Professor Radington

This is one of my favorite columns that I wrote for the Advance-Titan, the college newspaper at UW-Oshkosh. It was originally published in September of 2006.

Reader, do you know what I really look forward to in life? It’s not the fickle stuff like the free weekends of Cinemax or the popular return of the mustache (Bold prediction: the ‘stache makes a comeback in 2011, along with Zubaz pants.). I’m really looking forward to that moment when I cradle my first infant child and she wraps her TINY hand around my finger and squeezes with the rare strength of an unblemished heart. Do you need to hug the person next to you after reading that? Yeah, I’d like to do the same, but I’m currently seated beside an editor that smells like microwaved Preparation-H.

Kids grow up, of course, and someday they might be squeezing your throat instead of your finger. Once kids start tossing firecrackers at the elderly and blowing all their allowance money on Vaseline, I have no clue how to deal with them. But the squeezing-finger thing seems pretty appealing, so with absolutely no further thought on the matter, I want to be a daddy.

Before I father an actual human baby, I’d like to prove my care-taking skills on a more manageable level. When you play a video game with a difficulty setting, you don’t start out at the “expert level,” do you? Hell no. So prior to fathering a baby, I figured I’d take care of a dog. BIG MISTAKE. Unlike babies, I’ve never seen a dog wearing a diaper, and so I logically assumed they are born with an innate sense of knowing where to go number 2. Not wearing diapers is an act of deceit on the part of the dog population. After gorging the platter of Thai food I generously provided, my adopted dog Maddux couldn’t wait a measly SIXTEEN HOURS to do his business outdoors. When I returned home from my road trip to an abandoned Fanny-Pack factory in northeast Iowa, the mess I discovered prompted me to return Maddux to the Humane Society.

He didn’t even use the chopsticks, the slob.

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This is but a snippet of "Professor Radington." You can read the rest by ordering a copy of my book, titled "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Boner Way Out

“It's the terror of knowing what this world is about/ Watching some good friend scream, 'Let me out!'”

--Queen & David Bowie, “Under Pressure”

It's no wonder I'm depressed. Writing is my favorite activity, and when I think about the reasons why I do it, what I find is not so encouraging.

For me, writing is a lot like passing a series of kidney stones. This column deals in part with ailments, you should be warned, and kidney stones are an ailment I've so far been able to dodge. I don't think too much hyperbole is required to contend that aspiring to write professionally is about as hurtful as passing kidney stones habitually, and even though I suspect I'm being melodramatic on the matter, the metaphor still applies. Kidney stones are shards of crystallized minerals that cause considerable pain and discomfort as they tear through your urinary tract. The torment they reap is alleviated after the stone shreds through your urethra and the tip of your penis in a torrent of liquid relief. Similarly, ideas of mine materialize for mysterious reasons and provoke a sort of pain that isn't reduced until the thing is transferred from inside of me to the outside world. From this admission you can gather that, for me, the most gratifying part of writing is when I finally complete the piece I've been working on, and also that all preceding parts of the process are, at best, arduous.

Put another way, writing is the manifestation of obsessive-compulsive disorder in a very basic form. For mysterious reasons, I become transfixed with an idea—such as relating sadomasochism to playing the video game “Mariokart: 64,” or finding correlations between listening to an oldies radio station and living with my parents at age 27—and I feel strongly compelled to see the idea actualized, made into something tangible and complete, for the benefit of fewer people than I care to admit.

When I write, I'm mostly trying to rid my system of nuisances.

And so it seems the paramount reasons I choose to write are pain and neurosis. Third on the list of writing motives is vanity. Speaking as someone who is largely unblessed by aptitudes and talents, it is immensely satisfying to feel secure in the knowledge that few people can match or exceed my ability in one specific area...and I mention that for what it's worth (not a whole lot of money or women hitherto)...but more importantly, I mention that for what it's worth TO ME (a damn good reason to live).

The synthesis of pain and neurosis is depression. Josh Andrew Koenig, who played the part of the dimwitted yet affable neighbor Richard “Boner” Stabone on the 80s sitcom “Growing Pains,” suffered from depression. I use that verb, SUFFER, in the past tense because Boner died by his own hand in February of 2010. It would be pleasant to use SUFFER in the past tense because Boner lived to conquer his battle with depression and is now leading an inspired and courageous life.

