Shot by Both Sides

If the Internet has taught me anything, it's that no matter what you do, someone is going to think you're a complete tool.

I'm sure if two people read my entry about books (and that's a pretty big if), one guy would be all like, "Hmmph, I guess reading books by Richard Russo is now considered an 'intellectual' pursuit. Honestly, I weep for this nation," while the other guy would be all,  "Ohhh, Mr. Fancypants... only reads big boy books like he's too good for the rest of us. Excuse me that my Glenn Beck book isn't literary enough for you... I suppose you're too good for an old-fashioned fart-lighting too, huh, Poindexter?"

But there you go. And it's especially hard out here in flyover country. You subscribe to Netflix so that you can watch movies that you'd normally have to drive to Ann Arbor to rent, and the guy from Time Magazine tries to make you feel bad for ruining everything for that delightfully quirky independent video store where all the clerks are walking film encyclopedias who just want to hip you to the lesser works of John Cassavetes. What Time Magazine apparently forgets is that most of the world isn't New York City--and that out here, delightfully quirky video stores died off in the '90s, replaced by conglomerations whose motto is "Where Paul Blart: Mall Cop is always in stock--and if you don't want Paul Blart: Mall Cop, you're kind of gay."

Another case on point: a couple weeks ago, I took a trip to our town's new "lifestyle center" (read: outdoor mall trying to look like a fake downtown). I would have gone to one of the trendy, hip shops that line the streets of our thriving, actual downtown, but they don't exist. Anyway, I'm trying on shirts, and I'm feeling pretty chuffed that I'm able to wear a medium now (why, yes, I have lost weight--thanks for noticing!). I'm all set to start feeling good, and then I get home and read New York Times this charming takedown of the very store I was at, including the following bon mots:

My escort, Dr. Redacto, bought a T-shirt. He ordinarily wears a large. I advised him: "Get the medium. I guarantee, a large is going to be five times larger than any large you've ever seen."

While modeling it for me later, we discovered that even a Penney's medium is five times larger than any large T-shirt either of us had ever seen: The sleeves came down to the elbow, and there was enough room in front for eight months of unborn twins.

And that will probably make some guy feel pretty svelte.

Oh.

But that's the thing--chances are, right now someone is making fun of something that you like. Someone is judging you based on what you wear, or how you look, or (to be fair) the jerky stuff you say in Time Magazine or the New York Times. Someone has decided that your taste in music or books or movies isn't cool enough--or that it's too cool. And while you can take comfort in the fact that you don't hang out with anyone called "Dr. Redacto," this is one annoyance that's not likely to disappear soon.

So think of that while you enjoy "Eat That Chicken" by the great Charles Mingus. Its jazz cred makes it unimpeachable among your coastal elites, but it's also a down and dirty party record to put the dip in your hip. It's about eating chicken, so all of us fatties here in Fattietown can enjoy it, but it might also not be entirely about eating chicken (wink, wink), so we sophisticated sybarites can exchange knowing glances as we sip our chocotinis.

Eat That Chicken.mp3