CHUCK STAFFORD, the lead producer of Golden Summers. Does whatever it takes to make it happen.

CONSTANCE GLEMMONS, star and chief antagonist of Golden Summers

CHRISTIE, a devoted PA. She has put her life on the line for this job, many times.

ANGIE, makeup artist. She is Clark’s only real friend on set.

NURSE, staff member at North Star Treatment Center

Curtain up inside of CLARK’s trailer. He is sitting at his makeup station, looking into the mirror. He is surrounded by empty Splenda packets, tissues covered in spray tan, and crumpled papers with frantic scribbling hidden in the paper folds. There is a small mirrored tray with cocaine and a TJ Maxx gift card. There is a small recycling bin with two empty handles of Beefeater London gin. He looks down at the notebook in front of him.

CLARK

“So tell me, Constance, is the club scene in Miami really worth it? Or would I have a better time down at the golf course with you and a pitcher of long island iced tea?”

A pregnant silence. Suddenly, CLARK stands up and swipes everything off the desk, the mirror, his makeup, his hairspray, it all clatters to the floor. He slams on the desk in frustration.

CLARK

FUCK MY LIFE!!! Goddamn it. This network. Jesus christ, this network is taking everything from me.

He realises his mistake: including the cocaine in his destructive outburst, and scrambles to the floor to scrape up enough for a line, which he then snorts.

CLARK

Okay. Okay okay okay. It’s fine. Alexa, play Daily Calm.

Alexa plays daily calm, this one narrated by Cynthia Erivo.

ALEXA (CYNTHIA)

Let’s start today’s meditation with three square breaths. In, two, three, four…

CLARK inhales deeply, with gusto. He is interrupted by furious banging on the door.

CLARK

WHAT?? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME!! (he throws an empty gin bottle at the door, shattering it.) I’VE GIVEN EVERYTHING!! EVERYTHING I HAVE!!! I–

CHRISTIE

Um, Clark, makeup wants to see you.

CLARK (sheepish)

Oh. Christie. Yeah, um okay. Sorry about that.

CHRISTIE

It’s okay. I’ll get it.

CHRISTIE starts sweeping the broken glass into her bare hands, shredding her shit up.

CLARK

No, no Christie, don’t do that. I’ll get it. Please–

CHRISTIE (through tears)

It’s fine Mr. Candles, please go to makeup.

CLARK

…alright.

CLARK exits the trailer. The sunlight is blinding and unforgiving. Set changes as he enters the filming studio and goes over to the makeup station.

CLARK

Hey Angie. How long do we have?

ANGIE, the makeup woman, is chain smoking. There is a lit cigarette behind her ear and one in her hand. She’s finishing up with someone in another segment.

ANGIE

5 ok with you? I’m almost done with this.

She smacks the person currently in the chair on the head.

ANGIE

Alright Ricky, go get ‘em. You’re gonna kill in that probiotic commercial.

RICKY exits. CLARK gets in the chair.

ANGIE (while applying blush and dry shampoo)

So they have just you and Constance today?

CLARK nods.

ANGIE

Woof. Talk about Golden Summer. She looks like a goddamn leather chair. Feeling ready?

CLARK

No Angie. I’m not feeling ready. I’m not feeling ready because I had to completely scrap a script twenty minutes before we shoot for the nation. So yeah, I’m a little pissed.

ANGIE hands him her hair cigarette. He takes a long drag, burning out the rest of the cigarette in one go. He puts it out on his hand and shudders.

CLARK

Plus, they want her to be at her controversial A-game. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this without getting canceled. I can’t move again, BRAVO is so loose with my personal info. Have you ever been swatted?

ANGIE

Honey, I’m makeup. Obviously not.

VOICE OFFSTAGE

Candles to stage please, Candles to stage.

CLARK

Send in the clowns. Wish me luck, Ang.

ANGIE puts her first cigarette, now down to the filter, into a nearby diet coke can.

ANGIE

God be with you honey.

CLARK walks to the stage, where they have begun filming. People rush around in headsets checking lighting, sound, etc. CLARK walks over to the host’s chair. There is another identical chair across for him, meant for his interviewee. He shuffles self tan stained notecards nervously. CHUCK enters and approaches him, clapping him on the back when he gets there.

