Bailey White Curtis

I am many things, but I am not the friend you come to when you want to stay in and watch a comedy special. The phrase “comedy special” evokes flashbacks from college, where I pretended to like Kevin Hart for more than one mediocre man. I’m a product of the streaming era — give me drama! Give me production value! Give me a female lead! 

So when Jay suggested that we watch Bo Burnham’s Inside, I begrudgingly agreed. To be fair, I’m a fan of Burnham’s latest work, especially his Academy Award-nominated film Eighth Grade and his turn in Promising Young Woman. Still, I remained unconvinced that these credits would be enough to convert me into a comedy fan. 

90 minutes later, I unceremoniously picked my jaw up off the floor. Inside is a perfect encapsulation of how it feels to be a Very Online young adult in 2021. The special was so personal and relatable that I felt uncomfortable at times.

For the uninitiated, Burnham took “work from home” to the next level with the creation of Inside. He wrote, directed, and starred in the film from his home over the course of the COVID-19 pandemic. Inside is composed of song-driven vignettes, covering topics from anxiety to online presence to social activism. I could write a thesis on Inside’s status as an incredible social document of 2020, but I’ll keep my thoughts short here. (However, if any textbook publishers are interested in an unresearched, inexpert perspective, I’m available.) 

Although Inside was powerful from start to finish, three songs particularly resonated with me:

1. “All Eyes on Me.” In this song, Burnham describes his codependent relationship with audiences amidst a world that’s crumbling around him. He punctuates the song with an alternating stream of commands (“Get your f—— hands up!”) and  questions (“Are you feeling nervous? Are you having fun?”). In the emotional crux of the song, he discusses his desire to return to the comedy stage in 2020 after suffering panic attacks in the years before. Of course, before he could make his return, the COVID-19 pandemic paralyzed the world as we knew it. The song is so personal that Burnham’s delivery is painful to watch. Throughout “All Eyes on Me,” Burnham sings directly to the camera, his face awash in blue light. It’s chilling imagery for a song that feels both like a power anthem and a requiem.
2. “Welcome to the Internet.” As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I measure my life by the technological achievements born across its span. The Internet is chief among these. I can divide my personal eras into how I was spending my time on the internet — at 13 I discovered Internet forums! I joined Facebook at 15! I created a Reddit account at 19! Along the way, I’ve stumbled across amazing things and some really, really dark shit. Burnham addresses our unprecedented access to information in “Welcome to the Internet.” His delivery sounds like a carnival barker as he discusses both the wonders (“Show us pictures of your children”) and the horrors (“See a man beheaded”) of the World Wide Web.
3. “Bezos I.” As an Upstanding Citizen, I maintain that Jeff Bezos is a cartoonish villain who exemplifies everything wrong with capitalism. Regardless of my distaste for Bezos, I’m a repeat Amazon Prime customer. Burnham turns our collective fascination/repulsion with Bezos into the best ’80s anthem not written by Duran Duran. You will get this song stuck in your head.

The term “comedy special” does Inside an injustice. The film is written, edited, and performed to mirror an ugly moment in time. Burnham underscores the anxiety wrought by the pandemic with flashes of humor and humanity. Inside is the answer to question all of us are asking right now: “What the hell just happened?”

(The songs are catchy as hell, too.) 

My grandfather, Jim Baum, at his radio station in Colorado City, Texas 

Country music is in my blood. George Strait was the soundtrack to the backseat of my mom’s 1999 Sienna minivan. My uncle played drums for Trace Adkins early in his career. In tiny Colorado City, Texas, my grandpa pulled double duty as the mayor and the owner of the local country music station. 

Naturally, I had to rebel.

Growing up in the Southwest in the early ’00s, you could select one of two personas: country queen or tortured alternative artist. As a self-proclaimed intellectual, I gravitated towards the thinkers’ bands of the day (Fall Out Boy, Panic at the Disco, and Good Charlotte). When asked what type of music I liked, I’d respond, “Anything but country.” 

In my mind, I was turning my back on bro music. I was making a stand against beer-drinkin’, boot-wearin’, women-objectifyin’ men named Rhett and Hunter. My disregard for country was a political statement (and, in retrospect, an ill-conceived way to annoy my mom). 

My contempt for country followed me through my college and grad school years in Texas. During this period, 82% of social events took place at venues with apt names like “Dixie Chicken” and “Rebel Drafthouse.” I had to adapt to survive: I learned to two-step, drink Shiner, and sing “Friends in Low Places” with aplomb. Nevertheless, I stayed the alternative course.

And then, when I moved to Tennessee, I met Dolly Parton.

Well, I didn’t actually meet Dolly Parton. I listened to a Radiolab podcast called Dolly Parton’s America and fell in love with her sense of humor, big heart, and touching lyrics. This was a woman who’d grown up poor in the Smoky Mountains who blossomed into an icon with an incredible catalogue of songs and an equally amazing catalogue of wigs. For a solid month, my Spotify account was a shrine to Dolly. Whenever I listened to her music, I felt like a plucky upstart from East Tennessee on her way to change Nashville forver.

