The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
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Thursday, February 27, 2020 — 5B

They populate hallways of 

high schools across the country, 
sauntering to class in their 
flannels and flared jeans. They 
cry “like this if you’re a ’90s kid,” 
while bopping out to hip hop 
music on a vintage Walkman. 
These lost souls were “born in 
the wrong generation” and yearn 
for days gone by. Fixating on any 
time period from the 1960s to the 
1990s, these angsty teenagers 
often proclaim that the times in 
question were “better days” and 
that these past eras produced 
the last truly “good” music. 
Oftentimes, such individuals are 
dismissed by their peers as those 
kids who can’t stop talking about 
“My So-Called Life” or “Sabrina 
the Teenage Witch.” Of course, 
the ’90s saw events like Y2K, 
the OJ trial and a presidential 
impeachment. But we also have 
this decade to thank for beanie 
baby hoards, those slap bracelets 
that got banned and “Space 
Jam.” What if these displaced 
dreamers really were born in the 
wrong generation, and the past, 
particularly the ’90s, truly was a 
better time?

Stephen Chbosky’s “The Perks 

of Being a Wallflower” made me 
consider this question. Published 
in 1999, the epistolary tale takes 
the reader on a journey with 
Charlie through his first year of 
high school and “the world of 
first dates, family dramas, and 
new friends,” as stated in the 
novel. “Perks” is quintessentially 
’90s, filled with grunge, angst 

and feeling infinite. I am not a 
’90s kid, but Charlie’s experience 
truly resonated with me and 
brought me back to my own high 
school years. In many ways, 
his journey was my journey, 
and reading Chbosky’s novel 
reminded me of the loneliness, 
vulnerability 
and 
love 
that 

characterized my life. The story 
is transcendent and universal, 
“both 
happy 
and 
sad” 
and 

written from the perspective of a 
boy who is “still trying to figure 
out how that could be.”

You could say I was lonely in 

the ninth grade. Following the 
dissolution of a close friendship, 
and overwhelmed by my own 
nervousness, I had a difficult time 
making 
friends. 

I was quiet and 
shy, terrified by 
the prospect of 
talking 
to 
new 

people but racked 
with a yearning 
for 
human 

connection. 
It 

wasn’t 
a 
great 

phase 
of 
my 

life, but it was 
a formative one 
nonetheless. And 
Chbosky captures 
the 
essence 

of 
this 
period 

nearly perfectly. Early in the 
book, Charlie timidly befriends 
Patrick and Sam, both seniors, 
and becomes close friends with 
them. But before this connection 
is made, and after conflicts arise 
between the friends, Charlie’s 
isolation takes center stage. The 
hopelessness 
and 
rumination 

that 
characterized 
many 
of 

my days trapped alone in my 
head are depicted with a scary 
accuracy. At one point, Charlie 
is promised a call from his 
friend Patrick after a mishap, 
but Charlie doesn’t receive one. 
This one event begins to taint 
the rest of his thoughts, and he 
becomes increasingly distressed 
the more he stews in his own 
worries. That sort of poisonous 
anxiety, the kind that paralyzes 
you and seeps into the rest of 
your existence, is not new to me. 
That Chbosky is able to capture 
this inimitable feeling of nervous 
isolation only speaks more to the 
universality of his book.

Thankfully, much like Charlie, 

I was able to find truly life-saving 

friends during the 
ninth grade, and 
coincidentally, 
the 
friends 
I 

made as a ninth 
grader were all 
older than me as 
well. 
Emotional 

insecurity 
and 

anxiety don’t go 
away 
overnight, 

though, 
even 

with new friends, 
and 
growing 

into appreciating 
these 
friends 

is a process in 

and of itself. It’s a process of 
teenage growth that I haven’t 
seen 
depicted 
often. 
Here, 

“Perks” once again captures an 
aspect of my adolescence with 
precision and grace. Charlie’s 
quiet sentimentality is both 
beautiful and familiar. When 
Charlie is first invited to hang 
out with Sam and Patrick’s 

friends, I saw a part of myself 
in him. He passively intakes his 
surroundings, 
absorbing 
the 

presence of new, strange and 
wonderful people just existing. 
“That was me once,” I thought. I 
remember when I was invited to 
a house party for the first time, 
and though I wasn’t fed any pot 
brownies and we only listened 
to “Kidz Bop” while we face 
painted, my emotional state in 
those moments was similar to 
Charlie’s. Anything felt possible, 
and the depths of love ripped my 
chest open, baring my soul for 
whatever pain or joy might come. 