CHUCK

Clark! Just the man I wanted to see. I hope you two are ready for the extra special reunion today!

CLARK

Chuck… What a surprise. I take it the lipo recovery went well?

CHUCK

Funny. Actually, you’d be surprised what happens when you treat your body with respect.

CLARK

The fuck is that supposed to mean?

CHUCK (an aggressive whisper)

It means cool it on the booze, you have the beginnings of that kind of taut, old man balloon stomach. The camera adds ten pounds, in case you forgot.

CLARK

I-

CHUCK

And wipe your nose, you still have coke dust. Jesus, man, you’re a mess. You know, I pushed for the network to keep you on as host but it’s becoming more clear to me that they’re right in their decision.

CLARK

They’re- (clears throat) they’re dropping me?

CHUCK

No one told you? The writing’s been on the wall for weeks, buddy. Ever since that People article where you got caught blowing the Head of Homeland Security it’s just been one fumble after another. I mean, come on. Even now, you look like you’ve been drinking for twelve straight hours.

CLARK

Fuck you and the network. You’re all a bunch of money hungry soulless demons that destroyed my dreams.

CHUCK

I made you a millionaire.

CLARK

Yeah, for my soul. You know I wanted to go into puppetry. You remember. Don’t you dare say you don’t.

CHUCK

…Clark.

CLARK

YOU made me sign that deal. YOU made me give up the Jim Henson fellowship.

CHUCK sniffs.

Have you been fucking drinking again? Maybe it’s a good thing if you crash and burn so I don’t have to out you as an alcoholic.

CLARK

Screw you. I’m going to blow this out of the water.

CHUCK

Uh-huh. Brush your teeth.

VOICE OFFSTAGE

Can we set for question 1?

CLARK huffs, brushes his blazer out behind him, turns on his heels and walks to set.

VOICE OFFSTAGE

Can we send in talent?

CHUCK

Yeah. Yeah, no problem. Send her in.

CONSTANCE enters in a gown with an extremely long train. There are two PA’s holding the end and escorting her down the aisle. A third PA runs in with a glass containing dentures, which they then pop into CONSTANCE’s mouth. They lead her to the seat opposite CLARK and she sits down.

CLARK

Constance. Always a pleasure.

CONSTANCE

You still work here? Jesus, you look like shit.

CLARK

Excuse me?

CONSTANCE

You look terrible. I thought they replaced you with that young man from the Ellen show, the one that did the breakdancing?

CLARK

An eighteen year old can’t do this job.

CONSTANCE gives CLARK an up and down glance.

VOICE OFFSTAGE

Set for take 1 Alpha.

CONSTANCE burps really loudly. No one but CLARK seems to notice. They set to film. Someone on set nods at CLARK just as CHUCK enters the studio to watch. CLARK gulps.

CLARK (to camera)

Welcome to an extra special reunion of Golden Summer, season 7. I’m here with the only member of our cast at the reunion today, Constance Glemmons. And boy was she integral to the drama this season. You know, I don’t think there’s been a cast member in history responsible for this much conflict, do you, Constance?

CONSTANCE

I don’t recall a sloppier host in my time than you, Veneers.

CLARK is taken aback and has an awkward moment. It gets picked up on the cameras, which only contributes to his nervousness.

CLARK (under his breath)

You’re one to talk about ‘sloppy’

CONSTANCE

Excuse me?

CLARK

I didn’t say anything , Constance, your hearing aid must be acting up again. Let’s get into our first question, shall we? Your feud with Eunice. My sources say it started when you slept with her nephew. Are those rumors true?

CONSTANCE

Well… you know what actually? I’m not going to dignify that with a response.

CLARK

Generously leaving the folks at home to draw their own conclusions?

CONSTANCE

Whatever, Clark. At least I’m able to be presentable on television. You look like you got dragged through a hazardous electrical waste plant. Check that you don’t have some 20 year old’s used geek bar in your boxers, please. I’d hate for your dick to get blown off by a defective battery.

CLARK

Cut to commercial.

