Fandom as a Cargo Cult

Ruthless Bunny

Anyone who has taken an introductory level anthropology course is acquainted with the idea of a cargo cult. For those of you too hung over to get to lecture on a regular basis, let me fill you in. Cargo Cults started among the peoples of the South Pacific during World War II. During the war, planes would land on the islands and disgorge all kinds of interesting treasure, primarily associated with the war effort, but cool looking and desirable to natives all the same. After the end of the war, the military and the cargo planes went away, but the natives continued to wait for the next cargo plane to land on their island. To facilitate this they constructed makeshift landing strips, built a hut with a man in it, wearing what looks like the Gilligan's Island version of a headset, in anticipation of the next delivery. We all know that since 1945, there hasn't been a delivery. A religion sprung up around this. Honoring the men responsible for flying the cargo to the islands, the cargo itself and the effect of the cargo on the local economy. Make no mistake this is as serious and as real to these people as our belief in Jesus, Coca-Cola and Elvis is to us. (Apologies to Kinky Friedman.)

Does this sound familiar? As a group of fans we also warship cargo, our show, our characters, our "fan community" itself. We've created a dogma surrounding this fandom. We argue amongst ourselves about the smallest details of it, and it has as much basis in reality as a headset made of coconut shells and bamboo. We speculate about what the last few episodes will bring. We argue about what constitutes good fan fiction. We go to war over ideas. And for what? The next delivery? The war's over folks, there isn't going to be another delivery. We can sit here in front of the fire, scanning the skies and keeping the oxen off the runway, but the plane ain't going to land.

We are in the death throes of a beloved concept. Glen and MTV no longer have a use for us, they are taking their materiel, and their airplanes and they are getting gone. So what are we going to do? From all appearances we are going to consult our village elders, and we are going to try to build a similar culture based upon their imperfect observations.

And who are our elders? I hate to say it, but the elder with the most influence is Martin. There is no good reason for this, he is no more tuned in than anyone else is, but he seems to CARE the most. Here in Florida, that's how you end up on the Condo Board, wielding a similar amount of power.

Martin really has no sway as far as dictating exactly what goes on, he doesn't have the imagination for it. But like the pope, if he gives it his blessing, the flock will follow blindly. We don't see him leading anyone in a particular direction, but we certainly have an idea of what will gain his approval, and what won't.

Here I'm thinking about Lawndale After Dark. It started primarily as a joke, and secondarily as a place to warehouse the naughty side of Daria fandom. It was a lark. But Martin came down on it like a ton of bricks, and suddenly people were howling about it. Except that every day someone comes on the board to ask for the URL, or to comment on some new art work, or to invoke the name of Mistress Daria in jest.

Although the pope has not blessed Lawndale After Dark, by focusing his attention on it, he has brought it more fame than it deserves. In fact, that is true of almost everything Martin focuses on.

Martin is the uberfan, the Big Name Fan, the guy with the big web site, a guy with an opinion on everything, but only after someone else brings up the subject. So as heads swivel towards Michigan, in the hopes of getting some idea for how to make the planes come back, get ready to man the hut gang, because he hasn't got a clue.

What about Michelle Klein-Hass? She has Glen's e-mail address. She writes for Toon magazine. What does she have to offer us, by way of perpetuating our culture? Not much. Michelle hasn't written any fan fiction (under her own name) for years. She rarely visits the boards, and when she is in chat, it's primarily to complain about her personal life, or to hold forth on geek-type topics. While she certainly has her finger on the pulse, I get the impression that Daria is only a small part of her busy life, which is as it should be.

So we are in essence, rudderless. Brace yourself for the inevitable decline of the Daria Fan Community. Hell, most of us already have a foot out the door anyway. The chat room, #daria+, which used to be a lively community, fragmented, leaving behind a few souls, who desperately try to have an engaging chat experience, but inevitably fail, falling back on the familiar Woe Is Me topic du jour. The Paperpusher's Message Board, often a playful and engaging place to crack on conventional wisdom and to speculate on the next episodes, had deteriorated into a free-for-all of name-calling; back-biting, bear-baiting and other unpleasant hyphenated similes.

As long as we had the genuine article, with slowly developing characters, we had a hope of getting a new shipment. Our stories had a direction, something upon which to model our ideas. Once the show is over, that's it. The characters will freeze in time. There isn't going to be a reunion show, with Fonzie showing up as a college professor.

So write it all up kiddies; the fat lady is about to sing. All the speculation, all the arguing, all the spiteful confrontation has a shelf life. Once Is It College Yet airs, anticipate a month or so of die-hard fans, trying desperately to cling to the thing that has given their lives meaning for the past five years. The rest us, well, we'll get lives. As we all scatter, some will find a home with a new fandom, and inevitably go through this thing all over again. Other's like me, will take up writing our own characters, and developing our real lives. And if you're me, you're going to be figuring out how to get into the Tree House of Love with CINCGREEN, after all, a "man's reach must exceed his grasp, or what's a Heaven for?"