As is likely obvious from reading this Substack, I’m a bit of a contrarian.
My life is basically an endless series of unpopular opinions, and I spend most days feeling like some combination of “Old man yelling at the sky” and “The goth kids from South Park”.
It’s how I’ve always been. It’s probably how I will always be.
Sometimes, my unpopular opinions are about Serious Topics.
Most of the time, they aren’t.
In fact, most of my unpopular opinions are deeply, deeply unserious.
On these, it doesn’t matter that I’m in the minority. There are no Important Arguments to make. The stakes are completely non-existent. These are unpopular opinions that literally have no bearing on anybody ever.
But also, these are unpopular opinions that I think deserve waaaay more attention than they get. And so, with no further ado…
Nickelback is underrated.
This is possibly one of the least hip and cool things a person could ever say. I know this. I am aware of this.
But I also realize that my hipness quotient already stands at zero, and I have nothing to lose.
Nickelback’s music is predictable. It’s formulaic. It’s shameless pandering to the lowest common denominator.
The sky is blue, Hunter Biden loves crack more than a fat kid loves cake, and Nickelback creates music that could be better generated by AI.
The thing is, lots of things are predictable and formulaic. Formulas exist for a reason.
Hallmark movies don’t personally do anything for me. But like, I get their appeal. I can see where a movie about giving up one’s stressful, lonely life to marry a super-compatible hunk and live happily ever after in a cute house in a charming town is a compelling fantasy.
The small towns in Hallmark movies are never like the regular small towns in regular dumpy places—they’re always bustling, charming, and filled with non-snooty art galleries and cute coffee shops. There are always lots of happy, well-dressed, not-high-on-meth people milling about in the background. The hunk always has a job that sounds quaint, but that like, pays well enough for him to afford a charming, 2,000 sq. ft. house with no mortgage.
It’s good stuff.
The movies aren’t for me, but they’re popular for a reason.
The same logic applies to Nickelback.
Are the songs written for the lowest common denominator? Yes.
But also, I do want a bathroom I can play baseball in. I do enjoy hanging out at the pool with my friends and drinking beer. I do get vaguely nostalgic for high school, despite the fact that I rightly hated it at the time.
These are normal things that roughly 97% of the population can relate to, put into lyrics that 100% of people can make sense of.
Nickelback doesn’t make “good music” in the sense of creating compelling art that thoroughly examines the depths of the human psyche, but sometimes, I don’t want to examine the depths of the human psyche. Sometimes, I just want to imagine having a big, fancy house and enough money to do whatever I want all of the time. And Nickelback is here to translate that fantasy into something catchy.
It works. The formula prints money for a reason.
Taylor Swift is overrated
Lest I veer too far into poptimism, it should be noted that T. Swift is incredibly overrated.
She’s perfectly talented.
I mean, I can’t sing. I can’t write songs. I can’t dance around on stage for two hours. There is no denying that she has more musical talent than I do.
But like, lots of people have more musical talent than me. That’s a low bar.
Taylor writes perfectly good background music. It’s good music to listen to while getting ready to do something better. But it’s not good music.
It’s Nickelback, but with 10% more pretense and 10% less catchiness.
It’s Pumpkin Spice Nickelback. Nickelback, but in Millennial Pink. Nickelback, with a side of avocado toast. Nickelback, for girls who think breaking up with a boyfriend of three months is a life-altering event.
Pineapple on pizza
To veer away from unpopular musical opinions: Pineapple on pizza.
Pineapple on pizza combines sweet, savory, and tart. In a good way. It’s a party of flavor.
The real crime isn’t that people put pineapple on pizza; the real crime is that the culinary mainstream hasn’t expanded upon this logic. Fruit flavors pair really well with savory foods.
Strawberry syrup with hashbrowns. Applesauce with baked burritos. Fresh peaches with pretty much anything.
The world doesn’t need fewer pineapple pizzas. The world needs more sweet/savory/tart combinations.
