Everybody Loves Chicken


There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure.

By J’Mel Davidson

 

Let’s start this month with a joke by the hilarious Nick Kroll: “You know who loves chicken? Black people. You know who else loves chicken? Everybody else!”

I spent about 20 minutes arguing with a friend about nothing today. I do that a lot. Not because I want to, but because modern text/tech arguing has no tone. People can’t sense your tone when you’re using a social network or email to try to make a point. Sure, there are emoticons and “LOL,” but really—no. So lots of times half these arguments are spent with me saying, “I’m agreeing with you! What are we even arguing about?!”

This particular spat was about the merit of Big Event Summer Movies. The sequels, the prequels, Marvel, Michael Bay—all the surface-area, big-budget, shiny crap I happily wait for. It’s just a moneymaking machine full of merchandising opportunities, but I wait for these movies. And why do I wait for these movies? We’ll get to that, but first, let’s explore the argument a bit more….

In a nutshell, it seems that the weight of Hollywood’s crap machine rests on my shoulders as a filmgoer. If I want them to stop making these vapid, empty spectacles then I should simply turn my back on the junk. And I would, except there is one problem: I like the junk. No, I love the junk.

People like junk. Furthermore, most people know it’s junk and don’t care.  Because it doesn’t matter.

For every tirade I go on about Tyler Perry, The Big Bang Theory, Real Housewives of Mountain Brook, Glee, Two Broke Girls, Vampire Diaries, Adam Sandler’s last decade of work, American Idol, The Voice, and baseball, there is someone out there attacking Rick and Morty, The Venture Bros., Community, women’s beach volleyball, and Nic Cage.

Here is the thing, though. When I go on these tirades, it’s usually as the devil’s advocate, and what I desire most is for people to justify their choices. But they don’t have to, because it doesn’t matter.

Everybody likes chicken.

Now, I’d be lying if I said that there were trends in entertainment that didn’t anger me. There are. But, on the list of things that anger me versus things I can’t do anything about, “stupid movies” is in the center of a Venn diagram that just doesn’t require a lot of my attention. This is why I usually try to keep my pop culture arguments light, among real friends, and never personal. I have lost friends over stupid arguments. But I have also lost stupid people over friendly arguments. Because sometimes, people forget that the thing we’re discussing so intently out in the open for everyone to see doesn’t even matter.

This is my one-year anniversary here at B-Metro. This also happens to be the month of my birthday. (My wish list is easily found at Amazon, hint, hint.) I’m excited about both. I’m getting older and truly feel I’m also getting better in some ways. Unlimited power! I’ve learned a lot in the last year. Gone through some terrible stuff, had lots of bad days. But the good days stick out.

I enjoyed Iron Man III with a pal as a way to escape for a moment while dealing with the passing of my old man. The Lego Movie was a good day, because a friend went out of his way to come see it with me. The Raid 2 was a good day because I got my ma to see a subtitled flick with the promise of lots of violent face kicks and double crosses as her reward. Captain America was a good day because a friend and I got to see Garry Shandling whisper this summer’s best catchphrase. None of these movies were high art, but I enjoyed them and the company. That’s all that matters.

See, I don’t buy the idea of a guilty pleasure. I like what I like, and I do what I want, and I’m never guilty. I proudly love Con Air and place it on the shelf right next to my Werner Herzog and Akira Kurosawa (and I could place even more on that shelf were you beautiful people to visit my Amazon wish list.)

As always, I’m not here to try and make a point, only to gently guide you in my direction until you trust me enough to do my bidding and introduce me to your sexy, vivacious stepmother.

But I will end with this: Life can be pretty crappy for us regular folk floating here in the limbo between upper-lower and lower-middle class. Faceless. Nameless. Almost invisible. If a truck turning into a robot with a gun for a face fighting a metallic Tyrannosaurus Rex can slap an hour of stupid fun on that life, then $&!@ it. I’m there. Hopefully with your stepmother.

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