World Famous Comics: Red Lobster, White Trash, & the Blue Lagoon: Joe Queenan's America
Red Lobster, White Trash, & the Blue Lagoon: Joe Queenan's America
By: Joe Queenan Publisher: Hyperion Average Rating: Binding: Paperback Label: Hyperion Number of Items: 1 Number of Pages: 208 Publication Date: April 14, 1999 Release Date: April 14, 1999
Product Description: A riotously funny, razor-sharp indictment of America's cultural wasteland by one of its most merciless critics.
Amazon.com Review: "How bad could it be?" With this simple question, Joe Queenan embarks on a nightmare journey through the depths of American pop culture, subjecting himself to Broadway musicals, Red Lobster Captains' Feasts, and John Tesh concerts: "With his shopworn, lounge-lizard stage gestures, eviscerated salsa compositions, and studied reveries, Tesh was a human Cuisinart of every hack musical stunt, effecting a strange synthesis of various mongrel styles where half the songs sounded like generic background music for promotional videos ... and the other half sounded like retreads of Mason Williams's sixties hit Classical Gas."
Queenan sets out to find music, movies, books, and TV that transcend awful, and the most remarkable thing about this book is that one never doubts for a moment that he actually subjected himself to all of the horrors he describes (including the literary efforts of Joan Collins). In an era where references to Burt Reynolds movies are used as hipster currency by people who have never endured Cannonball Run II, Queenan mocks nothing without experiencing it first. His odyssey throws up a few surprises--including the discovery that Barry Manilow is actually pretty good, and that most of the junk that clogs the arteries of popular culture never reaches the stratospheric level of badness achieved by someone like Michael Bolton. This leads Queenan to coin the term scheissenbedauern ("shit regret") to describe "the disappointment one feels when exposed to something that is not nearly as bad as one hoped it would be."
But generally, the answer to the question posed at the beginning of the book is "Really, really bad." Making fun of bad middlebrow entertainment may seem like a no-brainer, but when a writer as sharp as Queenan gets his claws into something like the collected works of Billy Joel, the results are hilarious. Like Jonathan Swift with a remote control, he gleefully shoots every fish in the pop-culture barrel. --Simon Leake
A Critic Spoofing Himself Spoofing What He Spoofs Joe Queenan is a professional critic, and has similar tastes of many other professional critics; highbrow. This book chronicles is climbing down from his pedestal and trying to find out what makes people like such "lowbrow" items such as Red Lobster, John Tesh, Yanni, Cats and a host of other things.
While down with us peons, Mr. Queenan discovers there is a lot to like about modern culture and that he has never taken the time to look. Throughout the book he discovers various places, Las Vegas included, that attract him to want more. He only snaps out of his downward spiral when he goes to Branson, Missouri.
This book is laugh out load funny and full of fantastic insults. I only wish I could write and compose quips of half the level of Mr. Queenan. In addition, many readers have missed the finer points of the book, in which he not only lampoons himself, but also the items he is discovering. For instance, when discussing books written by Joan Collins, he turns his writing into the style used by Joan Collins.
This is an absolutely brilliant book that can be read on many levels. It is sure to insult some, but if you have a sense of humor you will find it funny. Lighten up, read it and enjoy!
If you like the word "Suck" Then this book is for you. A professional writer, Queenan can't find a stronger word than "suck" for everything he dislikes? That sucks. Although Queenan occasionally puts together a real humdinger of a doozy of a quip, for the most part, his course in suckiness consists of holding himself superior to the lowbrow population that determines so much of American culture. Throughout the book there seems to run an undertone of bitterness that Queenan himself hasn't become the household name that Billy Joel, the Eagles, Cats, or even James Michener has. And because he holds these in such contempt, Queenan reveals himself to be worse than those people who visit Branson, eat at Red Lobster, and read Jackie Collins novels. While those people enjoy their lives and probably don't mind if Queenan enjoys his effete, psuedo-intellectual existence, there is one main difference. The former group is willing to let Queenan join in their experiences, welcoming him to enjoy their pleasures. But my guess is that if the tables were turned and some of the great unwashed were to try to take part in Queenan's haughty society, there would be nothing but rejection and scorn. I pity a man who cannot enjoy a variety of levels of entertainment. His world is far poorer than mine. I can relax to "Peaceful, Easy Feeling" or "Piano Man" one evening, and still watch or read "King Lear" the following evening with equal pleasure. Not so the superior Queenan. Sad.