But I got much more time with 

my friends than Charlie does 
with his: My friends were only 
a year older than me, whereas 
Charlie’s are three years older. 
But this doesn’t matter, because 
even though Charlie’s journey 
of friendship with Patrick and 
Sam moved to a new stage much 
sooner than my journey did, 
both Charlie and I hold an acute 
awareness of the rarity and 
beauty of friendship. Our explicit 
acknowledgement and tranquil 
acceptance of the impermanence 
of these times amplified the 
highs of love and companionship. 

There were times when I became 
so acutely aware of how great it 
was to have friends that I simply 
cried out of joy and thankfulness. 
Such sentimentality is familiar 
to Charlie, and on this level I 
connected with him. I distinctly 
remember a moment driving 
home from my friend’s house in 
the eleventh grade. It was the 
last year everyone in our friend 
group would all be in high school, 
and graduation was approaching 
quickly. I came to a stoplight 
and considered this fact for the 
thousandth time, but while I was 
thinking, a pretty song came on. 
I don’t remember the song, only 
that it was one I recommended to 
one of my friends. But I remember 
that I just started laughing. Then 
crying. Love washed over me, 
and I reflected on all the times I 
felt infinite with them.

I still reminisce on these 

times, but coming to terms with 
the passage of time helped me 
grow beyond who I was before 
I met these people. I am still 
awkward and shy, and sometimes 
I avoid going to the same hair 
stylist more than once because 
I have already asked them 
every question in my arsenal 

the first time they cut my hair. 
But I am not afraid anymore. I 
carry on with the memories of 
those I love in my heart. Steven 
Chbosky’s “The Perks of Being 
a Wallflower” is transcendent, 
and it spoke to me and my 
experiences over two decades 
after it was originally published. 
Each generation is defined by 
the culture in which they grew 
up in. The hippies of the ’60s, 
the angsty adolescents of the 
’90s, the political revolutionaries 
of the 2010s. It is inevitable, 
necessary, even, to move beyond 
the past, but there is also value in 
what has been lost. “The Perks 
of Being a Wallflower” reminded 
me of this. So slip into those Dr. 
Martens and that flannel and 
jam out to some Salt-N-Pepa, 
and embrace being born in the 
wrong generation. Embrace the 
ability to look back on remnants 
of times gone by while still being 
able to appreciate what made 
those times special. The wisdom 
to be found in them is timeless. 
“Perks” in particular reminds 
us all to be aware of limitless joy 
and opportunity, and, most of 
all, helps us to remember to feel 
infinite.

The perks of being a ’90s 
kid: Chbosky’s timeless novel

SUMMIT ENTERTAINMENT

The 
World 
Wide 
Web. 

Scrunchies. 
Y2K. 
Pogs. 
The 

Clinton-Lewinsky 
scandal. 

Sitcoms. Need I say more? It’s the 
’90s. 

Many of my contemporaries and 

I were either unborn or too young 
to soak in the iconic ’90s culture 
that oozed out of every fleeting 
moment, but that doesn’t seem to 
matter too much. The ’90s, while 
we may never truly relive it, is still 
so culturally relevant nearly two 
decades later that it doesn’t feel 
like we missed out on anything. 
Scrunchies came back in full force, 
Dr. Martens might never go away 
and you can hear iterations of “I 
did not have sexual relations with 
that woman” in nearly any reality 
TV show or celebrity scandal 
today. 

