This comes in many forms: television shows (usually reality based, or contest based), relationships (usually sexual), products (usually trend based (beanie babies, electric pets, etc.)), dancing (usually drunkenly), and dance crazes (all of them).
We all get caught up.
The reason I like to think that I do not get caught up is because I like to think that my critical thinking skills are sophisticated enough that impulsive interests do not effect me. I like to think that I am discerning enough that, no amount of fanfare, fantasm or feigned fantasy, can manipulate me enough to lose my cool. On a daily basis, I try to keep a skeptical eye on the machine, yet with a hand on the pleasure button. Never leaning too far toward one side.
I can think of many times where I have been caught up.
- Middle school: making fun of Richard Olson even though I had no reason to make fun of him.
- Furby.
- Live Strong Bracelets
- Jesus (In the form of a Junior High youth group)
There is one incident, however, that really sticks out. It involves a baseball game. Not just any baseball game, but the San Francisco Giants game where Barry Bonds was supposed to break Hank Aaron's record for the most home-runs hit. I don't know what year it was, I don't know how many homeruns it was or how many he needed to break the record. I'm not even sure if it was Hank Aaron's record that Bonds was trying to break. I don't care. Because baseball does not interest me on a day to day level. I appreciate baseball from an Americana iconic nature. I think historically baseball has done a lot to bring our country back together. But, not for many years.
I don't care about baseball. I didn't back when my friend Huw (prounouced "Hugh") invited me to go to the game. The conversation sounded like this:
Huw: Ryan, I have an extra ticket to the game tonight (everybody in San Francisco knew what "the game" was because we had all been paying attention to the front-page articles claiming that Barry Bonds was the patron saint of balls and bats, the many posters, and the countless amounts of beer marinated men and beer soaked girls in baseball hats talking about it around it the city.)
Ryan: Yeah, I hear that tonight is the night he's supposed to break Babe Ruth's record.
Huw: Hank Aaron.
Ryan: Yes.
Huw: You're in?
Ryan: Yes.
We arrived at the ballpark and were instantly thrust into the world of Barry Bonds. When we picked up our tickets, we were handed a stuffed gorilla wearing a Barry Bonds jersey. Everything had Barry Bonds' name, photo or jersey printed on it. All of the ticket takers were wearing his jersey. I clutched my gorilla and walked into the stadium.
I knew, walking in there, that I was being marketed too. The record that Barry Bonds was about to break was, indeed, a feat worthy of noticing. I, for instance, had and still haven't EVER hit even one homerun. Barry Bonds was about to hit his 600 something-th homerun. So, yeah, that's a talent worth noticing. But, from the perspective of people selling things, I guessed at the fact that they mostly cared about selling the T-shirts, hats, banners, posters, photos, cards, trophy's, pens, pins, erasers, snow globes and socks emblazoned with Barry Bonds' name.
I felt maniupulated. I wanted a beer and some garlic fries, but I wanted to resist the marketing machine. Every man, woman and child who was caring anything with Barry Bonds' name on it was a mindless drone, from my perspective. But, I was thirsty, and I love garlic fries, so I bought one of each anyway.
We found our seats and sat down. With each snippet of conversation drifting past us, we heard the words "Bonds," "homer," "wow," and "I hope." Anybody who caught anybody's eye would strike up a conversation about the home run record.
"You think tonight's the night?"
"I sure do!"
"Let's hope so."
I gazed into my beer. The game started. Every time Bonds got up to bat, the entire crowd jumped from their seats, clapped their hands together and focused on every move of Bonds. The pitcher wound up the ball, and with every firing of every muscle that occurred from the time the ball left the pitcher's hand until the ball flew over homeplate, a thousand flashbulbs flickered from every corner of the stadium. The crowd's breath sucked in. Their fists clenched.