Bring back the minivans.
Here me out here. Minivans are dorky. They’re uncool. They scream “I’m taking a kid to soccer practice right now”.
I’m not denying this.
But also, if you’re driving a bunch of kids to soccer practice while wearing a shirt that has the team name in glitter, the “young, cool, and carefree” ship has already sailed. A Suburban with the kids’ names on the back isn’t going to bring that ship back.
A Porsche 911 couldn’t bring that ship back.
That ship has already left the port, sailed into the open ocean, and sank. The Coast Guard will never so much as be able to recover the bodies of Young, Cool, or Carefree.
No shade.
The Volvo doesn’t exactly have teenage boys flirting with me at stoplights, either.
That’s fine.
But the Volvo is comfortable. It has really great heated seats, and the doors make a nice satisfying clunk when I shut them. It’s safe. It gets decent gas mileage. It has the things an adult with creaky joints and too many bills can appreciate.
Minivans?
They’re the Volvo experience, but with seven-passenger seating, back doors that open with the press of a button, a back hatch that opens with the press of a button, and enough cargo space for a small zoo.
I don’t drive a minivan because I don’t need that much space. But if you need room for four kids, three carseats, a playpen, a stroller, groceries, and hockey equipment, those $80,000 Suburbans are a lie. That’s twice the money for half the comfort and functionality.
Also, crucially, that’s twice the money.
If there is one thing that might at least help the Coast Guard retrieve the corpses of Young, Wild, and Carefree, it’s money.
More specifically, it’s disposable income. Money that isn’t already tied up in the form of bills.
Disposable income buys vacations. It buys shirts that weren’t made with a Cricut machine. It buys a flattering haircut, and makeup, and a babysitter so that somebody else can take care of the kids for a day. It can even buy a cool weekend car, for the grownups to enjoy. A car that doesn’t have any school-related bumper stickers on the back, or fries in the backseat, or the lingering smell of kindergartener ass.
Disposable income is cool stuff.
Way cooler than a Suburban with a stick family decal on the back window.
Lycra
Actually, to circle back and throw some shade on those glittery team shirts made with a Cricut machine, lycra.
Lycra has a place. The fabric was invented for a reason. Lycra-free yoga pants probably wouldn’t work.
But shit. I reached the stage a long time ago where I realized that I want certain clothes to conceal, rather than accentuate.
And guess what? Much like the minivan, if life has reached the point where soccer games are about cheering on kids rather than dates, there’s an 80% chance that one has reached the “conceal” stage of the fashion cycle.
I know that’s not body-positive of me to say.
I know that we’re all supposed to be proud of our love handles, and that I should never shame anybody for having the body of a 40 year old potato.
And I’m not shaming anybody for that.
Potatoes are delicious.
There is not a thing in the world wrong with a middle-aged mother of three looking like a middle-aged mother of three. Society needs to do a better job of embracing that; of embracing the fact that by definition, a person is only 18 once, and therefore only has the body of an 18 year old once. Of embracing the fact that beauty changes, rather than fades.
But yeah. That one cuts both ways.
At some point, one’s body changes. And with it, lycra becomes less of a good thing.
Embrace that 100% cotton.
It breathes better. It’s better for the environment. It lasts longer. It’s safer should one find him/herself on fire. And, frankly, when it fits well, it’s a lot more flattering.
…
I assume that I’m going to be tarred and feathered by a convoy of potato-shaped Swifties in Suburbans any minute now.
Those ladies in glitter shirts are dangerous, and not to be messed with.
That’s what happens when a person overheats because of the lycra content in her wardrobe. She gets testy. Forgets how to live, laugh, and love.
If this happens, well, I was unafraid to speak the truth, regardless of the consequences. I died doing the Lord’s work.*
*This…is what we learned about in church, right? The evils of lycra and $80k family haulers? I’m pretty sure there are a couple of commandments about that stuff. Maybe not. Presbyterians don’t always spend a lot of time on theology…