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I have always prided myself on being a musically open person. I’ve got a pretty wide variety of artists on my MP3 player, spanning multiple genres with classic Ella Fitzgerald, guilty pleasure Christina Aguilera, thrashing and screaming System of a Down, the mandolin-driven Ditty Bops, the afrocentric Tribe Called Quest, jazz flutist Dave Valentin, rambling Phish, and so on. I’ll try anything and will probably find at least one thing I like in every sub-sub category there is except Spanish death-metal. I couldn’t get into Brujeria.

That being said, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to like post-rock.

For those of you unfamiliar with this genre, post-rock can sometimes be described as ambient, droning, emotional, aimless, and/or deeply stirring. I have long since found the concept of post-rock to be quite interesting. However, my many experiences in sampling this category have left me feeling extremely bored. I once tried to listen to post-rock to help lull me to sleep and instead found– much to my surprise– that I was boring myself awake. I wanted so bad for post-rock to occupy some small niche in my life, yet I couldn’t possibly do it. I think the idea of it is awesome and hip, yet for all my respect I have not one bit of interest in it.

–To digress for a moment, I would like to set the scene to introduce someone–

The web affords each of us as much or little anonymity as we want. In the spirit of keeping identities private, I hereby declare that my good friend– who shall be making future appearances, I’m sure– will be known as Pudding from this day forward. This decision was made partly because of my desire to hold back on personal details, and also because the idea of giving my friend a Bill Cosby-endorsed product as a moniker amused me greatly. I reserve the right to mention Pudding’s family either by real name, by using a derivation of Pudding (for instance Br’er Pudding, Mrs. Br’er Pudding, Mama and Papa Pudding, etc), or by another desert name. Names are subject to change with little notice. Pseudonyms will be issued as needed or for humor’s sake.

–End digression–

To speak on behalf of post-rock, I have asked Pudding what he likes about the genre. Even though I razz him a good bit for being pro-something that I am emphatically con, I definitely respect his opinion and even envy it a little. For him, post-rock has the ability to “convey feelings so powerfully and intensely”, but it’s subtle enough that each listen can get you to notice something completely different. He likes how the typical lack of lyrics forces the artist to show you rather than just tell you what he or she is feeling using musical elements alone. I totally get what he’s saying, and I only wish I could find a song that could show you how out of the loop I feel on this matter.

There was one time, though. One time where post-rock was it for me, where I was so into it I could hardly stand it. The song was building, and the tension was increasing, and everything was crescendoing… It was insane. I wanted the song to just resolve, climax, end, ANYTHING! Every beat in every measure was every emotion for me. For one afternoon I loved post-rock and everything it did for and to me. And then I realized I couldn’t spend the rest of my life high. Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.

But for those of you who yearn for more depth in your music and take musical exploration seriously, I recommend giving post-rock a shot. I don’t know anything about it, but Pudding’s got a decent arsenal of artists and albums from what he tells me. I wish I liked it, I really do. I think it’s sooooooophisticated (I can never remember what song that’s from, but I always think of it when I’m about to say “sophisticated”). And cool.

But I don’t like it and that’s kind of a bummer.

About two weeks ago I lost a dear friend of mine. I’d only known her a year, but I had many good memories with her. She took me to places near and far, and always came home with me after I was done. Julie died in my driveway, never to start again. My cute little ’96 Plymouth Neon had only been mine for a year and she died. When I tell people this, I am often asked what was wrong with my car, to which I can only reply “Uh, lots of stuff… Head gasket… Er…”

I don’t know anything about cars, at least not in the way that people who know about cars know about cars. I know that the metal thingy goes into the slot near the steering wheel and then you turn it. I know that on cars where there’s a do-hickey between the front seats you gotta push down on this pedal before you can slide the do-hickey into its proper place. I know how to pop the hood and how to clamp the jumper cables onto my battery when I forget to turn the lights off and my car won’t start.

That’s about it.

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of listening in on a conversation purely to hear the words. It was very much like listening to speakers of another language just because it’s different and fun. The guys at my unit were talking about cars, boats, planes, submarines, helicopters, and so on.  I found this to be tremendously cool. Unfortunately for me, I have no interest in any of these things. I don’t desire to know what the Navy’s budget for the new aircraft carrier is, how many people are needed to man it, how many planes it can hold, and how it can land a C130 on it (C-130? C1-30? I don’t even know that!). I don’t feel it’s necessary that I know which car company is buying which, nor do I have any reason to find out how fast the new submarine can go without making bubbles (and I can’t remember the technical term for “making bubbles” either).

If were to impress you by saying “I’m going to supe up my turbocharger and install a V8 hemi to go along with my 22cc NOS uptake valve”, I would be extremely pleased to find someone who is more clueless about cars than I am. And then I would have to turn and leave, because I find feigned awe and badly camoflagued ignorance to be rather unattractive.

There are people out there who are very mechanically inclined, but I’m just not one of them. I’m not even theoretically mechanically inclined. Right now, I’m inclined at about a 87 degree angle (sitting upright but slightly slouched). I wish I knew about cars and crap like that, but I probably never will. That’s why I have other people know it for me.

People that know that stuff for me are cool.

Although I have seldom been the type to bow to societal pressures in order to gain acceptance from my peers, I have at times felt that if I had a particular interest or skill I would feel “cooler”.

When I was in second grade, I purchased many vending machine rings which turned my fingers green because it was the fad. In third grade I spent my allowance on Beanie Babies and brought them to class because all the cool kids did it. In fifth grade, I (shamefully) redeemed my Jokers tickets for an “Oh, My God! You Killed Kenny!” lanyard. I can’t really think of any other concessions I’ve made in the attempt to gain temporary popularity, but this blog is about concessions I cannot make.

This is about what I wish I liked, but don’t.

Actually, this post isn’t about those things; the succeeding posts are. This post is just my way of saying “Hey, you don’t have to do that if you don’t want to!” This post is saying “There are some things I wish I liked because I think they’re cool, but I don’t like them and therefore do not make my affinity for something or lack thereof something by which my coolness should be judged.”

The next few posts will reveal to you things which I think to be cool for one reason or another. These will be things I have tried at length (well not to great lengths, but to a length) to enjoy and have enjoyed little to no success.

And also how I still think of myself as being pretty damn cool in my own right.