There Is No Cure for the Common Scold Queenan set an extremely peculiar task for himself in writing this book: he would spend a year reading books, watching movies, and listening to music that he desperately wanted NOT to read, watch, or hear. Masochism on this scale is rare even in the back rooms of adult bookstores.
Although Queenan is a good writer and actualy made me laugh out loud a couple of times, there are two fatal flaws that doom the project.
He's certainly not the first to tackle the subject mattter. Early in the 20th century H. L. Menken made the statement that "Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American middle class," and used the term "booboise" to describe this group. Then in 1964 Susan Sontag's "Notes on Camp" came on the scene.
Worse yet, he confuses fact and opinion. He uses the terms "good" and "bad" in describing popular culture, terms that are more properly used in the realm of morality.
Billy Joel and Phil Collins are singers. That is a fact. Billy Joel and Phil Collins are bad singers. That is an opinion. Queenan's, not mine.
His targets are so easy. Michael Bolton, THE CELESTINE PROPHECY, the musical CATS, Kenny G., Joan Collins, Joe Pesci, Renaissance Fairs, Molly Ringwald, CANNONBALL RUN 2.
Along the way he finds some things that he enjoys more than he expected to. Sizzler Restaurants, CHILD'S PLAY, and Barry Manilow are unexpected sources of pleasure to him.
Although I'm often in agreement with Queenan's opinions, there's no real need for him to express them. What is admired in the arts is very much a product of the time in which the art is produced. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who opened his novel PAUL CLIFFORD with the immortal phrase, "It was a dark and stormy night," was highly admired in the 19th century; today his name is on a prize given by San Jose State University for authors who deliberately produce the worst writing they can for the competition.
Queenan sets himself as the authority, oops, make that The Authority, the supreme arbiter of taste. This could be fun in a magazine article; at 194 pages he wears out his welcome.
As I read, I finally remembered where I had heard this particular cricket perched on my shoulder. The 1960's. A Houston station would broadcast a double feature of 1950's horror movies. My mother would sit up and offer a running commentary on the acting, writing and directing of these movies (she taught Drama at the college level so they may have really grated on her). I ignored her and kept on watching. Finally, around midnight she'd weary of this and go to bed. I could get another bottle of Coke and more Doritos and watch the second feature in peace.
If the publishers really wanted to have fun, they should go to a NASCAR Race or Untimate Fighting Championship and find a good old boy with his gimme cap on backward. Pay him to watch Bergman films (Ingmar, not Ingrid), listen to string quartets and read Umberto Eco for a year. That could be fun.
Just terrible I bought this book thinking that it would be a witty critique of low brow American culture. Well, it wasn't witty and it wasn't a critique. It was a worthless tirade from a bitter, effete, ineffectual snob. Perhaps if Queenan was capable of producing something meaningful, he wouldn't feel compelled to be so cruel.
A worthy cause, misses the greater point. I picked up Queenan's "Red Lobster" book after hearing a favorable review on NPR and was thrilled to discover that someone was finally willing to expose the utter classlessness of the staples of "unculturalized" Americans. And they are all here - Red Lobster, The Olive Garden, Kenny G, Robert James Waller, Stephen King, et al. Queenan observes in a most deft manner how these sacred cows achieve success not my being excellent, but by appearing to be excellent. In short, they sell it and there's always a fool to buy it.
It's a worthy endeavor because let's face it - Kenny G is NOT jazz. Not even smooth jazz. Andrew Lloyd Webber IS incredibly overrated. The Olive Garden is not a "fancy restaurant" no matter how much your Aunt Meg dresses up before you take her there. And the main problem is not the entities themselves, but the fact that most Americans ALLOW this continued celebration mediocrity due to sheer laziness. In truth, every twenty or thirty-something female who tearfully devoured "The Bridges of Madison County" probably never bothered to pick up a copy of "Madame Bovary." If she had, she would certainly see that she'd been ripped off by a hack.
Of course, some of this comes down to simple opinion. As Queenan criticizes Rush (the band, not the talk-show idiot), he admits to not even being able to remember a single Rush song - and loses a little credibility for taking an easy stab at art rock. But upon finishing "Red Lobster," I was disappointed on two levels. One, for all his cultural snobbishness, Queenan never once sells his side of the equation. What is so much better about HIS tastes, other than the fact that they help him perpetuate the appearance of a refined New Yorker? There's not a hint. Two, in his observations, Queenan seems completely lost on the concept of guilty pleasures. I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy, but I also have those moments when I listen to Kiss and watch an episode of Hawaii 5-0. Why not? It doesn't define me, but boy is it ever entertaining!
That said, this is a good read, especially for anyone who had to suffer through a single note from Yanni in any circumstance.
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