CLARK gets up, furious. He storms off set and back to his trailer, while hair and makeup tend to CONSTANCE, still sitting in her place. CLARK gets to his trailer and slams the door shut. He sinks to the floor, sobbing.

CLARK

God, please. No more. Just no more.

Someone is pounding on the door again.

CLARK

CHRISTIE I DIDN’T ASK FOR ANYONE!!! UNLESS IT’S ABOUT A NO FOAM OATMILK CORDADO I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING HEAR IT!!!

CHUCK

It’s me. Open the door.

CLARK

Jesus Christ, what kind of karmic punishment is this?

CHUCK

Open the door or you’re definitely fired.

CLARK slowly gets to his feet, face flushed and nose running. He sheepishly opens the door.

CHUCK

I know this ridiculous outburst has something to do with us.

CLARK

You’re a selfish bastard. Incredible. You somehow made this about you. Get out of my trailer, I need to redo my face.

CHUCK

I’ll send makeup in in 5. Look. I know things could’ve ended better, but you need to get over it. This kind of thing happens all the time.

CLARK

People kill puppies all the time and it’s still fucked up.

CHUCK

What are you, seven? That’s the most evil thing you could come up with? Whatever. Bottom line is, you’re losing us money with this little tantrum. I get that you’re upset. Grow up and move on. The arrested development bit gets old after 25.

CHUCK slams the door as he exits the trailer. CLARK silently screams at the door, convulsing his whole body. This should last slightly too long, think a good 30 to 45 seconds. While doing this, he gets too into it and falls over, and somehow rips his pants at the same time. It’s a struggle to get up.

CLARK, out of breath

He thinks he can just do whatever he wants to me. He thinks he’ll get away with it. Not this time, buddy. Not on my watch. My Rolex.

He manages to get up and out the door. As he goes back to stage the light is somehow more intense and painful. He gets to set and clamors back into this chair. The vibe on set is that he is holding everyone hostage.

CLARK

Film. Fucking roll.

CONSTANCE

Took you long enough.

CLARK

You’re a witch and you’re going to burn in hell.

VOICE OFFSTAGE

Rolling, action.

CLARK

And we’re back again with Constance Glemmings for the reunion of Golden Summer, Season 7! Now, tell me Constance. How does it feel to be a cantankerous bitch in front of the entire country on a daily basis?

Everyone on set gasps, but they keep rolling. This is going to be good.

CONSTANCE

Excuse me??

CLARK

You heard me. You’re on the trashiest show of all time, on the trashiest network. I asked: how. Does. It. Feel. To be responsible for the destruction of Hollywood?

CHUCK starts to walk towards the stage, fighting off PA’s and other production staff.

CLARK

I see our top-tier producer is making his way to the set, aren’t we lucky. I have a few questions to ask him, too!

CHUCK

Hi everyone, Chuck Stafford here, lead producer. Thanks so much for tuning in to our little production here. My colleague has had a bit of a rough day, so let’s just take a break and agree to resume on another/

CLARK

Shut the fuck up Chuck, this is my goddamn show and I’m gonna host it. You know what, since you’re here, why don’t I ask you something. Would our audience like that?

CHUCK, under his breath

You’re going to pay for this. I’ll assure you you’re never going to work in this town again.

CLARK

Chuck Stafford, is it true that you funded this season of Golden Summers by siphoning funds out of retirees using useless infomercial products?

CHUCK

I… I, uh/

CLARK

Did you also advertise oodles of diet pills with fake companies to viewers of the show? All of those companies are owned by you?

CHUCK

Clark, please/

CLARK

And is it true that those pills are all placebos? You’re running a sugar drug empire! Incredible everyone!

CHUCK grabs CLARK by the arm and pulls him out of his chair. CLARK’s cards fall everywhere.

CLARK

My cards!

CHUCK

I don’t give a rat’s ass about your cards. Cut the tape, we’re getting a new host and starting over next week.

CLARK shrieks a banshee like scream and writhes to the ground. He is immediately grabbed by two security guards.

CHUCK

Jesus. You know, this is for the best. I hate to see what’s become of you.

CLARK

You’ll see me again soon enough. I’ll be back on the stage. And this time, this time I’ll be making something that matters.

CLARK is dragged away by the security detail as the rest of the set resumes into clean up mode.

