I realize that sometimes things are so uncool that they’re cool. I learned the inverse of this concept when flipping through a baby name book my mother had bought before I was born, which listed “Megan” in the section “Names so in, they’re out ,” which pretty much means that, as a fetus, I was already doomed to a life of being just a few indie rock references short of an OC episode. I also realize that there are some things which people love “ironically,” and this just pisses me off, because I’m really into sincerity. I’ve only based, like, three of my past four relationships on lies regarding either my sexual history, religion, or feelings toward Arcade Fire.
Anyways, this column is a list of things that aren’t cool but should be because I have declared them awesome:
Hall & Oates
I watch a lot of Top 100 specials on VH1. I know all the top 100 one-hit wonders of the eighties (“Come on Eileen” beat out “Melt With You,” because VH1 is famously prejudiced in favor of the Irish), the top 100 rock n’ roll songs (number one was something about rolling stones, either the artist or the subject matter. I don’t remember), the top 100 celebrity breakdowns (Winona Ryder was heavily represented).
You know who was number 99 on the Top 100 artists of all time? Darryl Hall and John motherfucking Oates. And you know what? Every person interviewed for VH1 had mad love for the Oatestache and the…well, Hall’s only defining feature is looking more or less like Mary Lou Retton. But seriously. Rappers, rockers, Sebastian Bach – they all loved H&O. Black people noted their soul and understanding of R&B harmony in “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do).” White people noted that it’s really easy to do the overbite dance to “You Make My Dreams.” Music geeks noted that “Maneater” is basically “Can’t Hurry Love,” and nothing is more lovable than plagiarism. I used to think my love of “Rich Girl” was ironic, or sarcastic, or something, and maybe it used to be, but not anymore. No. Now it’s all real love.
Megan Lent is a wonderfully unsuccessful blogger who likes to whine about literature at http://apostrophetothestars.blogspot.com/, and occasionally contributes to the steamy world of small-press fiction at Metazen and Housefire. She was the 62nd best speller in California in eighth grade, and used to run a brothel out of her parents’ house in Chicago. She lives in LA.