In the words of Jack Donaghy on last week's episode of "30 Rock," "I'm a big ol' liar." To my three or four loyal readers: Don't have a conniption. I've been completely honest with you in my previous columns. I did sob at a Grizzly Bear concert, I do think that Kanye West and Serena Williams were in the right, and I am, in fact, absolutely nothing like Jason Schwartzman. When I say "lies," I'm not talking about outright, Balloon Boy-style fabrications.
(Speaking of the Flight of the Falcon, I could write an entire column, if not a dissertation, about the simultaneously fascinating and disturbing spectacle of that poor kid being used as a pawn by his parents before revealing the scheme on national television and subsequently vomiting all over himself. I can totally relate to his plight. We've all been there, right?)
I'm talking about some subtler stuff. Prepare for me to shake your values to their very core.
Indulge me and guess whether the following statements are true or false: I think that the Kings of Leon are a pale imitation of a freakish Strokes/Lynyrd Skynyrd love child; I did not see "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" (2009) in theaters; I do not occasionally enjoy "Two and a Half Men."
All lies. I like the Kings of Leon probably more than they deserve, I paid a hard-earned 12 bucks to sit through "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" (and didn't mind that little head-trip one bit), and I often find myself laughing when a certain Charlie Sheen sitcom happens to be on.
So, I lie. And it's become a habit.
Due to some blend of intense snobbery and an absurd need for affection and affirmation, I've been stretching the truth about my cultural preferences in a semi-subconscious way for quite some time. It all probably started when I realized, as a 12-year-old with a bowl cut, that saying I would rather listen to some weirdo named Bowie than the Backstreet Boys would probably lose me some friends among the popular crowd. It's become second nature in my never-ending quest, like that of every teenager, for a modicum of social acceptance.
This being an official sociological analysis of societal norms and all, I've broken down the lies into two categories. Category one: mainstream movies, television shows, music and books that I actually love but profess to either enjoy "ironically" or to not like at all. Category two: off-the-beaten-path work that I say I like despite feeling no such way.
These lies are all about combinations — of high brow and low class, of a popular movie that's "so bad it's good" and of a Sundance Channel show used more effectively as a sleep aid than as a source of entertainment. In my warped mind, some almighty cultural arbiter/bartender creates the ultimate cocktail of elitism and down-with-the-people "realness," and I've let this imagined collective opinion dictate a few too many of my cultural choices. I fear that, in attempting to impress others or fit in, I've lost touch with my own feelings.
I'm sure you're confused, and so am I. What do I actually like? Is Radiohead really my favorite band, or have I been conditioned to think that because that's what "people" want to hear? Do I think that J.D. Salinger's "Franny and Zooey" (1961) is a great book because these "people" whom I aspire to be like say it's a great book? I'm sure this all sounds ridiculous and melodramatic, but for someone who spirals into meaning-of-life-questioning when he can't decide between a bagel and an English muffin for breakfast, this is heady stuff.
My realization came when someone asked me recently if I was a "Lost" fan. Having given up on any hope that there would be a satisfying conclusion to that messy yarn around the time the hatch blew up, I was caught in a conundrum. Do I say that I remain devoted and face having to recall key plot points from episodes I've missed? Or do I face the truth (and my own lack of patience for complex serial dramas with countless over-my-head references to obscure moments from three years prior)? Refreshingly, I went with the truth.
I've been a fool, subscribing to some stupid theory in which there is value in denying the merits of good music or a show that brings the funny, however cheap the laughs are. Give or take a few too many wasted dollars (and tears) on star-crossed-lover movies, I'm proud of my taste.
Maybe my newfound inclination to tell the truth will prompt me to expand my cultural horizons — if so many people like "Weeds," maybe I should actually watch it to see what all the fuss is about rather than just say I watch it. I look forward to some honest discourse about the merits of things for which I've suppressed my affection or that I've lied about enjoying. I'm rediscovering music and television shows I had always felt obligated to like or ignore and figuring my feelings out for myself. So, to the guy I talked to last week about My Bloody Valentine: I lied. The band's music is pretty overrated. Sorry, but sometimes the truth hurts.
