The Big Green House

Sunday, September 07, 2003

 

All my taste is in my mouth

Science Girl had dinner with an old friend the other night. SG mentioned how much we had enjoyed American Splendor. Her friend said that it sounded good, but that she�d never be able to get her husband to go see it since he was only interested in movies starring Vin Diesel.

Everybody thinks that they have exquisite taste. And they�re right, as far as they themselves go. But why is it that the very music that makes me bounce around the room in a fit of pure idiot glee might leave you cold, or even force you to flee the room with your hands over your ears? Why might your favorite music make me think of sticking my hand in a drill press?

What is taste, anyway? How do we acquire it? I think we can agree that it is something acquired. There is no innate predilection, is there? Or is there? I dunno.

Some of the things I still love today were first introduced to me by my parents (Italian food, Miles Davis� Kind of Blue, reading, etc.), yet it would be a very great stretch to say that we have similar tastes. We could say the same about friends, acquaintances, and society at large; all of them are influences, but we all diverge at some point or another, and often along many different lines. How does that happen?

Mind you, I�m not saying that it�s bad that it does happen. If we all liked the same stuff, it would be a bland world at best. Plus, turning someone on to something you think they might like wouldn�t have nearly the same charge as it does now, since all the guesswork would have been removed: if I liked it, so will everyone else. Feh. I don�t know about you, but I enjoy being at least somewhat unique.

I�m just curious as to how the mechanism works. What sparks enjoyment in person A, and why doesn�t person B derive that same pleasure? Just a little mental bubblegum for my little brain to chew on while I sit here at work on a drowsy Sunday evening.

It finally rained last night, and it�s been pleasantly overcast all day today. Exactly what I picture in my mind when I think of Sundays; slow-paced, maybe a little drizzly, and nothing to accomplish. I get up and take the dog out. On our way back we stop out front, shake the rain off the Sunday New York Times, and bring it in. Back inside, I make a nice pot of tea and a little breakfast. The rest of the morning is spent with nose in newspaper. In the afternoon, it�s a long walk with the dog; in the evening, a nice supper and maybe a bottle of wine.

There. I�ve just described for you my ideal Sunday, and I�m willing to bet that there were several among you who read that description as �slow death�. We�re back to taste and preference again.

bmarkey 9/07/2003 09:08:00 PM