He bought a dance album? Really? Why? He doesn't know either?
Maybe there's a little bit more of Diego de la Vega in me than I realized.
***
Alright, Universe, fine, you force me to confess. Some of your behavior, as erratic and irrational as it is in its creativity, is a bit frightening. Scary, even! Can make a man uncomfortable! Let's talk.
It's great to know I still find discrete beauty in certain things, like a steaming hot summer day spent walking in a stream. And full moon nights. And Katie Holmes. I expect this ability to remain into old age, even when I get Alzheimer's and can't resurrect any past beauty to apply to the present. Maybe I'll just rediscover the extremes every day. Memento, anyone? That'll be interesting. I wonder if there truly are people, a lot of people, who never have this ability. Maybe everyone does, they just hide it. It would be tragic to recognize something beautiful but be unable to do anything about it.
On the same token, I'm not very happy with my ability to find discrete ugliness and horror in certain things. Of course, most of these things make sense: War, racism, the threat of nuclear holocaust, cancer/heart disease, the death of a loved one. But other ones, Universe, would really make no sense at all from an objective, removed viewpoint, wouldn't they? Like? Oh, just to pull something out of the hat... popped collars.
Popped collars: Worn by preppies and A&F suburbanites, despised with a fiery passion by hipsters, nerds, and artists alike. And it really is a passion, folks, with which we (and I consider myself somewhat a part of all three groups) hate the popped collar. I suspect we hate it far more than those that wear them actually like the style. They wear it because it's "in," and that's it. No more thought to it. That friend of mine wears it and he/she has a great love life, lots of friends, job offers from prestigious firms, etc. Maybe I can do that! they think, and innocently enough there it is, the same imitation instinct that the rest of us act upon when similar desires strike us. Hey, maybe I can be a writer! Read many books, write many things. Hey, maybe I can look more attractive! Work out, run, exercise. Do we look down on these things? Well, some forms of exercise. But in general, we don't have a problem with self-improvement.
We see those with popped collars, though, and it strikes something deep, some primal resentment, in us. Mainly this strikes public school kids, and here is why: In most white, suburban public high schools, the preppie/popped collar crowd takes over. Complete and total domination. They rule the roost, there is no changing the rules, that's the way things are. So for us, we can't stand this symbol of that despised upper class. What would a young Russian serf do when faced with a man wearing a Tsarist uniform? Curl his fists in anger and curse under his vodka-stained breath.
Now here's the kicker:
A few years ago, a prominent sociologist straight out of JHU, whose first name escapes me (last name Coleman) did a gigantic study of high school. He traveled across the country, and went to high schools of every sort: boarding schools, catholic schools, rich private schools, moderate private schools, affluent public, inner city public. You name it, he went there. And he found out something interesting: In every single school, the exact same structure formed. The same hierarchy.
The same one. They were modified slightly depending on the school, but the same basic patterns arose. In all-male schools, for instance, the upper crust was determined by who got the most women from other schools. In public schools, those who partied the hardest, met the most people, networked like there was no tomorrow, etc, you know the drill. In small private schools, much smaller groups ruled, but they still ruled: In a class of 50, there might be 7 or 8 kids distinctly at the top of the heap. Socially, of course; academics usually hindered the popularity of the kids in question. As we all know but didn't want to say out loud: It hurts to be smart in this situation.
But the point is: No matter what their form, the upper crust is always there. This is how high school works.
So now high school is over, and the upper crust that I've watched, that I've cursed, that I've been jealous of, that I've built up so much disdain for, is gone. I never have to see them again. Ever.
And so, with this knowledge, I ask you this, Universe: Can you rid me of this prejudice? Can you dissolve this disdain from my body, so that I no longer feel a twinge of bad feeling whenever I spot a popped collar? Can you please grant me the ability to just not give a fuck? It'd be nice. I don't need it anymore; God knows I don't want it. I'm heading off to a gigantic Ivy League school, with a lot of drinking and a popular hockey team, and I seriously doubt the popped collar is going to be absent. How prevalent it will be at Cornell, I don't know. Definitely not as prevalent as Towson; is that even physically possible? But my point is, I want the prevalence to not matter.
I'd really like it if I could, instead of reflexively hating the popped collar, truly not give a flying shit about it. Or Abercrombie. Or lacrosse players. Or fraternities. It'd be nice, to feel these responses lift off my body with unexpected weight. Almost as nice, in fact, as going to sleep. Which I need to do now. Goodnight.
