need me feeling sorry for her, not for her late shift or her “not-asked-to-dance” appearance or her attendant social status, and none of that is the point of this post. I think somewhere in the writing of this post, I lost track of what my point was.

I came away from that exchange thinking that dumping on people like her is essentially dumping on those who are in some sense helpless. But at the same time, it seems patronizing to try to protect or defend them. Ultimately, the most worthwhile thing to do may be to try to understand, and let understanding guide my feelings. My experience at Sonic made me think about the fact that the vast majority of our encounters with other people are one-shots, so what feeling do you want to leave people with?

Those of my readers who are more inclined to gastronomic than sociopolitical matters are probably wondering: how was the pineapple shake? Quite acceptable, though for a more thoroughly enjoyable and less gimmicky shake, try the definitive pineapple shake mixed at Which Wich.

"We are sold out of the Double Down"

No, they didn’t really say that to me when I went to the nearest KFC to finally get my paws on the biggest thing to hit fast food since the McDLT. But they may as well have, considering the gluttonous demand for the thing that was evident at this particular outpost (which almost certainly reflects an equally ravenous demand nationwide).


The first thing I noticed when I entered the establishment (other than the utter lack of counter service for walk-in customers) was a girl behind the counter informing a guy in the drive-thru lane that they were out of the fried chicken fillets, and whether he would be “all right” with the grilled Double Down. Noting the man’s lofty carriage, I found it hard to believe he would be “all right” with the grilled. Maybe “kinda okay,” but certainly not “all right.” He reluctantly acquiesced.

This clearly wasn’t that guy’s first Double Down, or else, like me, he surely would have stood his ground and waited for the fried one. I was told that I’d have to “wait a few minutes” for them to fry up some new fillets. They even gave me a free soda to apologize for the wait. Well-played, Colonel.

During this intermission, I should note that the Double Down “sandwich” (if it can be called such a thing) costs $4.99 a la carte, which puts it squarely in the realm of “premium” fast food items, alongside McDonald’s Angus Third Pounders (which are disgusting) and the Carl’s Jr. Six Dollar Burgers (also gross). The economy being what it is, I ordered merely two Double Downs, and resigned myself to having to ration the portions out among myself and my friends and family.

Unlike some critics, I was actually rather looking forward to the Double Down’s release, partly because of culinary curiosity, and partly for its symbolic slap-in-the-face to organic food Nazis and sanctimonious Fast Food Nation-reading drones who have of late terrorized the hungry populace. (FYI: I am currently reading Fast Food Nation. Best thing about it: the relatively thorough discussion of the history of the fast food industry and how it is related to other trends in mid-century America. Worst thing: the author’s arrogant expectation of your moral outrage.)

Back to the chicken: I watch as a girl tongs a few chicken fillets onto some paper wrappers, squeezes some sauce onto them out of a plastic bottle, and tops them with two slices of cheese and a strip of bacon torn in half with her bare fingers. And so, after about 20 minutes in this “fast food” joint, the Double Down is mine. How does it taste? Delicious. How could it not be delicious? It’s two KFC chicken fillets hugging bacon, cheese, and a creamy sauce that (like the rest of this hunk of gustatory delight) has been chemically engineered to be pleasing to normal human taste buds.

Is this the end of human civilization? Hardly. The Double Down is no worse than a double cheeseburger with bacon and mayo, and most people consider that perfectly sane. Or think of it this way: the last time your mom, er, ahem, your significant other, brought home a bucket of KFC, how many pieces of chicken did you eat? Two? I rest my case. Yes, there’s bacon, as well, but as any anthropologist will tell you, bacon has long been an essential food in every human civilization. It’s a common denominator, like wine or potatoes. As it says in Deuteronomy, “Therefore eateth ye of the fat of the swine, and your generations shall be fruitful upon the earth.” And let me quote Leviticus: “Verily, a man shall cleave unto his poultry, and his hoggish brood shall comfort him all the days of his life. I am the Lord thy God.”

KFC Double Down – the chosen sandwich.

They’ll Go Gaga at the Gogo: The Second Coming

Some months ago, I went to see Lady Gaga in concert. This was the second time I had seen her, the first being when she opened for New Kids on the Block and fairly stole the show (and that’s no mean compliment, as the New Kids were Block-tacular). Though she was the headliner this time, and though she performed well, I must admit that this second experience was a lesser one overall.

I endured a smorgasbord of emotions at this one.

Confusion – at the labyrinthine queuing on display at the venue (San Diego Sports Arena) that had me hopping around trying to figure out which line led to which door for which ticket-holders.

Searing rage – at waiting for some 20 minutes in one line just to find out that I was in the wrong line and would have to find a different one – twice.

Lumbar pain – I’m about five years too old for the kinds of shows that have you standing elbow to elbow with Bud-swilling, 7-foot-tall douchebags as you wait two hours for the main attraction to get on stage.

Elation – at finally seeing Gaga perform in all her Gaga-ness.

She played every song of consequence, aside from duets (like her current hit, “Telephone,” featuring Beyonce). Though it was hard to tell what was live and what was lip-synced, I would say a far larger portion of the show featured live singing than the Britney Spears concert I went to a few months prior. The dance routines were aggressively primitive and scandalous, and the special effects were appropriately flashy.