No such luck!

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To find out exactly where all this is headed for, order a copy of "There Will be Blog."
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The Music Our Parents Fell in Love to

“It's fascinating and stupid to watch adults destroy things on purpose.” --Chuck Klosterman

The following is a copy of a status update I posted on Facebook a couple months ago:

“(Nick Olig) declared 'Damn, it feels good to be a gangster' as he destroyed his tape deck 'Office Space ' style but now the CD player his friend generously installed in his Honda Accord isn't working and he realizes that God is punishing him for declaring himself a gangster (which he's obviously not) by forcing him to listen to the likes of REO Speedwagon and Styx.”

That's the truth. Only, instead of using a baseball bat to smash an antiquated and faltering piece of machinery like Michael Bolton did, I was swinging a sledgehammer. The CD player that my friend Max had installed functioned exceptionally, without a hitch, for about 10 minutes, until the machine refused to eject the CD, a copy of the Raconteurs' “Consolers of the Lonely.” I enjoy a good 70% of this album, but still, the thought of listening to it on an interminable loop was unbearable. And so later on I pried this disc out of the CD player with the aid of tweezers. The advice that my friend Matt gave me afterwards—as a perturbed vessel of common sense—was this: Electronics and tweezers don't mix. This axiom should be obvious to anyone who isn't a dipshit, and I knew it beforehand, but I had developed such a neurotic grudge against the electronics in question that I had become like a darkly obsessed protagonist from an Edgar Allan Poe story. The unrelenting drum beat from “Consolers of the Lonely” was the heart that pulsated loudly beneath the floorboards of my mind.

Removing the CD was a resolute and precise procedure that mirrored several failed attempts playing the board game Operation. The CD was not easy to extract. The alignment inside the CD player must have been jarred askew by the repeated yanks I exerted on the disc. And so after “Consolers of the Lonely” was tugged free, no more CDs would fit into the narrow slit of the Alpine. The dreadful ordeal was like offering a spoonful of mushed carrots to a fussy infant—or worse, actually: it was like offering that same spoonful to a fussy infant with its jaw wired shut.

And so my efforts to modernize and upgrade technologically backfired. Regression was the ultimate result when I felt like a destructive gangster because I had watched a great satirical comedy over a dozen times in college and therefore felt inspired to bash in my tape deck with a sledgehammer. Indeed, it was a fascinating and stupid gesture. I felt a begrudged and ambivalent fondness for the tape deck (even though it would only function two-thirds of the time) and yet I destroyed it because it caused me a black eye as an owner of dowdy and outdated things. Even so, I think I was justified in the undertone of contempt I felt for my tape deck. If your aim is to avoid the radio at all cost because you're finicky about music (like me), the tape deck ranks two slots below the CD player and the Ipod. I own a CD player, but not an I-pod, and the CD player is not fit for trips in a car. It seemed like an easy decision, to extend that hand one rung higher on the latter of technological advancement.

But the whole thing backfired, as I've told you, and now I've moved one slot below the tape deck to the radio. Not only on a scale of technological advancement, but also on a scale of complacency with music—the latter of which is far more important—the radio is inferior to the tape deck. I am now 275% more likely to crash my car into a jungle gym or a hot dog stand because I'm constantly fussing with the radio dial in a state of perpetual discontent. With only the radio to listen to on journeys across town to the library or Taco Bell, my last words are increasingly likely to be, “Def Leppard AGAIN?! Are you fucking kidding me?”


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Read the rest, along with 39 other comedic essays, by ordering a copy of "There Will be Blog."

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Writers Love and Hate Words Too Much

I’m in the words business. When someone tells me I can earn $25 for a 1,000-word column, my eyes light up and I scream, “Two and a half cents per word? Holy Fuck, where do I sign up?” With so much cash at stake, writers can’t help but scrutinize their words. Some words disturb our nerves, others flicker with delight, and a select five words are so damn interesting that some guy decided to write a humor column about them. That guy’s name is me.