The unambiguous nature of the 

’90s makes it easily imitated today 
and many aspects of pop culture 
take advantage of this fact. Shows 
like “Bojack Horseman” have 
created picture-perfect parodies 
of the classic ’90s situation comedy 
format through “Horsin’ Around,” 
a template for what these shows 
used to offer to the community. 
Through its simple yet precise 
usage of “live” studio audiences, 
cheesy catchphrases and limited 
filming sets, the essence of iconic 
sitcoms like “Full House” and 
“Family Matters” are flawlessly 
captured. For those who grew 
up with them, this combination 
of features elicits warm feelings 
of nostalgia and coziness. You’re 
bundled up on the couch with your 
preferred sitcom on, humming 
along to the theme song, knowing 
that no matter what conflict arises 
in this episode, everything’s going 
to be okay in about half an hour. 

And yet, there’s a level of harsh 

reality that simmers beneath the 
feel-good appearance of sitcoms. 
This optimistic facade is the 
illusion that modern television 
has tried to take down. We’ve 
entered a phase in our culture 
where mindless consumption is 
frequent yet frowned upon, and 
many new shows have tried to 

incorporate social commentary 
into their plot lines to make 
television consumption a little 
more meaningful. Shows like 
“Bojack” centered their entire 
plot on how unrealistic the idea of 
quick conflict resolution is in real 
life. Hardly anything in real life is 
ever resolved within a half-hour 
time span, and these shows know 
this. A lot of us do too. Yet sitcoms, 
especially those made in the ’90s, 

gained so much traction and are 
held close to the hearts of many to 
this day. Why is this?

Simply 
put, 
sitcoms 
are 

comforting for the very reason that 
makes them criticized by modern 
audiences. Their lack of realism, 
in the wake of decades of war and 
uncertainty, provided a source 
of repetition and structure that 
people lacked in their day-to-day 
lives. Superficially, most people 
only 
remember 
the 
positives 

when it comes to the ’90s. That 
is, the Spice Girls, barrettes and 
“Clueless.” 
We 
often 
ignore 

the negative things — like war, 
genocide and the Los Angeles 
riots — that likely brought about 
the necessity of these positives. 
There’s a reason why people 
needed sitcoms to distract them.

Reality 
television 
plays 
a 

similar role in modern society. 
When it comes down to it, nothing 
that happens in either genre is 
necessarily groundbreaking or 
surprising. They both take place 
on someone’s couch, kitchen island 
or bar down the street. Most of 
the episodes are predictable and 
the plotlines are shallow. If there 
is any deeper meaning, it’s subtle 
and hidden under layers of petty 
drama and clever quips. It’s this 
consistency we often look for 
when we’re in times of distress 
— similar to how I crave shows 
that I’ve already seen when life 
becomes just a little too much. 
Distraction is a coping mechanism, 
and “woke culture” tries to make 
us feel guilty about this very 
natural phenomenon. To a certain 
extent, there’s not much we can do 
about the macro, uncontrollable 
dangers we face at every waking 
moment. We can tote around our 
reusable straws and take shorter 
showers, but what is there to do 
about nuclear war? About natural 
disasters?

In recent decades, we have been 

faced with so much change and 
imminent doom (which I know 
aren’t exactly new) that we’re 
left with two options: choose to 
remain blissfully ignorant, or 
take on large-scale burdens like 
they’re our own. Most people, 
understandably, 
choose 
the 

former. These shows transport 
us to a world we wish we could 
live in, where our most difficult 
problems are having two dates to 
the dance or not having a jacuzzi. 
And change, whether positive or 
negative, is constant and difficult 
for anyone to endure too much 
of. I’m certainly not suggesting 
that you hole up and mindlessly 
consume until your brain melts, 
but don’t feel so guilty about 
ignoring the tick tick ticking of the 
Doomsday clock by watching a bit 
of brainless television. Sometimes 
all we need to cope is a half-
hour episode of television where 
likeable and predictable characters 
chat around the dinner table and, 
no matter what, no matter how 
nasty things get, everything’s 
going to be okay.

‘Last Week Tonight’ makes 
sense of the political chaos

Last Week Tonight

“Welcome! 
Welcome! 

