On being (and seeming) learned

In my sparest of spare time this week I have been reading Anne Fadiman’s Ex Libris and I am almost certain that I like the collection of essays about loving books and the side effects thereof (correcting typos on menus). However, reading this collection has awoken my old nemesis/pipedream. The particular nemesis that I am referencing (for my nemesis-es are only outnumbered by my groundless fears in the census survey of my imagination) is my struggle to seem well read and well educated in conversation. I can throw out a large word or a mildly cultured quip, if pressed, but when confronted with the actual intelligentsia I have no doubt that they would quickly discover that the majority of my vocabulary comes a vigorous spelling test in the 10th grade and most of my quips are lifted straight from sitcoms.

Anne Fadiman is well read and well educated and she also scores well in the bonus round of “flaunting it.” I’m not trying to be mean (if I were you would certainly know it and think less of me), merely honest. The essays are great but this chick – and she would almost certainly protest that familiar mode of address – spoke of reading the poetry of Virgil as though it was no great feat. Moreover, she actually knew other people who had read Virgil and wanted to talk about it!

I was envious of Fadiman’s educated social set while reading the first few essays but when my ego regained the upper hand in my cerebellum I regretted my wish. I, a snob in my own right, think that Virgil is a great name for an animated eccentric scientist and I don’t want anyone discussing him in any other light in my presence.

Blaspheming aside, there is a large part of me that wishes that I had a solid grasp of the classics. I have a decent basis in English and American literature but the antiquities are lost (ha…ha…) on me. I have a tenuous understanding of how to use the word Platonic when one isn’t trying to explain a messy break-up, but the other poets and philosophers meld together in my mind, forming a large toga-wearing mass of wisdom. I’m not even sure if I could use the phrase “existentialism” in a way that would make me seem awesome without some serious premeditation.

To add insult to injury (not that Fadiman did anything specific to injury me besides being downright scholarly), I was stumped several times today while watching Cash Cab in a sandwich shop. An elderly couple on their way to a steak and shrimp restaurant knew gobs more about late-‘90s politics, McCarthy-era theater, and Mexican holidays than I did.

Cripes.

Almost as good as the Christmas episode

Last night when I was laying in bed trying in vain to recover from my Halloween hangover (I went as a person who had to work until 9 p.m. and then drank 4 beers) I realized that I love flashback episodes. And I mean episodes as in sitcoms, not as in episodes in my life (i.e., “episodes of derangement”).

I strongly dislike this facet of my television personality. First, one should not be so familiar with sitcoms that one is able to identify trends in sitcom material. Secondly, there should be nothing that you love about sitcoms unless you are a lady who lives alone and you love that there is something as mind-numbing and confidence building as Spin City on at 3 a.m. when you wake up and are afraid to go back to sleep. (Note: if I lived alone, this would be me. I’m massively afraid of prowlers. Michael J. Fox soothes me.)

Flashback episodes bring a smile to my heart and I wonder: is it the cheap thrill of period-dress and age-appropriate speech patterns that floats my boat? Is my taste in narratives really so slap-stick? It certainly seems that way.

I endeavor (with all of the snootiness of my degree in finding symbolic things) to see it more as an appreciation of the spectacle of transformation. Veteran readers are likely bracing themselves for some unfounded proclaiming, and they are correct; this is going to be one of my specious arguments with myself.

I think that the flashback aspect appeals to me in the same way that “make-over montages” in movies appeal to me. I tend to emotionally over-invest in media, and in the same way that I quail when a character is embarrassed I feel mild triumph when they are made over. I’m not immune to movie plot patterns, I know that these transformations frequently result in the character losing sight of their true values (Pocahontas 2, hello) but the montages are still charming. Anne Hathaway has built her career on the value of these scenes.

Judge me if you will, I also like opening scenes in high school movies where you are introduced to the characters by watching them don their stereotypical apparel and seeing them arrive at school. Jocks have cars, self-righteous nerds have skateboards or bikes. Surfer kids (why do they even include this mythical subculture?) are randomly carrying around surfboards.

We could delve into the reasons for my fascination with these scenes, but after four (count ‘em four) bad pop culture shout-outs I think we’ve had enough personal revelation for today. I will chalk it up to the superficial; I’m bad at dressing myself and find joy in watching others liberated from the task.