There are certain things that I just can’t get into, which the majority of people seem to love.
Pop music, religion, the whole Fast & Furious thing… these things elude me. There are easy reasons to those as well. Pop music is vapid and repetitive and adds nothing of value, unless you just feel like dancing and don’t care at all about the emotion, intelligence or spiritual exploration of the piece. If all you want is some unh-tiss, uhn-tiss, great. I need more.
Religion is mostly BS and the first F&F movie made me physically angry that the creators had stolen 90-something minutes out of my life for a glorified car commercial with uninspired stunts.
I do love absurdity, which is why I can still enjoy something like Baywatch movie, which understands how ridiculous it is.
What I don’t like is nonsense. We had this whole thing in the Nineties where we tried to outweird or outniche each other. For me, that helped me find some beloved bands and some obscure material I’d never have otherwise heard.
But for every cool band or show or book that no one had never heard of, there were three others that were weird just to be weird, with no meaning behind it (and often, not even a point toward humour).
And that sucks. Being different is usually a good thing, but nonsense for the sake of nonsense is boring to me.
Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland is revered. How many references have been made over the years? How many movies, spin-offs or reimaginings? How many inspirations?
But the book is nonsense. Pointless gibberish from a man written for a girl who is he may or may not have been in love with, depending on which biography you believe. It’s not a good book.
When I get to the end of a thing, I always ask myself, did I gain any value from it, even if it’s just a sense of being entertained or having a few laughs?
If the answer is no, then the experience wasn’t worth it. If it made me feel, in any way – sadness, anger, joy, tragedy, hysterical laughter, then it was worth it. It means I connected with the work, although I should note that anger can be frustration at enduring something without quality, like Fast And The Furious was for me.
But if I get to the end of something and I don’t know how to feel about it, and there’s no value presented that I can discern, then I’m out. That’s how I feel about Lewis Carroll. Seventy pages of nonsense, that didn’t make provide me perspective or thought or emotion, that had no particular point of view to impart or insightful witticisms of enough depth or cleverness to have impact, not a laugh or an upturning of the corner of my mouth. No tragedy or comedy, no righteous anger or heart-rending emotion.
Just the beginning of our world’s ridiculous obsession with the “it was all just a dream”, which should, by now, be relegated to its proper place:
Bad 80s sitcoms.