***
Alright, Universe, fine, you force me to confess. Some of your behavior, as erratic and irrational as it is in its creativity, is a bit frightening. Scary, even! Can make a man uncomfortable! Let's talk.
It's great to know I still find discrete beauty in certain things, like a steaming hot summer day spent walking in a stream. And full moon nights. And Katie Holmes. I expect this ability to remain into old age, even when I get Alzheimer's and can't resurrect any past beauty to apply to the present. Maybe I'll just rediscover the extremes every day. Memento, anyone? That'll be interesting. I wonder if there truly are people, a lot of people, who never have this ability. Maybe everyone does, they just hide it. It would be tragic to recognize something beautiful but be unable to do anything about it.
On the same token, I'm not very happy with my ability to find discrete ugliness and horror in certain things. Of course, most of these things make sense: War, racism, the threat of nuclear holocaust, cancer/heart disease, the death of a loved one. But other ones, Universe, would really make no sense at all from an objective, removed viewpoint, wouldn't they? Like? Oh, just to pull something out of the hat... popped collars.
Popped collars: Worn by preppies and A&F suburbanites, despised with a fiery passion by hipsters, nerds, and artists alike. And it really is a passion, folks, with which we (and I consider myself somewhat a part of all three groups) hate the popped collar. I suspect we hate it far more than those that wear them actually like the style. They wear it because it's "in," and that's it. No more thought to it. That friend of mine wears it and he/she has a great love life, lots of friends, job offers from prestigious firms, etc. Maybe I can do that! they think, and innocently enough there it is, the same imitation instinct that the rest of us act upon when similar desires strike us. Hey, maybe I can be a writer! Read many books, write many things. Hey, maybe I can look more attractive! Work out, run, exercise. Do we look down on these things? Well, some forms of exercise. But in general, we don't have a problem with self-improvement.
We see those with popped collars, though, and it strikes something deep, some primal resentment, in us. Mainly this strikes public school kids, and here is why: In most white, suburban public high schools, the preppie/popped collar crowd takes over. Complete and total domination. They rule the roost, there is no changing the rules, that's the way things are. So for us, we can't stand this symbol of that despised upper class. What would a young Russian serf do when faced with a man wearing a Tsarist uniform? Curl his fists in anger and curse under his vodka-stained breath.
Now here's the kicker:
A few years ago, a prominent sociologist straight out of JHU, whose first name escapes me (last name Coleman) did a gigantic study of high school. He traveled across the country, and went to high schools of every sort: boarding schools, catholic schools, rich private schools, moderate private schools, affluent public, inner city public. You name it, he went there. And he found out something interesting: In every single school, the exact same structure formed. The same hierarchy.
The same one. They were modified slightly depending on the school, but the same basic patterns arose. In all-male schools, for instance, the upper crust was determined by who got the most women from other schools. In public schools, those who partied the hardest, met the most people, networked like there was no tomorrow, etc, you know the drill. In small private schools, much smaller groups ruled, but they still ruled: In a class of 50, there might be 7 or 8 kids distinctly at the top of the heap. Socially, of course; academics usually hindered the popularity of the kids in question. As we all know but didn't want to say out loud: It hurts to be smart in this situation.
But the point is: No matter what their form, the upper crust is always there. This is how high school works.
So now high school is over, and the upper crust that I've watched, that I've cursed, that I've been jealous of, that I've built up so much disdain for, is gone. I never have to see them again. Ever.
And so, with this knowledge, I ask you this, Universe: Can you rid me of this prejudice? Can you dissolve this disdain from my body, so that I no longer feel a twinge of bad feeling whenever I spot a popped collar? Can you please grant me the ability to just not give a fuck? It'd be nice. I don't need it anymore; God knows I don't want it. I'm heading off to a gigantic Ivy League school, with a lot of drinking and a popular hockey team, and I seriously doubt the popped collar is going to be absent. How prevalent it will be at Cornell, I don't know. Definitely not as prevalent as Towson; is that even physically possible? But my point is, I want the prevalence to not matter.
I'd really like it if I could, instead of reflexively hating the popped collar, truly not give a flying shit about it. Or Abercrombie. Or lacrosse players. Or fraternities. It'd be nice, to feel these responses lift off my body with unexpected weight. Almost as nice, in fact, as going to sleep. Which I need to do now. Goodnight.