Order Over Chaos
I’m a little neurotic. A bit of a neat-freak. And probably borderline OCD at times. I like the comfort of having routines. Routines feel safe. They give order. Which, ultimately, allows you to make it through portions of your day on cruise control. Y’know, basically the same governing principles of the zombie genus.
For this reason, I’ve been known to alphabetize my movie, music, and video game racks over the years. Order over chaos. Even as a kid, I preferred this sort of system. It allows me to scan the rack and immediately find whichever title I’m seeking out, rather than having to focus on each title to see if it’s the one I’m looking for. All that happens in that scenario, is you get distracted by another one along the way and veer off in another direction.
But they’d throw you a curveball, sometimes. Because you have to make a decision very early on – do you file them by the title/name that appears on the spine of the case or by what you know it as?
This. Is. Huge.
Take the Nightmare on Elm Street series, for example. I prided myself on owning the entire collection. The problem is, the sixth film in the series is actually titled Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare. And the next one – which is already humorous, considering I was just talking about the “final” nightmare supposedly – was called Wes Craven’s New Nightmare. Decision time. Do you break the rules and place them all together still, despite the spines breaking alphabetical order when scanning, because they’re part of the same series? Or do you place Freddy’s Dead with the other “F” titles, Wes Craven’s New Nightmare with the “W” titles, and thus splitting the series apart from one another? It was, well, enough to cause nightmares.
When I owned a Sega Genesis as a kid, the football series started as John Madden Football and eventually just dropped the “John” to become Madden plus its year. File them all under “M” for Madden, or split them up? I need to call a timeout and think about this.
Tupac under “T” or 2Pac under the numerical artists?
You get the point. Something that is meant to simplify and eliminate potential stress of not finding, becomes a dog chasing its own tail of insanity. Speaking of, don’t even get me started on Snoop Dogg versus Snoop Doggy Dogg and how I choose to organize that in my iTunes library.
Driving Me Crazy.
Growing up, I watched lots of horror movies. The same thing always happened toward the end of these movies. The killer would be lying on the ground, supposedly lifeless at the hands of the sweet-faced heroine. But she was never satisfied with merely killing the slasher. She was always compelled to take a peak under the mask, to see his visage with her own two eyes.
I would groan and shout at the screen. What is wrong with you?! He’s going to jump up and attack you for doing that!
I have become the sweet-faced heroine. Well, I mean, so to speak.
I find myself doing this when I have been wronged by a vehicular villain. The person who has decided to use the middle or left lane as their Five MPH Under So I Conserve Gas lane. The person in a hurry to pull out ahead of me at an intersection and cut me off, but not in a hurry to even keep up with traffic. The person driving with their right blinker on for a mile and swerving just casually enough that you can’t tell if they really do want to turn or they’re just completely inattentive.
When I get stuck behind any of these evildoers, I need to get around them. And when I pull up on the side of them and get ready to drive past, I find myself feeling that same compelling urge that horror movie heroines find themselves faced with.
I must look into the eyes of the person who has wronged me! I need to see who – nay – what is responsible for this act of vengeance perpetrated against me!
And so every time, without fail, as I get around this inattentive driver I turn and gawk at them. Oh I stare. Feeling that somehow, seeing the face of this person will miraculously answer all of my “Why? Why me?” questions and give me closure to the duress they caused me.
Unfortunately, like a bad horror movie, these bad drivers keep coming back for more and they continue to haunt me.
Like a Surgeon.
This very week, back when I was five years old, I had to go into surgery and have my tonsils removed. But I sometimes wonder if the doctor removed my testicles, too. When I look at my taste in music, it looks like the album collection of a 12-year-old girl in 1976. Not to mention, I actually live at the mall. Literally. Every tween girl’s dream. Though my apartment’s above Victoria’s Secret, so I’m also living every teen boy’s dream, as the scenery is prime.
It’s no secret that “Diary” by Bread and “Amanda” by Boston are two of my favorite songs. If it’s a single-title song by a single-word band, chances are I have it. Then you’ve got the Air Supply and Bee Gees also owning lots of space in the collection. I’m lucky I finally reached a point in my mid-twenties where I just owned the fact that I love me some music that won’t win me Headbangers Baller of the Year any time soon.
And while I can quote every line from Roadhouse and Predator, I also watch Before Sunrise and Before Sunset just as many times a year. Have I mentioned that I have an unhealthy, well, love for Love Actually despite the fact that it encompasses every romcom cliche ever, all mixed together in one movie? Or that I maybe can’t change the channel when I come across You’ve Got Mail on television?
I’m glad the Internet makes legal stalking easy, because I need to find out the name of the doctor who removed my tonsils, track him down, and demand he give me my testicles back. Pronto.
Or if he can’t do that, at least to write me a doctor’s excuse for my taste in music.
It’s My Netflix Queue, And I’ll Rent What I Want To
I’m a single, straight guy. Who happens to like chick flicks. There, I said it.
A few years ago, I finally decided to just fess up to enjoying them. I hated having to hide the DVD copies of Bridget Jones’ Diary and Love Actually every time friends came over to the apartment. I’m neurotic enough, without having to remember to do that each time.
I’ve gone to movie theaters to see romantic comedies. I’ve seen every episode of Felicity and DVR’d re-runs on the WE channel when they would air in syndication. I even watched Definitely Maybe on a flight from Chicago to Calgary, last year. And enjoyed it. I’m thinking that’s definitely, maybe the reason I was detained by customs and interrogated upon arrival. No joke. I was.
But I’ve drawn the line somewhere. I felt like I had to, if I was going to go down this path and still maintain some much-needed guy points in the process.
I haven’t seen the Sex & The City movie. Or is it called Sex In The City? See. I get points for not knowing if it’s an ampersand or “in” within the title. I saw an episode on HBO once, years ago, with an ex-girlfriend. Nothing more than that, nor the subsequent movie that came out.
I feel as though it’s important to maintain my Sex &/In The City movie abstinence for now. Will I eventually see it? I’m sure I will. But I’m not just giving up that one yet-to-see chick flick experience on a drunken whim. And I’m definitely not skipping Sunday football to watch the woman from Mannequin seduce guys who aren’t Andrew McCarthy, yet.
Now if you don’t mind, I need to head over to the gym, bench more than my own weight and then beat the shit out of a punching bag before grabbing some beers and watching the Packers on Monday Night Football. Because of this damn blog post.
This is my blog. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My blog is my best friend.