The first time he went up to bat,he did not hit a home run. With each pitch, however, I found myself clutching the soft stuffed gorilla in my hand. I felt like it could become a piece of history. If only Barry would hit that homerun. Suddenly, that homerun became mandatory. I wanted to be a part of this historical event. I wanted that gorilla to be something I could show to my grandkids and say "I was there." I can't remember if he popped out or if he got a basehit. But something other than a homerun happened. I looked to the guy next to me and said "next time, next time he's up, he'll hit that homer, you watch."
Waiting for Bonds to come up to the plate the second time was excruciating. These fans became my friends. We were all an anxious and hopeful community. Waiting, hoping and pushing for Bonds, our buddy. Our guy. Finally, the moment came, and the stadium fell silent. Bonds walked out, stood at homeplate. One pitch. Nothing. Two pitches. Nothing. The third pitch seemed to happen in slow motion. The pitcher wound up. Bonds swung. We all knew this was it. Crack. Silence. Flashbulbs. The ball went sailing across the sky, toward the fence. And then, it happened. Everybody in the crown erupted at the same time. Barry Bonds had done it. I threw my hands in the air and ACTUALLY high fived Huw. We may have even hugged. I high fived the guy next to me and I continuted to applaud and hoot and holler.
As Barry rounded the bases, fireworks exploded above us. My body vibrated with chills. I looked and Huw, and said "Wow, thank you for bringing me to this event." I called it an event. And I meant it. When Bonds stepped on homeplate, he raised his helmet over his head and circled to show his appreciation for every one of us in the crowd. I continued to clap and said "Good for him, good for him."
It was at that moment that I looked at myself and realized that I was caught up. Sure, it was exciting to see. It is exciting when thousands of people are cheering. Fireworks are always great. But, I actually did not care about the event. Barry Bonds was known around the city as a bit of a prick. I stopped clapping, took my hand out of hoody pocket. And I knew it. I had been dooped.
There have been many other times when I have been caught up. Proms, seeing celebrities. I saw Johnny Depp one time at a movie premiere. Everybody around me rushed into shake his hand and be close to him. A thousand hands were outstretched. The person I was with got her photo with him. She was right next to me. And, just the excitement of being near her, who was near him, made me say (outloud, mind you), "oh alright, I wan to.." and then my hand was outstretched and I was leaning in.
Again, I caught myself. And, every time I catch myself, I get this sinking feeling that I am not unique. I am easily and constantly manipulated. And it works.
I have since lost the Barry Bonds gorilla. I am no longer dating the person who got a photo of Johnny Depp. All physical memories of those situations are gone. Even before all of this, moments after the events, even, I had lost that boiling feeling that made me stand up, or shoot my hand out. It was an instant in my life where nothing else mattered but the present. The insecurities of maintaining my thinly veiled hat-glasses-and-tattooed hipster image was wiped away, and I simply stood up and cheered. I extended my hand and actually hoped that Johnny Depp would touch it back. In short, I lost my cool. But, before I caught myself, I felt good. I felt light. I felt excited.
The amount of attention I pay to my image seems to change relative to my situation. Two years ago, I would not be caught holding a girl's hand. Now that I am deeply in love and involved in a meaningful, caring relationship, I not only hold hands, but I kiss and talk in baby talk in almost any situation. I paw at her face and rub noses.
I am sure the guy in the park with the two year old on his shoulder did not plan, when he was in college, to wear the white t-shirt dawning a screen-printed photo of himself, his wife and his baby wearing a mickey mouse hat. It is something that comes with a situation. There is a reason why I will dance now. I care a little bit less when it comes to what people think of my actions. I no longer think as much about maintaining my "cool."
I realize that much of this "cool" is in my head. My friends can attest to the fact that I get caught up in nearly everything: music, television shows, t-shirts...and that's just three examples; in alphabetical order. I try ad explain to them that, much of my "interest" in these things lies mostly in an anthropological form. I am simply dipping my toe in the pop culture pool to get a sense of WHY people fall for certain trends. But that's a pretentious lie, and I know it. I love the crowd. I love the hype. I love the crowd, the anticipation, the feeling nail biting and the chills. I just hate to admit it.
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