However, as quickly as I fell in love with Dolly, I started to discover (and in some cases, revisit) other country artists: Kacey Musgraves. Loretta Lynn. The Chicks. I loved the songs that told stories about erstwhile relationships and memories from childhood. Eventually, songs from these artists began to punctuate memories from my own life. Kacey Musgraves’s “Butterflies” reminded me of flying down Mississippi roads with my partner. Brooks and Dunn’s “Neon Moon” embodied the nights I spent laughing and two-stepping with friends in college. And, more than anything, Tanya Tucker’s “Lizzie and the Rainman” reminded me of my grandfather’s radio station. 

Tanya Tucker is a hardscrabble, hard-drinking, hard-smoking singer-songwriter from West Texas. In other words, she could easily be a member of my extended family. Apparently, my grandfather felt similarly. Tucker’s “Lizzie and the Rainman” was a constant presence on his radio station in Colorado City. During many road trips through West Texas, we’d often pass through the rang of PaPa’s station. I remember the anticipation of waiting to hear his voice crackle through the radio station: “Hi, this is Jim Baum, the voice of Mitchell County. You’re listening to KAUM Real Country!” On the days we were lucky, he’d blast “Lizzie and the Rainman.” 

PaPa passed away in 2018, but his radio station remains as a testament to his love of country music. For my family, “Lizzie and the Rainman” is a personal reminder of his passion for music and our roots in West Texas. On a broader scale, I think this kind of nostalgia is what makes country music special. A great country song allows you to live an alternate life (if only for four minutes) through its visceral storytelling. At the same time, an excellent country song conjures up memories from your own life. It’s a genre that feels both limitless and intimate.

So,  at the end of the day, I have to own my identity: I am a West Texas girl who likes country. You’ll need to buy me a couple of Shiners before I’ll admit to listening to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” though. 

When I was a high schooler in the late ’00s, the term “gamer girl” was a pejorative, usually used by teen boys to belittle their female peers. On a basic level, a gamer girl was any girl who enjoyed video games and had the audacity to publicly admit it. But the term ran much deeper. Any guy in my school could tell you that a gamer girl was a try-hard who participated in traditionally masculine hobbies for attention. 

Naturally, as a shy teen with a penchant for flying under the radar, I was terrified to receive any such label. Throughout high school and college, the closest I got to playing video games was the occasional round of Mario Kart with my siblings. (I also had a brief obsession with The Sims, but we don’t talk about that era.) 

Well, fate tends to find the weirdest detours for our lives. Ten years after I swore I’d keep Mario and Luigi at arm’s length, I met and fell in love with a guy who works in the games industry.

Fast forward another couple of years: We’re in a global pandemic. My partner, Jay, and I are quarantined together in a small apartment. The days we previously split between work, family, and friends are now a stretch of unending time on our Outlook calendars. We’ve exhausted Tiger King and The Circle, our early pandemic staples. Then, in a moment that felt nothing less than miraculous, Nintendo released Animal Crossing: New Horizons on March 20th, 2020. 

For the uninitiated, Animal Crossing is a simulation game where the player creates and populates their own island. The island’s residents are cute critters who encourage you to indulge in relaxing activities like fishing and catching bugs. The result is a Zen experience that offered the perfect salve for early-pandemic chaos. 

Needless to say, Jay was addicted. He’d slip out of bed early to start the game and, when I went to sleep, I could still hear the strains of the Animal Crossing theme song from the other room. Eventually, I found myself invested in the game. Our morning conversations usually covered work, errands, and updates on Jay’s Animal Crossing villagers. 

As March slipped into April, Jay’s interest in Animal Crossing waned and he moved on to another game: Super Mario Odyssey. Then it was Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. I’d glance at the screen with vague disinterest, returning quickly to the comfort of whatever book I was reading. Still, by the end of each night, my eyes were fixed to the TV, my book nowhere in sight. After a few months, I actively played the games alongside Jay. 

I started to view video games as a mental escape from the pandemic. (Ironically, Jay and I played through The Last of Us and the Resident Evil series, which are set in an apocalypse-ravaged America.) Through the screen, we traveled everywhere from Bogota to Eastern Europe as we fought zombies and searched for long-dead pirates’ loot. In the process, we uncovered ways to spend time together that didn’t make us feel like we were quarantined in an apartment in Memphis, Tennessee. 

When I think back to 2020, I mainly remember the sense of confusion I felt as my life and relationships shifted in front of me. With the benefit of distance, though, I’m grateful for the moments Jay and I spent together on our PS4. To me, 2020 wasn’t a linear series of weeks, months, or days. It was a tapestry of all the adventures we went on, characters we met, and exotic places we visited.

Would I call myself a “gamer girl,” though? I don’t think so. My fight or flight response is still keenly attuned to the brand of misogyny specific to the late ’00s.

