Through my life, there have been some bits and pieces of pop culture that have stuck with me. The ones that reflect way too much of the inner workings of my personal Wonderland, that give away too much. These pieces of writing (mostly) or film (on Sundays) have a way of putting me in uncomfortable situations where I have to look at myself and ask if what I’m doing is actually the right thing. If where I’m going is actually the right place. If I’m not just another sad, lonely bitter person in a world full of sad, lonely bitter persons (and if I am, can I get something out of it? — Is there enough of an aftermarket out there for endless, cynical ruminations about whatever the fuck happens to be going on in one’s life at any one point? and if there is, isn’t it already overtaken by Livejournal?).

The top five pop culture icons that move me deeply and make my day a bit crap, or nice, or even introspective, but usually make me question and ponder and kind of jerk off mentally are, in that order:

• Nick Hornby books. This one’s a biggy. Hornby’s protagonists are usually despicable human beings. They’re not meant for empathy and —perhaps— they are meant to make you feel a bit better about yourself because of the fact that they are not like you. Or at least that’s what I think. I don’t believe it is ok that I am so much like some of them, and I doesn’t make me feel better about shit all. It does help me get a few ounces of perspective into the whole deal. Hornby may very well have the whole post-shock-cultural-cynicism market cornered, though, which sucks, because there are so many of us that want a crack at it.
• “Preacher” by Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon. The whole series. Even the 4th volume which came out a bit crap what with the whole Dillon-not-drawing-any-of-it thing and all. Still, an incredible piece of work, and the cornerstone of my understanding of traditional Americana and the whole nationalistic pride thing (which in itself may paint a pretty fucked up picture of my relationship with the american dream, but then again I don’t think it’s that bad, really).
• Nick Cave. “Murder Ballads” and “The boatman’s call” in particular. The one reflecting my adolescent —and somewhat childish— fascination with all things murder-y or dead and the other painting something of a grim perspective of love and relationships that is all too accurate (and thankfully a bit more hopeful than most of his other stuff)
• “Diario de una anorexica” (“Diary of an anorexic woman”). Which isn’t so much a part of “popular” pop culture but features good ol’ me in about two thirds of the book, and chronicles the relationship that put me over the edge and pretty much the reason I’m writing this stuff right now. If it were tortured out of me, I would own up to the fact that I’m too chickenshit to put this all the way up there at number one, where I would really have to acknowledge it.
• “High Fidelity”, the movie, with John Cusack and Jack Black, which is a close offshoot of the Hornby book by the same name, and which, thankfully, paints a prettier picture of Rob, the store owner, that makes him a more likeable person, and kind of makes me think that not all is lost, and that clinical cynicism is at least better than clinical depression, so what the fuck, hey. We’re still here, huh?

    — File under “Things I maybe shouldn’t blog about”.

— sergio on October 08, 2004