The set transitions to CLARK’s room at North Star Treatment Center: a luxury rehab in Malibu. A nurse comes in to check on him.

NURSE

Clark, your 3:00 group is starting soon.

CLARK

Be there in a minute.

The NURSE exits. CLARK turns around to reveal that he’s creating a muppet version of CHUCK.

CLARK

Be there in a minute.

CURTAIN

This is my night. My magic night. I’ve finally acquiesced to best friend supreme: maid of honor, and I am now guiding my best friend (and bride to be, EEEEEKK!!) to a place so raunchy, so sinister, so filled to the top with debauchery, that she will never forget this night; and never forget me. Jessica adjusted her sequined dress. It was the color of punch bowl-induced vomit and dug into her sides, forming pink pricks in her skin that would develop into welts later on. But that’s what Megan wanted, and the maid of honor must appease the appetite of the betrothed. The rented limousine pulled to a stop in front of its desired locale- a gleaming image of gluttony, a shining beacon of indulgence and plastic: Circus Circus Hotel and Casino. Jessica was almost enamoured by the spectacle. The lights were so dazzling, the display so all-consuming of the senses, it was almost orgasmic. The moment was cut short as the bridal party began to clamour out of the car. Plastic clutches and ponytail extensions battered her shoulders and ears, but the sight was still mesmerizing. Steve Madden wedges pounded the pavement as the group made their way inside the golden revolving doors to the theatre entrance.

Jessica settled into her velvet seat. The room was abuzz with anticipation, arousal, and the fascination of the forbidden. The Chippendales: Triple Chip Strip that Dip was the highly awaited show of the season. Bachelorettes from miles around flocked to the promise of chiseled abs and a scandalous Instagram boomerang. Sensing the excitement from her fellow bridesmaids (and reveling in her planning success), she leaned over to take in their delighted impatience.

“So who is so excited for this?” The bride’s best friend from grade school’s head nearly rolled off her shoulders. “Ughh, ME. I’ve been so sick of Rich lately. Look, Hallie, I know you’re excited to be a newlywed and everything, but please don’t expect too much. He’s gotten into Bonsai pruning. I can only be so supportive, you know?”

Hallie turned pale just as the lights dimmed and a hush settled over the crowd, similar to a fine mist drifting over a calm lake in the wilderness of Canada. Suddenly, a single spotlight ignited a circle of white hot light in the center of the stage, the mechanical clunk of the switch echoing. A voice, seductive and powerful, boomed.

“Ladies, and maybe even some gentlemen. Good evening. Tonight, we bring you a show so filthy, so flirty, and so fabulous, you’ll find yourself… spellbound. Now, we know that most of you were expecting our friends, The Chippendales, to perform tonight.” Jessica’s excitement disappeared, only to be replaced with a heavy stone that sat in the pit of her stomach. “Instead, we have something even better. Please join us in welcoming him for his Vegas debut, the magnificent Magical Michael!”

Before the announcement had finished, there was an air of protest. Impossible. No Triple Chip Strip that Dip... it was unimaginable. A fervor rippled through the orchestra, the mezzanine, and all three balconies. But before the righteous anger of 3,000 members of various wedding parties could reach any action, the stage lights bloomed; ochre, peach, crimson danced around the proscenium as Magical Michael rose from a trap door, his black satin cape billowing in the faux wind. He was dressed in full regalia: a three-piece suit, impeccably tailored, with a top hat perched on his boyish head. His enchanting appearance doused the fiery rage of the crowd and lulled them back into their seats.

“Jess. You didn’t say we were seeing a... magician act?? I wanted to see male strippers! Like every other normal bachelorette!” Hallie snipped from the seat next to her, her lip trembling and voice shaking. This was bad. Abysmal. Jessica had failed her ultimate test of lifelong best friend material. She had displeased the bride.

