Here we are, at the end of all things. Well, at least at the end of my Countdown to 40, anyway. I may turn the big four-zero today, but life certainly does not end here. No, many more adventures and memories await me, my family, and my friends. Because, after all, that's what it's all about.
I truly believe I've saved the best for last, though it probably surprises no one that The Lord of the Rings earns the number one spot on my list of most important, influential, and favorite pop culture moments. On the whole, the trilogy employed several different mediums to make an impact on my life--through the books and movies, of course, but music and video games also came into play. Combined, then, the truly multi-media series thus represents a quadruple threat. I will confess that before Peter Jackson released his cinematic interpretation of The Fellowship of the Ring in 2001, The Hobbit was the only book set in J. R. R. Tolkien's Middle Earth I had read in its entirety. I thoroughly enjoyed the fantastic tale of Bilbo's adventures, which serve as a prequel of sorts to The Lord of the Rings saga, and I expected I would react the same to Frodo's quest to destroy the One Ring. I found, however, the trilogy books difficult to navigate, mostly because I tend to read at night before I fall asleep and am therefore prone to miss things. Like with any true literature, Tolkien's masterworks require a reader's full attention, but as a result of my (questionable) bedtime reading habits, I initially thought The Lord of the Rings confusing and had to reread a number of chapters just to grasp who was who, what those characters were doing, where they were, and when everything was happening. I generally felt lost. After The Fellowship of the Ring hit theaters, everything changed. Jackson's virtuosic film drew me into Middle Earth and provided me with such clarity about the characters, history, and lands that I began Tolkien's books anew. The movie truly helped me to understand The Lord of the Rings in a way I probably never would have without it. In true Chris fashion, I became obsessed. I read through the trilogy quickly, feeding my newfound passion and priming my anticipation for the release of the next two films. I then roped my friends into attending midnight screenings of The Two Towers and The Return of the King when they arrived in December of 2002 and 2003 respectively. In fact, I ended up seeing The Return of the King in the theater a total of eight times, more than any other film. (Though I will admit I probably only paid full admission for four of the viewings and may or may not have left on occasion after Aragorn tells the Hobbits they bow to no one.) My escalating craze for all thing Lord of the Rings led me to buy Howard Shore's brilliantly scored soundtracks, multiple movie posters, t-shirts, and several video games. This is all because of Peter Jackson's motion picture trilogy, the importance of which has only deepened with time. A year or so after The Return of the King came out on DVD, I invited some close friends over to watch all three in succession and make a day of it. We enjoyed tasty food and drink throughout the day as we lost ourselves in Middle Earth. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I initiated a tradition that continued annually for a few years. Now, every odd numbered year, Bryce and I host a Lord of the Rings movie marathon the first Saturday in January, complete with food and drink to make any Hobbit proud. We even switch out the theatrical releases for Jackson's extended versions every other marathon. The viewing parties have become much beloved events for Bryce and I, and we start looking forward to them well beforehand. Because what is better than sharing your love and passion for something so intrinsically linked to your sense of identity with dear friends and family? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing. Blogging these past 40 days about the music, movies, books, television shows, and video games that played a role in shaping the person I am today has been fun and enlightening for me, and I hope the same holds true for anyone who read/reads the posts as well. The exercise proved cathartic and revealing at times, especially when the writing process prompted new revelations about my path of self-discovery and sense of identity. I look forward to rereading my Countdown to 40 in the near future and perhaps pondering some of the items a little more deeply. And who knows, maybe new insights will inspire me to expand on some of the posts, create and share new Spotify playlists, add entirely new entries, or even turn this little project into a book. Only time will tell.
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My great-aunt Althea introduced me to the wizarding world of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter in the spring of 2000. Not quite a year after graduating from the University of Minnesota Duluth, I packed up my belongings and moved in with Althea, who graciously opened her spare bedroom to me as I sought work and a place of my own in the Twin Cities metro area. I had been living at home after college, but soon realized rural Minnesota was not the place for a young twenty-something who recently came out to himself and his friends. I needed the support of a wider, gay-friendly community and wanted to establish a place for myself among my network of friends already living in and around Minneapolis-Saint Paul. Consider it my insurance plan so when the time came to come out to family I would have cast a fairly secure safety net. Turns out I didn't need to worry about my family rejecting me, but contingency plans are always important...just in case.