 

 

Because I come from a generation who’s Very Online, my Twitter feed is typically strewn with hot takes and subpar memes. I scroll during quiet moments, looking for a quick chuckle or updates on my friends’ lives. The predictability is nice: Angry political rant. Personal musing. Tired meme. Rinse. Repeat. Every once in a while, though, something volcanic happens in pop culture and my entire timeline looks like a Shakespearean Greek chorus. 

January 8th, 2021 was one of those days. It started innocently enough: “Have you listened to ‘drivers license’ by Olivia Rodrigo?” my younger sister texted me. I had not heard of Rodrigo, let alone listened to her new song. A quick Google search revealed that Olivia Rodrigo was the 17-year-old star of Disney’s High School Musical: The Musical: The Series. Her debut single, ‘drivers license,’ was tearing up TikTok, the Gen Z social platform du jour. As a millennial clinging to cultural relevance, I naturally had to listen.

Rodrigo sings from the perspective of a slighted girlfriend who’s driving aimlessly around her ex-boyfriend’s neighborhood, reflecting on their shared memories. (After all, her boyfriend is the one who encouraged her to get her driver’s license.) Although ‘drivers license’ is about a high school romance, its themes of hurt, betrayal, and disappointment are resonant at any age. Even though I’m an adult in a stable relationship, ‘drivers license’ had me in shambles after my first listen.

My Twitter feed (which contains everyone from culture critics to my best friends) agreed with me. Throughout the song’s rollout and the eventual release of Rodrigo’s album Sour in May, I saw posts lauding her lyrical talent, vocal delivery, and emotional range. With relatable lyrics like “And I’m not cool and I’m not smart/And I can’t even parallel park,” Rodrigo captured the Twittersphere’s collective imagination. As the weeks progressed, though, I noticed an interesting new sentiment emerge: People my age (and younger!) talked about how an album written from the perspective of a heartbroken teenager made them feel old. 

The Greek chorus was in agreement. “My teenage years would have been incredible if I had Olivia Rodrigo. All I had was Lana del Rey,” bemoaned a friend. Another follower concurred: “I may be 30, but I’m still blasting Olivia Rodrigo and screaming about my emotions as I cook dinner.” 

The discourse about Sour read like wistful reminiscing at a high school reunion. The kicker? Every single person talking about the album was under the age of 35. To me, the conversation about Sour is symptomatic of a larger trend borne of the Internet. The web moves a mile a minute, shifting from meme to meme and news story to news story at a breakneck pace. To stay informed is to stay glued to your phone, refreshing each social feed with a certain fanaticism. It wasn’t always this way– just twenty years ago, connecting to the web via dial-up felt like an involved endeavor. iPhones were just a glimmer in Steve Jobs’s glasses. But when the first iPhone debuted in 2007, placing the Internet in our pockets, our appetite for information consumption skyrocketed.

Millennials like me grew up alongside the Internet. We’ve lived a thousand online lives, from giggling over AIM in middle school to posting on Facebook in high school to airing our frustrations on Twitter in college. And, considering the insane pace at which the Internet evolves, it’s hard to imagine how much information we’ve consumed. Now, we’re watching our Gen Z counterparts come of age, a generation completely indoctrinated in technology. They navigate between TikTok, Twitter, and Instagram with the ease of a weathered old seaman in charted waters. At the same time, they’re experiencing the interpersonal milestones that mark passage into adulthood: first kisses, first loves, heartbreaks. Naturally, much of this is documented on their social media accounts (and Spotify, as is the case with Sour).

As Millennials, we’re experiencing a particularly intense form of nostalgia. Yes, it feels like just yesterday that we were the ones finding first love and earning our driver’s licenses. Now, we see Gen Z coming into their own through an online lens. The Internet is both a time capsule and a constant reminder of the passage of time. I think that’s why Sour resonates with Millennials and makes us feel old. We were the first generation to come of age alongside technology, and now we’re old enough to see the next generation document their thoughts and emotions through it.

At 27, I’m not ready to say I’m old just yet, but to quote Gen Z icon Olivia Rodrigo: “It’s brutal out here.” 

Welcome to Web Publishing @ NYU. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start creating your site!

Online help is available via the Web Publishing Knowledge Site (wp.nyu.edu/knowledge) and the ServiceLink knowledge base (www.nyu.edu/servicelink). Through ServiceLink, you can find step-by-step instructions, as well as tutorials.

Digital Accessibility

As content creators who create and publish text, images, video, and audio, you must adhere to the NYU Website Accessibility Policy (https://www.nyu.edu/digitalaccessibility/policy) when creating and publishing digital content.

Web Publishing-specific Digital Accessibility Best Practices and examples of how to ensure your content are compliant are available at https://wp.nyu.edu/digitalaccessibility

If you have additional questions, contact the IT Service Desk for assistance. Support is available 24/7/365. For more details, visit www.nyu.edu/it/servicedesk.