Turd: My least favorite word is “turd.” Despite the cheap rhyme, the word “turd” lends me the first two sentences of this paragraph, I have a queasy reaction to this synonym for excrement. Hearing this word spoken or reading it in print is the visceral equivalent of splashing around in a pool of rusty nails. One of my favorite authors dropped “turd” in a short story, and I was so jolted that I set the book down and tore open a pack of moist towelettes. A writer that uses the word “turd” in his prose has the effect of a bride saying the word “douchebag” in her wedding vows. The future Mrs. Norbert Oogelsteen will no doubt have to fight the urge to do this. (Give me a high-five for self-deprecation. YEAH!)

It’s not that I have qualms with obscenities. When used properly, swear words boost the gusto and intensity of language. The phrase “taking a s***” has no adverse effect on me, although I much prefer “dump” in place of “s***”. “Turd” is a different story, however, and I could never love a woman who has uttered this hideous word more than 50 times in her life.

It pains me to realize that I couldn’t express my distaste for the word “turd” without seeing it in print almost a dozen times. Up until now, I’ve refrained from using “turd” in a column, not even when describing an incident in which a mental patient dug her hand into a dirty toilet. Someone asked me what sort of illness this mental patient suffered from, and my guess was “Doodoofondle-itis,” which, for me, is more preferable than its joke alternative, “Turd-gropengitis.”

Can you believe the spell check rejected both “Doodoofondle-itis” AND “Turd-gropengitis”?

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This is all I'm showing you from this essay because I want you to buy a copy of my book.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Plight of the Mustachioed

I'm not afraid to reinvent myself. Let me give you an example. Back in kindergarten, while gathered in a circle with my classmates, I grew weary of the teacher's reading of The Boxcar Children Feast on a Giant Rat, suddenly declared, “This scene is getting old,” and stormed out of the building. And as I strutted toward a nearby liquor store, I willfully sprouted hair in new places in order to convince the cashier I was of legal age.

How many teenagers do you know who went through a gold-plated peg leg phase, only to follow that up with a fluorescent Fanny-Packs-for-earmuffs phase? My guess is not many.

My most recent dive into reinvention occurred on New Year's Eve when I fashioned my facial hair into a mustache. It was originally intended as a one-night novelty—a joyous fling with silliness. But once the hungover morning came, I looked in the mirror and felt no urge to shave it off. Similarly, I felt no urge to wash off the words, “Thanks for the memories—Mistress Tassels,” that had been written on my bare chest in sparkling lipstick.

My mustache and I became fast friends and developed an endearing kinship. We had countless late night conversations, and for the first time in my life, I breathlessly wondered if I had actually found my soul mate. I began writing that autobiography I had wanted to write ever since toddler-hood, and the working title was: Shit Yeah, I Got a Mustache: The Nick Olig Story.

Sadly, not everybody was so receptive of my mustache, particularly women in my age group. Plenty of dudes saluted my push-broom, but I'd rather be a ladies' man than a man's man. If anyone is going to supersede my mustache as my soul mate (and that is indeed an ambitious if ), it's going to be a woman rather than a man.

The backlash grated on me, and I began to question whether the hair on my upper lip was worth fighting for. And so, after tearfully serenading my mustache with Beck's ballad “Lost Cause,” I shaved it off. When the deed was done, I succumbed to the terrible allure of isolation and gorged on six gallons of caramel twist ice cream in one sitting. It would be nearly a week before I wore a pair of pants that was not of the sweatpants variety.

I haven't ruled out the possibility of a mustache revival, but before that, I've got to do my part to dispel the mustache stigma. There is a common misconception that only three types of men wear mustaches: pedophiles, porn stars, and police officers—the three P's of mustache stereotypes. Well, folks, I've got news for you: I am none of the above, and one by one, I'm going to prove it.

First off, let's consider pedophiles. Now, not to sound overly preachy, but I have moral convictions against child molestation. It just doesn't seem right. To reemphasize a blatant point, pedophilia just isn't my cup of tea. And by the way, not all pedophiles have mustaches. Simon Cowell, for instance.

And what about the pron star stereotype attributed to the modern-day mustachioed? I will admit there are less enviable jobs than male porn star, such as bingo caller for a vast auditorium of deaf and blind people who never bothered to learn sign language, or assistant poop-shoveler at a zoo that feeds its animals McDonald's food. But don't let this admission fool you into thinking I covet a career in the adult entertainment business. I want to make this crystal clear: I am NOT a porn star. I lack the sexual brazenness and (ahem) body type that the porn star profession demands. But those aren't the only reasons I refuse to pursue a career in porn. I have a hunch the promiscuous nymphomaniacs that get into porn frown upon cuddling once the deed is done. And man, that really cramps my style.

