I have a couple friends who are indie-philes. Music, film, books…if you’ve never heard of it, they love it. On one hand, it’s great: they’ve pointed me toward some truly stellar artists whose work I now immensely enjoy. On the other hand, it’s a bit annoying: the minute a band or movie or book starts to see some popular success, these friends of mine reject it as derivative, has-been crap. And if for some reason an artist or their work skips the indie phase altogether and shoots straight to the top of any bestseller list, my friends ignore it entirely. (“It never existed to me.”)
This nifty little quirk didn’t bug me too much until a couple weeks ago when one of my friends came over to hang out with Ash, and I happened to be watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Ash was in the shower, so this friend — let’s call him Donnie — plopped down on the couch and asked me what I was watching. “Why, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,” I replied. “Wasn’t it great?”
Donnie rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat and said, “Didn’t see it. And I haven’t read any of the books. Anything that’s THAT popular is bound to be sh*t.”
I threw a pillow at his head and yelled, “You’re a snob! And on top of that, you’re robbing yourself of joy! Get a frickin’ life, you cool-obsessed schlub!”
So call me a populist. I’m over the indie thing. Give me my Kelly Clarkson and my MI:3 and my Danielle Steel (okay, not really). If I like it, I like it. My preferences will be dictated neither by the unwashed masses nor the epicurean connessieurs.*
*Donnie, if you’re reading this…I love you, man.