Not long after settling into Althea's apartment in Edina, she handed me a paperback copy of The Sorcerer's Stone and recommended I read it. She recently finished it for her book club and could not stop raving about it. As I tucked myself into bed that evening, I flipped to the first chapter. In a matter of minutes I was hooked, and I tore through Rowling's first Potter novel in a couple of hours. Never before had a book captivated my imagination to such a degree, though perhaps I should not have been surprised owing to my already-established general appreciation for the fantasy genre (see Bedknobs and Broomsticks and The Legend of Zelda). Still Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone took things to a whole new level, and I ran to the bookstore the following day to purchase Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. That night I sped through the second Potter book in a matter of hours. I simply couldn't get enough of Harry's adventures with his two closest friends, Ron and Hermione, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizadry. So, I went back to the bookstore the next day and grabbed book three, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. The third in Rowling's series may have taken me two nights to finish, but I voraciously attacked it with the same fervor of the first two. If possible, Prisoner of Azkaban made me fall more in love with the Potter books. In many ways, the first two books follow similar conventions, which I appreciated but also questioned whether or not Rowling could sustain her planned seven-book series by repeating the same basic patterns. Azkaban introduced several new and important characters to the Potter universe and diverged paths from the one set forth in Sorcerer's Stone and Chamber of Secrets. Harry was maturing and the stories along with him. It was a brilliant move on Rowling's part, one she kept up through the final book, Deathly Hallows. Unfortunately for me, when I got through Prisoner of Azkaban, Rowling had not yet published book number four, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I was therefore forced to wait for its arrival. Around the same time, Harry Potter emerged as a pop culture phenomenon. Everywhere you turned, people of all ages seemed enchanted by the Potter books. When Goblet of Fire finally arrived, I grabbed a copy and jumped right in. Because the books typically came out in June, I also started gifting them to my niece, Brittani, who also became a fan. (You should see the drawings she made of the main characters for me once upon a time.) Again, the book explored Harry's aging process by tackling the complicated and challenging obstacles confronted by teenagers as they learn how to navigate the tricky transition between adolescence and adulthood, complete with trials and tribulations often left for them by adults. This translated into a novel much thicker than its predecessors, and I therefore needed a few extra days to read Goblet of Fire. In less than a week, I plowed my way through and was summarily faced with having to wait an uncertain amount of time for book five's publication and release. (It was at this time I discovered Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time saga.) During the interim between Goblet of Fire and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, several of my close friends, Dianna, Kara, and Allison, and I bonded over the Potter books. We shared a mutual infatuation with Rowling's works and eagerly anticipated the release of the first Harry Potter movie in November of 2001, a much needed respite in the wake of the 9/11 tragedy. When The Sorcerer's Stone hit theaters, we braved the crowds and late hours to catch a midnight showing. For the most part, the cinematic interpretation of book one met our expectations and set in motion a tradition for us to see as many of the new films and purchase as many of the forthcoming books at midnight as possible. We even made our own t-shirts for the Prisoner of Azkaban movie, and I wore mine to most (if not all) subsequent midnight release events. The books posed an interesting conundrum for us as each new one arrived. The four of us, occasionally boosted in number by other Potter-head family and friends, excitedly attended book parties to ensure we'd have our pre-ordered copies in hand as soon as we possibly could. We'd all get home and start ripping through the new volume. Inevitably, one or more of us would spend the rest of the night and early morning hours rushing through the most recent publication to learn what happened next for Harry and his friends. The problem then became having to wait to discuss the book's events until everyone else finished, too. No spoiler alerts allowed! Text messages would zip back and forth. How far are you? Did you sleep? Did you eat? Are you done yet? Call me when you've finished chapter 18. Thus, we collectively motivated each other to coordinate our reading efforts, often putting us on the same page. Our midnight movie traditions continued even after publication of the final book as well, eventually adding more family, friends, and fiancés to the party: Kelly, Jason, Bailey, and Bryce. The Harry Potter series proved amazing in every way, shape, and form, packed with magic, adventure, and the always timely message conveying the importance of tolerance and love in the face of hate and prejudice. For my friends and me, Rowling's masterpieces and their cinematic counterparts became much more--they served as focal points around which we gathered and grew closer, thereby strengthening our friendships. On the eve of turning 40, I look back on all of our experiences with an overwhelming sense of joy and happiness. I even commemorated our shared Potter time and love of the series with a Deathly Hallows tattoo last fall. The experiences remain infinitely meaningful to me, and I cannot divorce my memories of the decade-long journey my friends and I took together from the Potter books and movies. We all have them, classic works of literature we were required to conquer for high school English classes, and yes, I do mean conquer. Trudging through most assigned readings proved daunting, primarily due to my general but waning indifference toward reading that carried over from my younger days. If you read my post about Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, you know my relationship with reading developed slowly and could be defined as noncommital, at best. Completing the books and plays for class therefore demonstrated a rather impressive feat of accomplishment in my mind.