“I’m sure it’s just a fun gimmick!” Jessica’s feeble justification sounded pathetic even to her. The air in the room turned thick and sticky as her saliva began to congeal and her palms grew clammy. The other bridesmaids began to send shooting glances her way, but it was too late. Magical Michael began his routine. An enchanting song filtered through the speakers- it included baby giggles and marimba chimes. A mischievous smile danced across Michael’s face. He brandished a gloved hand and thrust it into his sleeve… but with a tenderness, a sensitivity, that could not be ignored. Jessica slowly turned away from Hallie, who had also clearly relaxed. Michael drew his hand back from the sleeve, stringing along a long line of bedazzled G-strings.

The clamor resumed, but this time with a different undertone. Thousands of women clapped, hooted, and hollered in pure delight. Relief flooded Jessica’s senses. The night could be saved. She snuck a quick glance at Hallie’s face to gauge how much apoligizing would be warranted from this discretion- it was major to fuck up the Chippendales, but the replacement of a raunchy magician had to count for something- her train of thought was interrupted by the release of three doves into the audience after a strip tease wherein Michael tantalizingly unfastened his blazer for the birds to escape. Incredible.

“For my next trick, I’ll need a volunteer.”

This was it. Jessica’s true redeeming moment. Like a captain sensing a ship’s imminent capsizing, she leapt into action, directing her party to attract the most possible attention to Hallie’s raised hand as possible. They shrieked, pleaded, threw themselves into the aisle in the hopes of sending their Madonna to the warm, loving embrace of the stage lights and Michael’s freshly bird shit-spattered arms.

“Hmmmm... how about the lovely bride in the front? You seem like you’ll give quite a show.”

Yes, thought Jessica. Another point. Surely Valhalla awaited her for this maneuver.

“What is your name?” Michael murmured as Hallie climbed the stairs.

“Hallie!” she wheezed, catching her breath. “Soon to be Mrs. Geoff Cranston.”

“Congratulations! And where is Mr. Cranston tonight?”

“Who cares? I’m in Vegas biyatch!!!” Right on cue, Jessica and the rest of the party went wild. Michael’s expression was guarded, but smug: he had a particularly choice trick up his sleeve.

“Well, then. You look so beautiful tonight, wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mr. Cranston were here to see you in this lovely getup?”

Jessica balked. This was an overreach. No one told her that someone would be bringing Geoff, a man famous for his embodiment of ennui, to the celebration. This was going to ruin post-show drinks. But all she could do was stare as Michael raised his hand to snap his fingers, Hallie beside herself with childlike glee.

“Abracadabra, alakazam! Bridegroom to be, whammo, blam!”

Michael snapped his fingers, and a small explosion occurred on stage, producing a cloud of purple smoke and an extremely pungent kick of sulphur. The room fell silent as the smoke slowly dissipated to reveal Geoff- who promptly collapsed to the ground in a heap, screaming in pure agony. His extremities jutted out in various sickening angles; every joint seemed to be misplaced, and every bone broken in multiple locations. A shocked silence soon gave way to screams of hysteria as onlookers leaped out of their seats and bolted for the exit. The emergency doors weren’t wide enough to accommodate the horde funneling through them, and the survival mindset took over as people were trampled under wedge heels and bedazzled sneakers. Hallie kneeled next to her husband, wailing as she took in his disfigured frame, mascara bleeding down her face. Taking in the chaos, Michael turned out to face the audience once more.

“Thank you, Vegas.” With a toss of his cape, he too disappeared into a puff of purple egg-scented smoke.

The din of the theatre shrank to a dull roar in Jessica’s ears. The bridal party had long gone, fallen under the many feet of the audience. Hallie remained on stage, trying in vain to help her husband, each attempt to pick him up only further dislodging his fractured arms and legs. Jessica was frozen in place. All her hard work, for what? What had she done to deserve this? She was the worst maid of honor in the world. Suddenly, a thought cut through the noise. She slowly stood up as women were dragged down by others to the floor in a vain attempt to make it out alive. She stepped over dresses from Lulu’s and Shein, hair extensions and tiaras that littered the floor. Armed with some sort of supernatural strength, she pushed her way through the crowd and out of the eggy auditorium. As if in a dream, her legs carried her down the hallway and through the adjacent casino, the slot machines making the blood and glitter that had spattered her face and clothing in the fray shimmer. She stopped walking- she was where she needed to be at last.

“One ticket for Hunk-O-Mania, please.”