I was going to provide an example of a cleanly shaved male porn star, but the last time I Google-searched “Cleanly shaved male porn star” inside the Starbucks where I'm writing this, I was at once maligned as a pervert by hysterical workers and customers alike and banned for an entire year.

Finally, let's consider the police officer prejudgment. Police officers are probably the most reputable of the three stereotypes, but once again, it just isn't me. Comedy writers and cops share little common ground. This is not to say that our two vocations cannot coexist peacefully. It's just that we're not likely to bond over a bowl of weed and some Mr. Show DVDs, or, conversely, share a pleasant time at the shooting range with various members of NWA set up as targets. Plus, let's be realistic. Would you feel safe with a scrawny, neurotic twenty-something upholding justice in your community? Unless you are a chronic criminal lowlife, the answer is most likely no.

Oh, and do you remember racist cop Mark Furman from the OJ trial? No mustache. You have the right to remain silent, mustache critics.

Our culture is obsessed with celebrities. Tabloid magazines and TV shows are more rampant than bookmarks, and celebrity stalking has given us vital information such as Jennifer Aniston's most frequented sexual position in the month of July 2005. (According to Star Magazine, it is a position of unparalleled difficulty and pleasure, and if you haven't appeared on the cover of Cosmo at least twice within the past year, enacting it will cause severe spinal damage.)

Now, plenty of celebrities have mustaches, but nine times out of ten, when someone made a celeb-related wisecrack about my 'stache, Tom Selleck's name was mentioned. Tom Selleck hasn't starred in his own show since Magnum, P.I., and that was over 20 years ago. And the last hit movie I recall him starring in was Three Men and a Baby. Open up your frickin' eyes, people, other celebrities have mustaches, and oftentimes, their careers are hotter than Tom Selleck's. It's my aim to instill in my audience a broader range of celeb-inspired mustache jabs. What follows is an exhaustive list of soup-strainer-sporting celebrities not named Tom Selleck.

Okay, let's see here. So many mustachioed celebrities to cram into one concise list. Hmmm. Um...OH, I got one! The guy who played the porno director in Boogie Nights! Burt Something-or-other. Wait, now that I think of it, Burt's character just perpetuates that slanderous mustache/ pornography association, and to cite him as an example would defeat the core purpose of this column. So forget about Burt. He's dead to us.

All right, other mustachioed celebrities... hmmmmm... EUREKA! What about that older gentleman who guest-starred on “Friends” several years ago? He dated one of the unfunny cast members, and he used to be on that detective program that was so popular in the '80s. It took place in Hawaii and...wait, that was Tom Selleck, wasn't it? Well, disregard that name, too. Damn. I'm just digging a hole for myself here...

Ah-ha! The Pringles Logo Man! He's got a mustache, everyone knows his face, and most importantly, he is NOT Tom Selleck. And anyone who doubts the cachet of the Pringles Logo Man should get a load of a story printed in Star Magazine. This indisputable source of news reports that the Pringles Logo Man and Mrs. Buttersworth were recently busted for lewd conduct inside a photo booth on Rodeo Drive.

I hope this column has proved enlightening for you narrow-minded mustache critics, and that, in some small way, I have eased the hefty load of discrimination that sullies the innate beauty of this planet we call home. Thank you.

The Type Who Craves Punishment

It has recently been suggested to me by a woman I first met on a Greyhound bus that I am the type of person who craves punishment. She offered this indictment as a possible way to explain the motivation behind my helping her move into a new apartment on what (I suppose) qualifies as our second date. I did not confirm her suspicion, choosing instead to stammer something about believing in acts of generosity and not caring much about the NFL playoff games on this particular Saturday (which did not include my favorite team, the Green Bay Packers). It's a quirky experience, lugging dozens of garbage bags stuffed with clothes, boxes heavy with possessions, and bulky furniture pieces on behalf of someone whose phone number you've only known for a week. But it's also quirky to ask for the phone number of a girl you sat next to and chatted with on a Greyhound bus ride, and so I figured I was merely adhering to the general flow of the relationship.

