Display by Label: Pop_Culture

I'm bringing back the "mini posts" here in order to say ... I'm joining a support group.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Pop_Culture  Ho_Hum 

This past Christmas, during a group outing to the mall to put Christmas money to good use, C's mom wound up buying The Story So Far, a 2-CD "Best Of" compilation of Rod Stewart hits. My outward reaction to this purchase was cool, non-committal enthusiasm. Standard hipster stuff. She asked me what I thought. I said, "Yeah, good." I may have smiled. If others around me were watching, they would have gathered from my reaction that I was clearly far too cool to be listening to the likes of Rod Stewart, but at the same time they would have seen that I was considerate enough not to show my smug contempt for the CD to my Mother-in-Law, who I obviously respected and admired. Yeah, it's a lot to put into a reaction, but I think I pulled it off.

Inwardly, however, my reaction was: "Holy shit! You must buy that puppy RIGHT NOW, because if you don't, I will!" I knew I couldn't actually be caught carrying the CD to the counter myself, but I'd find a way to get that thing, even if it meant smuggling it out of the store in my pants. (And yes, I realize that there are several layers of disturbing to the act of putting a Rod Stewart CD down your pants.)

It's still not clear exactly how it happened, but somehow a few of the tracks from that compilation wound up in my iTunes library. It's almost as if, while nobody was looking, somebody feverishly opened the plastic wrapping on that purchase before any of the other CDs he (or she) had bought that day and ripped a few important gems to my computer. You know, stuff like Hot Legs, Maggie Mae, Da Ya Think I'm Sexy? and Some Guys Have All the Luck. Weird. I'm sure whoever it was had their reasons.

So now, whenever one of those songs pops up in my play-list, I tolerate it. I give it the courtesy of a listen. But it's not like I sing along or bob my head or dance a little in my chair ... or anything ridiculous like that. Sheesh. It's just music, people.

On a related note, I was listening to Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me this weekend—because nothing goes better with biscuits and eggs on a beautiful Sunday morning than a little Paula Poundstone snarkiness—and learned that '80s music is now being marketed by radio stations as "Oldies." Which means, brothers and sisters—because I feel this needs emphasis—that if you're approximately 32 years of age or over, the music of "your time," the stuff you may first remember listening to—Cyndi Lauper, Van Halen, Pat Benetar, Duran Duran, Chicago, Huey Lewis and the News—is now officially "Oldies" music.

And, of course, Rod Stewart falls into this category too ... but let's face it, he's been "Oldies" for some time now.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Age  Family  Music  Pop_Culture 

I've always fancied myself an aficionado of the pop culture, particularly of any variety born or raised in the 80s or 90s. And while I'm not the encyclopedia of information that my friend Mitch is, I am, perhaps, something of an abridged coffee-table reference. Or maybe a pocket dictionary. I remember once playing Trivial Pursuit, 20th Anniversary Edition with C's family several Christmases ago and being given the following question: "Who was the front-man for the 80s rock band Twisted Sister?" I remember how they had all looked at each other like maybe they hadn't read the card right, or perhaps it was written in a different language or something. And whoever had read the question began to put the card back in the box and pass the lot to the next person because, you know, what the hell was a "Twisted Sister" anyway? And, whew! sometimes this game really tossed some crazy shit out there, and well, better luck next time, Dave, and . . . "Dee Synder" I said, confident and matter-of-fact. "I'll take a wedge, please." They all looked at me with wonder and awe. And I sat back and smiled, basking in the glow of my own pop-acumen, a byproduct of my grueling after-school regimen of MTV and Fruity Pebbles. It was tremendously satisfying given the fact that I normally have to sit on the sidelines of most of C's family's discussions because they're apt to involve the finer points of business strategy or physics, subjects which often render me completely mute.

But C got me back last night. After watching our old NFC-East home team get beaten by our new NFC-East home team, C told me to fast-forward past the post-game recap and sideline interviews with Eli and Romo and get on to the next show. We always TiVo football these days so we don't have to watch the commercials. I didn't know it at the time, but C had extended the record time to be sure to catch the show that came on directly afterwards, the pilot of The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

I zipped past Eli in his shag cut telling Pam Oliver how his brother's loss earlier in the afternoon was "tough." Translation: Suck it, Payton. This time I'm the one going to the Championship. Then, I slowed things down when the next show started. At this point I still wasn't sure what the show was. But C seemed excited about it, so I watched the first minute or so. And after seeing a bit of the opening sequence, which involved lots of gun fire and a frightening, indestructible robot, it dawned on me: "Oh, this is that Terminator thing, right? I think I heard about this."

C nodded and eyed me suspiciously. It was as if I had just uttered, "Oh, shoes are things people wear on their feet, right?" — something ridiculously apparent like that. "Yeah," she said, "The Sarah Connor Chronicles."

"Was Sarah Connor one of the characters in the movie, then?" I asked.

Again, I detected some skepticism from C, if not downright distrust. She paused the show. "Yes," she said, minor annoyance brewing. "She was the mom. Remember?" She rewound, then started the action again. Clearly this was not a time for talking.

"Oh sure," I said. I immediately recognized that "the mom" probably should have sufficed as an answer, not — as it did for me — open up more questions, like: You mean there was another character in the movie besides Ahhhnold? Wanting to keep my pop-culture cred in tact, I kept this one to myself and instead decided I'd just let C watch the show in peace and maybe sneak upstairs and look up "The Terminator" on IMDb. I started to get up from the couch. C paused the show again.

"What? You're not going to watch it with me?"

I hesitated. Weighing my options. "Sure," I said, "But . . . you know . . . I . . . " It was time to come clean with her. After all, she was my wife. She'd understand. "You're going to have to bring me up to speed." C looked confused. "I've never seen the Terminators, okay?"

I can't be positive, but I think this was the most outrageous and hilarious thing C had ever heard uttered from anybody's lips, let alone mine. She erupted in laughter, betraying her complete incredulity and wonderment.

"You've never seen the Terminators?"

I shook my head.

C's hilarity gave way to stunned silence and an aw-shucks sort of bewilderment, as if this piece of information was actually making her doubt my very existence. As if she was thinking, by God, who is this man and how did he wind up seated across from me in this living room?

"What else are you going to tell me?" she stammered, clearly disturbed and perplexed over this tragic revelation. She almost seemed sorry for me. Like I had been deprived in some vital way. "I mean, did you ever see . . . Sesame Street? Or how about drink water?" Her eyebrows raised. "Is that something you ever did in your life? Did you ever breathe?"

And that was about the crux of it: For C, a life without science fiction was akin to a life without water or air.

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