Many of the works I encountered during high school left striking memories for one reason or another. I will never forget the scenes of violence depicted in The Lord of the Flies. Likewise the dystopian future American society of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. Hiroshima conveyed the utter despair and complete destruction caused by the dropping of atomic bombs me and forced me to question the purpose of such weapons. The racism and incest detailed by Toni Morrison in The Bluest Eye further opened my eyes to inequality and injustice. None of those works stuck with me more than Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Disguised as a Mississippi River adventure, Twain's satirical take on the inane nature of America's attitudes towards race and class drew me in almost immediately and managed to hold my attention more than the other novels we had to read. Actually, I'm pretty sure The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was the only book I plowed through faster than we were supposed to despite not wanting to get too far ahead. I truly loved it, regardless of the fact I had to read it for class. I found the racism portrayed throughout the book appalling, both because of its staunch support in American society and the general apathy felt towards the slaves and their plight. It was also enlightening, for Twain's prose communicated more about racism and prejudice than history texts ever did or probably could. Sadly, we continue to confront the entrenched racism that plagues our society. Or, more accurately, we continue to avoid confronting the reality of the entrenched and institutionalized racism that plagues our society. Thus, the lessons of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn remain as important as ever in today's politically divided and seemingly intolerant society. If Huckleberry Finn, a stubborn white kid from rural Missouri concerned primarily with his own wellbeing over that of those around him, can look beyond Jim's status as defined by a deeply-prejudiced society, anyone can. After all, once he began to see Jim first and foremost as a person and not what society prescribed him to, Huck came to regard Jim as one of his only true friends. Generally regarded as the very first summer blockbuster, Steven Spielberg's Jaws enticed audiences with state-of-the art special effects and a signature blend of suspense, humor, thrills, action, and adventure when it hit theaters in June of 1975. Often imitated but rarely duplicated, Jaws set the standard for what would become the formula for aptly nicknamed popcorn flicks. Not surprising, then, that it would take Spielberg to outdo himself and perfect his own recipe with 1993's movie of the summer, Jurassic Park.
When I saw Jurassic Park for the first time in theaters during the summer of 1993, it blew me away. Like most kids, I always found dinosaurs and their disappearance fascinating. The fact that real-live monsters once roamed the earth expanded the boundaries of my imagination. Jurassic Park took that imagination and ran with it. While I enjoyed the ride with Doctors Grant, Sattler, and Malcom as they struggled to make it out of John Hammond's theme park alive, it was the dinosaurs I could not get enough of. The t-rex, velociraptors, gallimimuses, triceratops, brontosauruses, and dilophosaurus seemed so real. Sure, other movies and television shows featured dinosaurs before, but none of them succeeded quite like Jurassic Park, thanks to Spielberg and his team who spared no expense. I obsessively loved the movie so much that I saw it in the theater a record-at-the-time seven times. Yes, you read that right--seven times. I even dreamed of owning a Jurassic Park-themed Ford Explorer as seen in the film. Beyond compelling me see the it seven times in the multiplex, Jurassic Park helped intensify my overall love for movies as well as books, in its own way. When Spielberg's dino-romp left theaters later that summer, I felt an unexpected sense of loss. I badly needed to revisit Jurassic Park, so I picked up a copy of Michael Crichton's original novel and tore through it. Twice. Reading the book only made me love the movie all the more, if that was even possible. The sequels had the some effect. Though I anxiously anticipated each one, they never lived up to the originality, entertainment value, and sheer perfection of the original, and to this day, a desire to watch Jurassic Park resurfaces at least once every summer. Slightly tangential observation: Like 1990 (and 1998 to a lesser degree), 1993 represents another one of those magic years because of the numerous CDs, songs, and movies from that year that stick out as favorites, Jurassic Park included. Somewhere between The Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones rests Robert Jordan's epic high fantasy series, The Wheel of Time. Spanning fourteen volumes and one prequel, the books total more than 10,000 pages and follow the adventures of four friends who leave behind their remote village after strangers from afar and unforeseen events upend their lives. As they travel further from home, they discover foreign lands, ancient legends, hidden powers, and new peoples, which in turn force each to wrestle with their own fate and responsibilities in the looming final battle between good and evil.