Welcome!” John Oliver exclaims 
with his signature opener as he 
introduces his newest season 
as host of HBO’s “Last Week 
Tonight.” Over the past seven 
years, 
the 
late-night 
comedy 

program has become known 
for its savvy political satire, 
cementing itself as a staple of late-
night comedy. In its first show 
of the new decade, Oliver was 
quick to note what global events 
transpired during the show’s 
nearly two-month hiatus: “We 
nearly went to war with Iran, 
the UK elected ‘BOJO’ Prime 
Minister and the Coronavirus 
has started spreading around the 
world, and if you happen to feel 
like you’re getting sick right now 
you DO have it and you only have 
hours to live.”

“Last Week Tonight,” more so 

than other late-night programs, 
has been able to maintain a 
steady, high-quality production 
of informational comedy through 
formatted segments that debut 
every 
Sunday. 
The 
show’s 

noticeably consistent strengths are 
its larger segments, those which 
tend to grapple with relevant 
issues without sacrificing comedic 
material. In a late-night landscape 

where seemingly every comedian 
has a Trump impression, Oliver 
and his writing staff lay off the 
easy dunks in order to make an 
even greater political statement. 
While the show’s segments can be 
bleak in topic, each weekly piece 
intends to expand upon a political 
issue that may be unknown to the 
general public. In past seasons, 
segments have created social 
action that has ranged from 
harassing FCC commissioner Ajit 
Pai over net neutrality to a highly-
publicized legal battle with a West 
Virginia coal CEO.

From the vantage point of 

February 2020, there is still 
no guarantee that HBO will 
renew “Last Week Tonight” for 
additional seasons. HBO has 
been generous to give “Last Week 
Tonight’s” 
creators 
expanded 

agency in the show’s production. 
Oliver has expressed that he 
has 
“full 
creative 
freedom, 

including free reign to criticize 
corporations.” After all, HBO is 
owned by AT&T. Whereas conflict 
of interest could present an issue 
when discussing the prevalence 
of matters like robocalls or joking 
about the demise of “Game of 
Thrones,” (which also aired on 
HBO), 
“Last 
Week 
Tonight” 

maintains its “No B.S.” slant. 

In particular, his new season 

represents a turn for the series as 
John Oliver recently obtained dual 

citizenship with the United States 
and the United Kingdom. While 
the question of Oliver’s citizenship 
was never an important factor 
in his expertise as a host, his 
backstory as an immigrant sets 
his comedic backstory apart. His 
new American identity grants 
a more personal, caring tone 
than in seasons past. Despite 
the inherently depressing flaws 
of American society which he 
carefully lays out every week, 
John Oliver believes he is a patriot, 
holding a soft spot for the ideals 
and pursuits of a more perfect 
union. “It was a big deal,” he stated 
in a recent interview with Stephen 
Colbert on “The Late Show,” 
“not just choosing America, but 
choosing America NOW.” The 
landscape for this year’s season 
of “Last Week Tonight” should 
present 
many 
ripe 
prospects 

with the inevitable fallouts from 
Brexit, the summer Olympics in 
Tokyo, the upcoming Democratic 
National 
Convention 
and, 
of 

course, the Presidential Election.

How Oliver intends to use 

his new perspectives from U.S. 
citizenship in order to engage 
audiences is sure to be provocative 
and hilarious, culminating in the 
continuation of the finest that 
satire television currently offers. 
That’s just so long as Ajit Pai and 
the FCC have nothing else to say 
about it.

The ’90s sitcoms weren’t 
great, but we needed them

TV REVIEW
B-SIDE: TV

B-SIDE: BOOKS

TATE LAFRENIER

Daily Arts Writer

SOHPIA YOON

Daily TV Editor

MAXWELL BARNES

For The Daily

These shows 
transport us to 
a world we wish 
we could live in, 
where our most 
difficult problems 

are having two 
dates to the prom 

or not having a 

jacuzzi

It is inevitable, 
necessary, even, 
to move beyond 

the past, but 
there is also 
value in what 
has been lost