What is more interesting though is my trouble with hobbies. This summer I had my first major surgery when I got my appendix out. Recovery has been uncomplicated and well paced, but I’m unable to do strenuous activity or lift over fifteen pounds for a month. As someone who’s main hobby this summer has been running and weight training, this is a little bit of an issue. The solution is simple, and something I’ve been wanting to do anyway: return to arts, crafts, creative hobbies. But I’ve been stopped in my tracks. Not by any exterior force, but by a paralyzing fear of creating something ‘bad’. 

This is a new feeling for me. In highschool I painted, drew, edited and wrote videos, mixed music tracks, and choreographed dances. Now I don’t do really any of those things. The things I created in that time of my life weren’t bad either- actually, I think it was some pretty decent work at that age. So why, after two years of living in one of the art hubs of the world and gathering stories and experiences to supply my creative engine, am I so scared of failure?

I have to believe that the evolution of social media over the past three years has something to do with it. There’s a pressure to share your creative endeavors with the world, even if you aren’t trying to sell it or make any money off of it. I can feel myself submitting to the public eye by not even trying to make anything for the fear that it won’t be praise worthy. And this is deeply frustrating to me. I feel intimidated by the sheer volume of incredible work that’s out there, a tap or two away. I see incredible art and read incredible writing constantly and instead of enjoying it and allowing it to inspire my own creation, I feel intimidated and like I shouldn’t even try. 

Adding to the comparison issue, it’s hard not to feel like everything cool has already been done. Especially now that we’re entering the slop era and popular culture feels like a festering wound that we aren’t treating and are rather just layering gauze on top while the bottom layer fuses and melts to the blood and muscle tissue. I see a glimmer of hope now that people are becoming repulsed by the grip that phones have over their life and the dissolution of meaningful connection.

I started this… blurb? On my computer but I’m reluctantly finishing it on my phone. I’m sitting in terminal 7 at JFK waiting for my flight to Iceland, where I’ll be putting my phone in an envelope and disconnecting for a week. I’m really looking forward to it. I’m excited for the opportunity to prove to myself that I’m completely capable of not using my phone, and also for whatever I discover about myself in that time. My journal is prepped and ready and who knows, maybe I’ll finally have something delicious and long form that I deem good enough to share. And if it isn’t, it’s great practice that no one will know about. Skál!

What he doesn’t see is the mastadon, unaware and serene. The mastadon could feed the man and the village for weeks. Its pelt could provide shelter, its bones weapons. With a greater effort, falling the mastadon would yield a reward so great, not only to the man, but to all he holds dear. But the siren song of laziness and convenience is deafening.

Overcome, the early man gorges himself on the berries, eating another before he has even eaten the last. There are not enough of them. He eats as if he is racing against a clock, looking for more, more, MORE. Then the berries are gone.

Having gorged himself on the sweet but empty fruit, early man is stained with the juices of his gluttony and pained by the fullness of his gut. He has eaten enough, says he, and goes home empty handed, the berries depleted.

The beautiful fruits offered much in appearance and temporary satiation, but did nothing to ease the hunger, and the calories were quickly burned. The mastadon walked on, and the village crumbled to temptation for quick and easy satisfaction.

Because I admire their work:

• Fiona Apple

• Joni Mitchell

• Stephen Sondheim

• Spike Lee

• Adrienne Lenker

Because I want to be involved in their work (please let me do a movie with you):

• Robert Eggers

• Ayo Edibiri

• Sophia Coppola

• Timothée Chalamet (sorry)

• Darren Aronofsky

Because I think they’re a little insane and I want to hear them talk:

• Alejandro Jodorowsky

• Any of the Beatles on LSD

• Johnny Knoxville

• Eric Andre

• David Bowie

Because I want to challenge my perspective:

• Anyone in a frat at the University of Alabama

• David Lynch

• Tom Sandoval

• Imogen Heap

• Carl Sagan

Because I want to gripe:

• Fran Lebowitz

• My best friend, Abby Roedersheimer

• My beginning scene study professor, Ellen Orenstein

• My friend from Brooklyn’s mom who watched the Turner Classics channel with me while I was staying with them

• My old therapist, Barbara

Just because I love them :) :