When whittled down to such a basic description, The Wheel of Time sounds pretty much like every other fantasy series ever written. And, in many ways, I'm sure it is. I often compare the books to J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings and imagine George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series echoes many of the familiar genre tropes featured in Jordan's saga. Similarities can even be found in J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter books. Where The Wheel of Time differs for me, however, is in its arrant and unmatched combination of a richly detailed and expansive universe, clear and distinct in-world lore, deeply captivating and approachable narrative style, and large yet manageable cast of characters representing almost every imaginable permutation along the spectrum of human morality. Sure, those other series I mentioned above exhibit those qualities, too, but just not to the same degree. While addictive as HBO's Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire has thus far failed to capture my attention. Though clearly an inspiration for The Wheel of Time, I find everything about The Lord of the Rings bettered by Peter Jackson's movie-trilogy masterpiece. Rowling's Harry Potter may actually be the most similar in my estimation, yet seems quite juvenile in comparison at times. Actually, come to think of it, if not for Rowling's Harry Potter saga, I may never have stumbled upon Robert Jordan's first Wheel of Time volume, The Eye of the World, in the first place. Not long after devouring the first four Potter books in a single week, I developed a new hunger for fantasy novels and needed something to fill the time between the release of Rowling's books four and five. It was at work one fateful day that I noticed a colleague reading a paperback adorned with the typical artwork featured on many a fantasy cover. Intrigued, I inquired about the book, and upon my coworker's recommendation, I slipped next door to the Barnes & Noble on my break and purchased The Eye of the World. Soon thereafter I was hooked, the only downside being I had found another incomplete series. Luckily for me, Robert Jordan had already written and published the bulk of his series by that time, and with each one ranging in size from roughly 650 to 1,000 pages, plenty of chapters stood between me and the end of what books were available. I thought for sure I'd still be working through them as Jordan finished writing the remaining planned novels. Unluckily for me, though, once engrossed in the epic series, I read through them quicker than I expected, eventually catching up with the series at book nine, Winter's Heart. I found myself in a predicament with The Wheel of Time not unlike the one I had with Harry Potter. Waiting. When Tor Books published book ten, Crossroads of Twilight, I decided I could wait a little longer for the new novel to also be available in paperback. Each time I walked past the new release shelf at Barnes & Noble or Target and spotted the hardcover, though, my resilience to wait wore down. Until, one day, I gave into temptation and bought the book. I longed to return to the world of The Wheel of Time and uncover what Jordan had in store for my favorite characters. The process continued with the release of book eleven, Knife of Dreams. Sadly, Robert Jordan passed away while writing what was slated to be the twelfth and final novel in the series. Before he died and knowing he was unwell, he met with fellow fantasy scribe and Wheel of Time fan, Brandon Sanderson, and tasked him with finishing book twelve. Soon thereafter Sanderson announced that Jordan left him with too much material for one book. He estimated three more were needed to complete the story as imagined by Jordan, bringing the total number of books to fourteen epic and unbridled tomes. The final contribution, A Memory of Light, arrived in January of 2013, practically 23 years after The Eye of the World kicked things off in 1990. (There's that magic year again.) And along with the Harry Potter books, The Wheel of Time further deepened my love for reading and its genre in general, even inspiring me to start the process of writing my own series of fantasy novels. Who knows where that will lead? Along my Wheel of Time journey, I met a few other fans of the series here and there, most recently including Bryce's brother, Peter. Our first summer together, Bryce and I made a trip to his mom's house in New Jersey, where I met the rest of his family for the first time. As any new significant other being introduced to the family, I was nervous about finding things in common to talk about. When Peter and his wife Susan invited us to dinner, somehow The Wheel of Time came up in conversation, and that was our in. Peter and I found something to bond over, particularly without anyone else around who understood the depth and intensity of Jordan's world. Following that trip, Peter graciously had each subsequent Wheel of Time release shipped to me, and I plunged into books thirteen and fourteen with renewed fervor...if not out of sheer anticipation, then out of a desire to be ready to discuss them the next time we would see Peter. There really is something special that happens when people connect over a book (or series of books in this case), and I will take that feeling with me forever. I still recommend Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series to friends and acquaintances searching for something new and immersive to read and am happy to lend anyone my copies of the books. I also remember thinking that the anthology would make excellent fodder for Hollywood, especially following the critical and commercial success of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In recent and cautiously optimistic Wheel of Time news, the wife of the late author announced in April of 2016 that a major studio had obtained the rights to turn the books into a television series, obviously owing such a development to the critical and commercial success of HBO's Game of Thrones. Either way, the prospect of bringing The Wheel of Time to life through another medium positively excites me. Being that today is Valentine's Day, I wanted my Countdown to 40 post to focus on what I love most in life, my husband, family, and friends. Based on the title and image above, you thought I was going to say Ina Garten or Barefoot Contessa, didn't you? Not quite, but she, her television show on the Food Network, and her cookbooks symbolize that love on many levels.