My body is not exactly built for heavy lifting; no, it's more the type of body that could incite a million Youtube hits should anyone capture footage of me being grabbed by the belt and collar by a burly bouncer and launched halfway down a back alley littered with condom wrappers and shattered glass. In truth, the word “punishment” did invade my mind while supporting what felt like a 900-pound dresser through a living room, then an entryway, down a flight of stairs slick with snow, and finally hoisting it in exhausted tandem with a much stronger man into the bed of a pickup truck. In my effort to please this woman—a borderline stranger—I exerted more physical energy into moving her possessions (and the possessions of her new roommate) than I did in her bed the night before. (To my credit—and I am pathologically bashful about sharing this sort of thing—at the bar Friday night she did complain that the salt she licked prior to a shot of tequila stung her lower lip, which had been cut after a very long time of blissful smooching. My boastful comments about sex always seem to be only slightly more scintillating than a bawdy quip from a character on “Saved by the Bell.” Second base is where it gets too personal for me to share.)

In my defense, the punishment I experienced during this unlikely transport of someone else's belongings was more of a consequence than a desire—the consequence that all-too-often accompanies a good deed.

I'm a bit irked by the suggestion that I pursue punishment—primarily because there is a degree of truth in the accusation. Men who desire punishment are automatically associated with sadomasochists who cum in their adult diapers when getting booted in the taint by a dominatrix in ten-inch leather heels while they scrub the tiles behind the toilet with a toothbrush. I can think of at least ten things more erotically satisfying than the perverse substitute for intimacy described in the previous sentence. I once spent ten days in a mental hospital, and yet I don't feel like a hypocrite in my disdain for men who pay a lot of money to enact their humiliating S & M fantasies. I think these men are psychologically damaged, deeply troubled deviants. Self-hating, pathetic, and craven lunatics. There's a chance I'm being too critical of this sort of abhorrent consensual “sex,” and if that's the case, the very least I can say on the matter is that sadomasochism just isn't my cup of tea.

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Like what you've read so far? I hope so. Listed below is the link to buy a copy of the book in which this essay makes an appearance.

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The Truth about Opinions

As a dissatisfied young(-ish) person with access to the Internet and secret urges for self-importance and complaining too much, I have an account on Facebook. When posting my status, though, I avoid providing mundane details of my life—such as, “Today I slept for too long, smoked a cigarette, watched ESPN, ate a cold slice of pizza, then decided not to go to the job center to search for work because it was snowing outside.” Worse than mundane, those autobiographical tidbits are kind of depressing, and I'd rather not advertise my unhappiness. I'm beyond shallow cries for help.

But even if I was living a more fulfilling life at present time, I wouldn't share that information with anybody (on Facebook). I never care to learn that someone I never speak to woke up early today and decided to wrap Christmas presents. It doesn't intrigue me to read that a girl I drunkenly smooched on two occasions in college is going for a run after a long day of work at the newspaper office. When an old acquaintance informs the Facebook community that he is drinking more coffee than usual this morning because he didn't get much sleep last night, I have no opinion on the matter. Facebook does not provide a magical sheen to enhance the magnitude of such happenings. I think these people believe on some level that we are united by the commonplace normalcy of our lives, and that offers them comfort.

The true upside of having an account on Facebook is that I'm reassured of the existence of people from my past that I otherwise would have lost all contact with. One of the affects of living in troubled, bleak times is the reliance on nostalgia as a coping mechanism. The present may be dire, but I have shared memories with these wayward people I have seen sporadically or not at all since the advent of the Great Depression Remix. Some of these memories are meaningful, exciting, and joyous, and I can afford to ignore all the memories that are meaningless, dull, and gloomy because I am overstocked on those types of memories anytime I think of pretty much everything that's happened to me in the past year-and-a-half. Nostalgia is what reminds a lot people of the prospect of happiness, and if you have a Facebook account and a deep fondness for “The Good Life” by Weezer, you can no doubt relate.

Another dubious benefit of Facebook is that it allows you to share your opinion with hundreds of other people without having to resort to human interaction or going outside. I have shared my opinion on Facebook, for what it's worth. After the latest installment of the Saw horror series was released in theaters, I informed anyone who was willing to read that, to me, watching the dreaded NFL on Fox robot perform jumping-jacks and run in place for two hours was preferable to seeing a series of grotesque torture scenes. I hate the Saw movies. Their continued success comes at the expense of my faith in humanity, and I made my opinion known, to the delight of my secret urge for self-importance.