And yet the show was a bit disappointing, and at times, a real drag. Though it may be unfair to give too much weight to peripheral issues like a maddeningly incoherent venue and loutish rabble – things that have nothing to do with the performer – a concert is more than just the music; if it weren’t, I would just stay home and listen to my CDs. A great concert is more than just a stellar performance; it’s the feeling that you’re in a special place where you and the performer share a unity of purpose that brings that performer closer to you.

Lady Gaga didn’t necessarily help her own cause when she repeatedly baited the crowd with cries of “Hello San Jose!” I’ve always loathed this cliché of the touring circuit – calling out the name of the city you’re playing to elicit gratified hee-haws from your slavish audience – but if you’re going to do it, at least you could bother calling out the right city. She yelled out “San Jose” about six or seven times before the surely mortified crowd started chanting back, “San Diego!” Then she said “San Jose” about two more times before switching to “San Diego.” About three songs went by before she started bantering with the crowd and finally issued a shockingly sincere mea culpa, which I didn't expect, or at least I thought if she were going to apologize, it would have happened right away. She said she didn't want to "pretend it didn't happen," because she "respected her fans too much." I appreciated that, I guess. More mystifying was when she said her people had told her before the show that she wasn't in San Diego. I guess when you lead a diva’s life like hers, you rely on other people to tell you where you are, what year it is, what your name is, etc.

She later embarrassed herself and the more knowledgeable fans in the house when she announced that just one year ago, she opened for New Kids on the Block in this very arena. Har har. She didn’t – she opened for them at Cox Arena across town, now known as Viejas Arena. Whatever.

* * *

During our interminable wait for Gaga’s appearance, they (the house? her handlers?) had the audacity to play only Michael Jackson songs. For concert-going veterans, this will surely come as a surprise. They will wonder, “What, you mean they didn’t just blast awful crap from bands you’ve never heard of?” No, they played a known quantity, and a monarch at that. This was fun for the first few songs. Then, frankly, it became awkward. Perhaps this comes as a shock to no one, but the longer you pump out the MJ, the more unfavorable the comparison will be when you play your own music. I have to believe this is why most concerts entertain you with the lousiest music available – they don’t want the intermission music to outshine the actual performer.

And yet, part of me thought there was another force at play here. Maybe this was Gaga’s not so subtle way of announcing that she was Michael’s successor, a fittingly nutsoid Princess of Pop. After all, one of the questions that arose in the aftermath of Jackson’s death was: who is his successor? It’s like asking who the next Jordan or Gretzky is. Everyone has a nomination, prefaced by vehement proclamations that no one could ever replace the original. And yet the questions keep coming.

Well if you have questions, you’ve come to the right place. I know my readers don’t come to Czardoz Contra World for wishy-washiness. They come for straight answers from a straight shooter. So here it is: Lady Gaga is not the next MJ. But that doesn’t mean she’s not the next something. Something a little more obvious.

What made Michael Jackson the King of Pop was not just the extraordinary talent, but the singular strangeness that he embodied. He couldn’t help being Wacko Jacko any more than he could help being a brilliant artist. This sense of the inevitable hasn’t been seen since, not even in Gaga.

Gaga has a much more calculated sense of world domination. She’s a freak, yes, but you get the feeling that she could dial it back if she wanted to. She could dial it back, drive it deeper, sprout antlers, grow a penis – whatever it takes to stay one step ahead – in fashion, in music, and especially in controversy. In short, Gaga is the next Madonna.

Madonna was Jackson’s contemporary and near-equal in fame and fortune, but it was always clear that hers was a different sort of mania. For Michael, it was all unaffected: he was as natural doing the moonwalk as he was dangling babies over balcony rails. Madonna, on the other hand, was the ultimate salesman selling the ultimate product: herself. All the shapeshifting in her career has been about getting an edge and keeping people’s eyes focused squarely on her, even when other shiny objects were fighting for some of that attention. They copied her hair, so she changed it. They copied her moves, so she came up with new moves. They even tried to horn in on her controversy, but how could they? Look at “Papa Don’t Preach.” Look at the “Like a Prayer” video. The “Justify My Love” video. The Sex book. Oh, the controversy!

Like Madonna, Gaga isn’t the prettiest starlet. She doesn’t have the most range in her voice. But she has the larger than life persona that turns a star into an icon. I don’t care what adherents of Beyonce or Britney or Taylor or any other diva may say. As respected, beloved, or well-known as those artists may be, none of them dominates pop culture the way Lady Gaga does. Just turn on the radio. I can’t remember the last time I heard a single artist with so many different songs played on so many different stations. I can name six Gaga songs that are in current, regular play on any of four radio stations in San Diego alone: “Poker Face,” “Just Dance,” “LoveGame,” “Paparazzi,” “Telephone,” “Bad Romance.” No other artist commands that kind of appeal, both broad and deep.

The Britney-Madonna kiss (to Christina Aguilera’s everlasting dismay) at the 2003 MTV Video Music Awards was widely seen as a passing of the torch from a pop icon to her heir apparent. I’m not so sure that the right person took the torch. Britney is huge and Britney is great, and I even preferred her live show to Gaga’s (at the same venue). But Britney is a product of other people’s imaginations, whereas Gaga, like Madonna before her, seems to be a product of her own.

In fact, I’m most reminded of the ashen body of Optimus Prime on his deathbed, passing the Autobot Matrix of Leadership into the hands of Ultra Magnus, who (in a brilliant piece of foreshadowing) fumbled and bumbled it into the hands of Hot Rod, who would later become Rodimus Prime and turn out to be the true successor to Optimus Prime, leading the Autobots to victory and salvation.

Roll out!