• Kelly, Steve, and Jonah Goldstein

• A certain special someone

• AG Cummings, Jackson Dailey, Isabella Paragas, Nina Bogosian

• My lazy, good-for-nothing dog (sorry Buns)

• Abby again

People I would rather kill myself in front of than talk to for five minutes:

• Jax Taylor

• Elon Musk

• Laura Loomer

• Anyone on Love Is Blind

• Those people who make TikToks standing in front of art they think they could have made

Not an original thought, I know. Mandi Bossard (@mandibossard on TikTok) explained this concept fabulously in a video that inspired this essay, “MAGA’s rejection of vulnerability.” “They want the stage without any vulnerability[…] it’s why conservatives aren’t funny, because comedy is vulnerability… It’s so weird to form a party around the idea of rejecting everything that makes us human.” A call for increased drilling and continued violation of protected nature, along with the casual use of energy-consuming AI, changes how Americans think of vulnerability. Unlike the olden images of cowboys and gun-toting action heroes, the digital age has created a new ideal. Old heroes bled, had faults that they were forced to reckon with and amend, and were kind and gentle to the people who needed them. This is a far cry from the sterilized, yet gaudy ideal that we see today.

As a performing artist with a mother who is in visual arts, I’d be lying if this wasn’t a personal topic for me. I’m also a lover of contemporary art, which is often far more about the process of creation than the end result, or product that is presented to you. Generative AI is the opposite of art (I’m referring to casual usage in this case. I have seen a single AI exhibit in my life that I’ve actually found compelling, Bennet Miller’s A Wild Wild Wind1. Take a look!). Generative AI presents you with a polished (though strangely warped) image that to the untrained eye, seems objectively, well, good. It’s realistic. Maybe it has a nice composition. But there’s no soul behind it. It’s empty. It makes you feel nothing. And for me, it makes me feel bad! But not in a way that challenges me, or forces me to consider new perspectives. It feels like I’m looking at a piece of plastic in the dollar bin at Target, which I know will soon be taking up space in a landfill with a dozen more of its kind. The reason for this is that there’s no struggle, no challenge, no WORK. An artist is not out there, putting in effort and sincerely hoping someone will think their work is good. They are not baring their soul to the world, risking their reputations or livelihoods. Struggle, effort is what people want to see! We want to see the good guy triumph. But apparently, this has changed. The way that the general public sees things seems to have significantly shifted from noticing the journey to focusing on the product, and how to get the product with as little effort and time as possible, with no regard to the consequences outside of their immediate vision.

I mentioned environmentalism and gym bros in that first conversation- a fizzling of the 2015 climate protests. To me, being in nature is the ultimate vulnerability, and at the same time, strength. I would not survive in the wild, I can tell you that much. But the people who can?? Incredible. And when I’m floating on my back in the freezing Pacific, kind of freaked out because I don’t know what the hell could be under me, I feel like I’m a part of something larger than myself: surrendering to the power of the planet. In American history, our goal has been to conquer: the people, the land, and the environment. When during westward expansion, white settlers killed upwards of 40 million buffalo to starve out the native population2. When James Dole wiped out acres of native Hawaiian flora and fauna to set up a pineapple plantation3. When today, Donald Trump begins a chant of “drill, baby, drill” referencing fragile, untouched arctic lands. Something about nature, to these people and many others like them, needs to be conquered. And if you don’t want to conquer it, you must be a sensitive, sad little person. I certainly don’t believe this, and I don’t think anyone else should either. It takes a big person to acknowledge an existential threat like the one we are facing and to do something about it. Climate activists are hardcore! It takes a lot of guts and, forgive me for the buzzword, grit, to live in a tree 200 feet in the air for 2 years like my queen Julia Butterfly Hill4. I’d love to see anyone who drives a lifted Ford in a suburban neighborhood try that on for size. 

As our world changes, I’d like to try to continue to hope. I hope that people don’t belittle others' fears and doubts, and instead understand them and work towards solutions. I hope that collectively, we can rebrand power and strength to be quiet, thoughtful, and driven, instead of loud, uninformed, and destructive. And for myself, I hope to let go of the bs and focus on what I can control, which is how I treat the people around me and the ground I walk on.