Other people on Facebook have the same liberty to post their opinions, of course. An old classmate of mine from college recently declared his opinion of the band Radiohead. To wit: “Some bands only exist to make one awesome song. And for Radiohead, that song was 'Creep.'”

I disagree with this statement, but not as adamantly as I would have a few years ago. “Creep” is Radiohead's most commercially successful song. It established the group's fan-base in the early 90s, and with that quiet-loud dynamic of raging insecurity, it is the band's signature contribution to the explosion of alternative rock on the radio. Those are valid achievement for a rock band. And although most devout fans of Radiohead, and the band itself, dismiss the song as an amateurish novelty, a successful blemish on par with “Fight for Your Right” by the Beastie Boys, I think “Creep” is still a pretty good song. To me, the song's merit falls somewhere between the mainstream adoration expressed by my old friend Erik and the elitist disdain avid fans of Radiohead tend to feel towards “Creep.” But to type that Radiohead has produced but one great song after almost 20 years of commercial success and critical acclaim is a baffling argument that overlooks the existence of The Bends, OK Computer, and Kid A—albums that rank highly on lists compiled by people who obsess over tunes and write (mostly) informed critiques of the musicians in the world that command a lot of attention.

Paul is another one of my friends from college who majored in Communications. In response to Erik's status (which prompted a shit-load of comments), Paul typed the words: “That is just wrong in so many ways.” Below this, my response was, “Paul is right.”

Right after I clicked “send,” though, I was hit by a belated epiphany. It was a moment on par with what George Costanza felt after he failed to deliver a comeback when a coworker mocked him for eating too much shrimp at a board meeting. George kicked himself for having no tart retort to, “The ocean called; they want their shrimp back.” After the incident, an indignant George realizes that he should have said, “Oh yeah? Well, the jerk store called. And they're all out of you.” Similarly, it occurred to me that a more clever and abrasive response to Erik's post would have been to quote a line from “Paranoid Android” (one of at least 20 songs by Radiohead that are better than “Creep.”)

To wit: “When I am king, you will be first against the wall/ With your opinion which is of no consequence at all.”

That was a vile and dumb thing to regret, though, and the feeling didn't last for very long. It would have been too harsh and petty to stir up spite like that on the Internet.

And more importantly, if Erik's opinion is of no consequence at all, neither is mine, and the same goes for everyone. Plus, let's face it, I'll never be the king. The realization that I came to was that I had no business asserting that, “Paul is right.” Paul is merely somebody that I agree with about one specific issue, and it's a trivial issue, at that. In truth, the comment “Paul is right” is every bit as insipid as “Erik shops at the jerk store because he only likes one song by Radiohead.”

Had I quoted “Paranoid Android” on Facebook in order to refute one man's opinion, I would be even more damaged by the guilt of folly as I write this. My slow draw of wit as I tried to come up with something better than “Paul is right” paid dividends in the long-run. The reasons are as follows.

1.) I don't have anything against Erik. He likes Bill Murray movies and video games, and he's not adversed to beer, and so someday it might be cool to get drunk with him and play him in Tecmo Super Bowl while quoting lines from The Life Aquatic.

2.) Because Erik is obviously not a fan of Radiohead, he might not even get the esoteric reference to the lyrics of “Paranoid Android.” In which case, Erik might infer that I literally want to chain him to the wall in my basement (much like Jigsaw from the first Saw film), and that's not at all the message I want to convey.

3.) It's futile to argue about musical preferences. Whether I commented on Erik's post by quoting “Paranoid Android,” or suggested he pay a visit to the Jerk Store, or stated “Paul is right,” the upshot would have either been worthless or negative. The words “Paul is right” represent an obnoxious and puerile lack of decency, a grim regression into the perils of self-righteous subjectivity. Over the years, I have at length defended Nirvana against an onslaught of ferocious Phish-heads around a bonfire, scoffed scornfully at my best friend for claiming that Incubus was superior to Pearl Jam, wasted enough breath to revive a dozen half-drowned kids as I explained to a roommate why “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” is the product of moronic hillbillies. And for what reason? Nobody ever considered the opposing argument. Nobody ever budged on their stance. Nobody changed their minds. Nothing was resolved or gained, except for the kind of selfish vitriol that is (I'm led to believe) essential to the human experience.