One of my favorite ways to connect with those I love most is through cooking and sharing food, my fondness for which started young. I enjoyed watching my mom and dad cook for our family and helped whenever I could (and they would let me). With great happiness, I remember my family gathering around the table almost every evening to share at least one meal. My brother, sister, and I may have spent the afternoon playing nicely, arguing, picking fights, avoiding each other, or forming and changing alliances faster than the cast of Big Brother, but we always came together for supper. Even when I was a teenager and generally couldn’t be bothered to do much else with them, I still counted on seeing the family at dinner time. Food nourished our bodies, minds, and souls while also building that sense of community that only sharing a meal can provide. When I left for college right after high school, my world turned upside down (in a good way). Gone were the comforts of home and the safety of having family in close proximity for protection and support. I was therefore forced to truly become my own person for the first time in my life. As scary as that may seem, though, everyone else starting college with me was in the exact same situation. We reached out for those who shared a semblance of similarity in interests, personality, and location – often times over a meal. Before long, I had established a new family consisting of wonderful people, most of whom remain my close friends today. Like at home with my traditional family, mealtime served to strengthen the bonds of our burgeoning collegiate family. I would often call up one or more of my new friends with the sole purpose of getting together for lunch or dinner, furthering my love for food and all the joy it can bring. In the years since graduating from college, I have become much more culinarily curious as my palette has evolved and my network of family and friends grows. Trying new foods, cuisines, and restaurants provides not only great sensory experiences but also a wealth of inspiration. Additionally, I continue finding ever more joy from cooking something that brings together friends and family. Perhaps the largest source of inspiration for my culinary adventures, though, stems from my fondness for the Food Network and its celebrity chefs. For more than a decade I've tuned into the basic cable station for comfort, entertainment, and fresh ideas. In particular, I grew to enjoy cooking shows hosted by Alton Brown, Giada De Laurentiis, Bobby Flay, Anne Burrell, Alex Guarnaschelli, Ree Drummond, Trisha Yearwood, and, for a time, Paula Deen. My favorite, however, always was and remains Ina Garten and her show, Barefoot Contessa. When I met Bryce in the fall of 2009, my affinity for the Food Network and Barefoot Contessa was already well established. Like most new couples, we spent many an hour over the course of our first few dates talking about all of our passions and interests. We quickly discovered our mutual adoration for great food and drinks, new restaurant experiences, the Food Network, and Ina Garten, of course. She clearly surrounded herself with a host of fabulous gay men, and we both talked about our dream of joining her inner circle. Additionally, her call for the use of "really good" ingredients, like vanilla and olive oil, struck us both as evidence of her wealthy East Hampton lifestyle, one we both admired and envied. And her complete and utter love for her husband, Jeffrey, inspired us. As our relationship deepened, our idolization of Ina Garten continued. We recorded each new episode of her show, being sure to watch it together. When she popped up as a guest on the early seasons of The Next Food Network Star, we made sure to tune in. We also took turns presenting one another with each new Barefoot Contessa cookbook, highlighting new recipes we wanted to try and annotating the inside cover with little love notes equating our love with the love shared between Ina and Jeffrey. So, for me, the Barefoot Contessa symbolizes much more than my love of food and cooking. She, her show, and her cookbooks symbolize the life Bryce and I have built together as well as our mutual love for one another, from the earliest days of our relationship up until now. To imitate Ina's practice of asking rhetorical questions, how great is that? As an elementary-aged child, I never really enjoyed reading all that much. I would tackle books and assignments for school, of course, but I did so because I had to, not because I wanted to. The only books I remember truly enjoying and reading for fun were Garfield comic strip collections and many of The Berenstain Bears stories. I rarely found a book that sucked me in and in which I lost a sense of time and place. One that I could return to time and time again. That all changed somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12, when I discovered Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends.
