Accepting my normality

Sometimes I'd turn on the radio just to get the rush bulimics feel when they're plunging their fists down their throats. If I happened to like a song, I'd guiltily chalk it up to a rare lapse in my artistic taste. I was confident that I'd never like two songs in a row.

But while listening to the local "new rock" station mere moments ago, I heard "Cannonball" and "Inside Out," in that order, and I liked both of them.

I tapped my foot.

I'm not going to be ashamed anymore.

I sell out.

Let this serve as an eternal document of the fact that my taste in everything, from soda pop to soap, is 100 percent identical to that of the majority of Americans in my demographic group.

I drink coffee in the morning and beer at night. On weekends I go to bars. I like football. I have a fond nostalgia for the 1980s. I watch "Must See TV" on NBC even though most of the jokes are over my head. I have experimented with pot. Perhaps I am experimenting with pot right now. You'll never know, will you?

It's important to realize that this is nothing new for me. Since the day I was born, I've wanted to wear Nikes while watching "South Park." It's only just now, however, that I've decided to accept it. I'm comfortable with my homogeneity. And believe me, I'm a lot happier with it out in the open.

These are a few of my favorite things (South Park),(Eve Six)

Before today, I'd never have admitted my affinity for the mainstream to anyone, especially myself. My friends and I, wearing black turtlenecks and berets, would sit in circles and discuss whether GŸnther Grass was cooler than Bertolt Brecht. Sometimes the discussion would escalate into an argument. "My nihilism could kick your ennui's ass," I'd boast. Then we'd try to see which of us could say "dichotomy" the most times in a row.

Such petty disputes never lasted long, mind you, for we were always able to unite against our common enemy - the system. We picketed the sky for unfairly discriminating against certain colors. We boycotted gravity since it tries to keep everyone down. Indeed, no target was too mighty for us.

One day, all of us - we called ourselves "the Kafkaesque Kids" - decided on an all-out assault against television. We had just finished battering a Zenith when Petra lit up a cigarette.

"Hey," said Franois, "I read yesterday that those are made by the man."

"I don't care," said Petra.

"I support a woman's right to choose," I said, "even if that means she chooses to support the man."

The ensuing quarrel was more fervent than any we'd had before. In the end, we were divided into two factions. One person believed that the lyrics of "Louie Louie" were derived from ancient Hebrew texts; the other, thought that aspartame was a conspiracy. Such fundamental disagreements are simply unresolvable, so each of us bitterly went our separate ways.

The time passed slowly. I'd sometimes try to get the group together again, but Petra had become a waitress and Franois had joined the Hare Krishnas. As the months went by, the chance of reuniting with my lost friends became ever more remote. But now I realize how silly it was, the caffeine and Kant, the Nyquil and Nietzsche. It's pointless to cling to such flimsy shreds of intellectualism in 20th-century America. Whether you like it or not, every one of us is owned by a corporate sponsor. Only those smart enough to realize it can enjoy the benefits.

"I would swallow my pride, I would choke on the rinds, but the lack thereof would leave me empty inside," sings Eve 6, my favorite band. And it's true. So true.