The problem with the realization achieved in Reason 3, that it's futile to quibble about musical preferences, is that it leaves me at the uncertain crossroads of theory and practice. If it's futile to debate that “Creep” was not the only great song Radiohead produced, then likewise, there is no use in voicing your dissent when somebody assures you that Bon Jovi is the greatest rock band of all time. And conceding to this argument feels like surrendering to the overwhelming will of the idiots. But there is no objective rationale in dismissing all Bon Jovi fans as idiots; it's just a damn strong hunch that I have. I believe in God with as much certainty as I believe that Bon Jovi sucks, but I can't offer any solid proof for either conviction. Since I realize that I might be wrong simply because I can't possibly prove that I'm right, is there any merit in the columns I've done that vilify musical groups I don't enjoy listening to?

The answer is more complex than “Yes” if you agree with me about Bon Jovi (or Phish) and “No” if you don't agree. By acknowledging that it's pointless to argue that one artist is terrific while another is horrible—sheerly based on my opinion—I may have inadvertently besmirched stuff I've written in the past. What's worse, if I put my theory into practice, then from now on, I will have to avoid taking swipes at any band, movie, TV show, athlete, etc. that I don't care for. In short, I can either ignore the truth and continue to insist that the lead singer of Nickelback sits on a toilet while he records his vocals, or else I can honor the truth by not criticizing something simply because I don't like it...which would cut out a good chunk of my creative output.

At the same time, as a contradiction, there really is no objective rationale that dictates people don't have the right to be subjective. The truth is that people have opinions. It is, oddly enough, objectively true to claim that everyone has their own subjective viewpoint of the world. So when I suggest that avid Phish-heads share much in common with the members of bizarre religious cults, the assertion is but a small piece of the humble subjective truth that I have come to believe. What's interesting is that people feel more compelled to edify their personal truths than the objective truth. (Or worse, they assume the two truths are identical.) We're much more concerned with our own personal feelings about Michael Bolton than we are about how many Grammy Awards the man has won.

Logic contends that we can't be certain which religion is God's preferred choice because no one has ever seen God 1.) decorate a Christmas tree 2.) scream “Moziltaf!” in celebration 3.) refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance or 4.) pray to himself five times a day while bowing toward the Mecca—but that seems like petty criticism to devoutly religious people of all denominations because they know the power of their own faith.

At best, we condemn those who lack the conviction to express and defend their own beliefs, which is probably valid and definitely more reasonable than condemning a person for not being certain of seemingly unknowable truths. At worst, however, it seems to me that because subjectivity means so damn much to us, we are all more selfish than selfless, more opinionated than enlightened.

Somewhere in between those extremes, I've determined that ignorant passion appeals to us more than enlightened apathy. This helps explain why Glenn Beck has risen to fame while J.D. Salinger faded into oblivion before his death.

Human beings are helplessly drawn to the delusion that the intensity of their feelings has a significant bearing on the truth, and as a member of this species I have expressed mixed feelings for, I don't transcend those limitations. I've become aware of the conundrum, but that doesn't mean I have the wherewithal to conquer it. Subjective truth is something we invented to feel more at ease with our ignorance. Objective truth is a secret God mostly keeps to himself.

And since I'm not God, I'm forced to adhere to the pitfalls of subjectivity, which means that, futility be damned, it is only a matter of time before I relapse into disputes about musical tastes and opinions in general. I have covered a lot of ground and burrowed into painful thoughts, and yet I haven't really learned a thing. In my mind, Paul is still right, and that matters the most (to me).

What I do sincerely hope, though, is that my opinions do not lead to the destruction of friendships—even if far too many of my friends are relegated to Facebook. In which case, I will offer to Erik, whose opinion prompted this essay, a quote from another rock band, the Strokes.

To wit: “Oh (dude), can't you see/ It's them, it's not me/ We're not enemies/ We just disagree.”

Right on. I'm done with this one. I'm moving on as I dust my hands off...and hey, incidentally, if you don't like the Strokes, Erik, then you're a fucking lowlife.