That's not to say attempts were not made to get me to read more. I distinctly remember being in the fourth grade and my siblings and I receiving The Chronicles of Narnia box set as a gift. He instructed us to start the series by reading The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, which I did, and I loved it. But my trips to Narnia ended there, and to this day I have yet to read any of the other chronicles. Then there were The Little House on the Prairie books. As tried and true Minnesotans, my family gathered around the television every week to watch the network series based on the books and starring Melissa Gilbert and Michael Landon. I assumed because I liked the show that I would like the books. I was wrong. No matter how many times I tried to get through one of the Prairie novels, I'd give up and quit somewhere around chapter four. Perhaps a slight over-exaggeration, but it gets my point across. I really did not like reading books for fun. But then something happened I did not expect. Someone gave me a cassette tape of Shel Silverstein reading Where the Sidewalk Ends, and everything changed. I listened intently and giggled as he read about Melinda Mae (who ate a whale just because she said she would), Captain Hook (who must remember not to pick his nose), and Jimmy Jet (who watched so much TV he turned into a TV set). My favorite, though, was Sick, a poem wherein a young girl lists a great number of deathly ailments as reasons why she shouldn't go to school that day. Her belly button was caving in for goodness sakes! When she finds out the day was Saturday, however, she suddenly felt better, proclaiming "Goodbye, I'm going out to play." When I found out the audiobook contained only a sampling of Silverstein's poems, I knew I needed to read the others, and the only way to accomplish that was by acquiring a hard copy. Once I had Where the Sidewalk Ends in my hands, I read each perfect poem and studied each wonderful drawing, over and over and over again. A new found appreciation and love for the written word was born. I couldn't think of a more fitting way to officially kick off my Countdown to 40 than with Entertainment Weekly, a publication that has fueled my proclivity for best-of lists and kept me in the pop culture loop for more than 20 years.
After moving to west-central Minnesota from suburban Saint Paul, I felt acutely aware of how rural and disconnected from any sense of culture I was. Sure, we went to the movies and watched television, but as an over-dramatic and angsty teenager, I thought our new geographical location severely limited our access to what I considered the outside world. After all, I thoroughly enjoyed and had grown accustomed to the variety of programming offered by cable television in the Twin Cities area. The four local stations, or sometimes five, depending on the weather and position of the antenna, therefore just didn't cut it. Then there was our town's cinema. Though it gradually increased to include seven screens by the time I graduated high school, only three existed when we moved to the area. Adding insult to injury, many friends and relatives, including my older sister, still lived near our old hometown, and trips to visit them only exacerbated my sense of cultural isolation. Looking back, it's not surprising, then, that I often romanticized living a more suburban lifestyle, which would bring with it many of the cultural opportunities such a lifestyle could provide. When Entertainment Weekly came along, it superficially granted me access to the sense of suburban belonging I so badly wanted, and suddenly I felt much less alone and culturally uninformed. I eagerly anticipated the arrival of each weekly issue, without which I may not have heard about or seen films like Dazed and Confused, Trainspotting, or Velvet Goldmine. Nor would I have given Gilmore Girls or Sex and the City a chance. But the magazine also did more for me and my sense of self than I ever realized at the time, something subtle and perhaps wholly unintentional. In covering all things popular culture and generally throwing its support behind the entertainment industry, Entertainment Weekly introduced and reinforced the idea that being gay was okay, if not normal, and homophobia simply was not. For a not-yet-out teenager--heck, for a not-yet-aware teenager--those sentiments made a huge impact, even if only subconsciously at the time. I still read my Entertainment Weekly every week, though I've transitioned from print to electronic copies over time, and consistently rely on the movie reviews, often agreeing with them before ever seeing (or not seeing) a film. It doesn't hurt, either, that the magazine always seemed sympathetic if not approving of Janet Jackson. Still, the year-end double issue remains my favorite annual EW offering, primarily because it recounts the best (and worst) in the year's pop culture releases. A no-brainer for a pop-culture geek and list enthusiast, right? This March I turn 40. That's right, the big four-zero. An age that greeting cards, popular culture, and American advertising companies would have us believe marks the crest atop some proverbial hill of adulthood. One on which life and life experiences steadily decline afterwards, so much so that when we reach 50 years of age, society declares us officially over said hill. But you know what? I say phooey to that and refuse to subscribe to such an outdated and obsolete narrative. Truth be told, I'm neither nervous nor anxious for March 12th to arrive. Dare I say I'm slightly excited?
I have been thinking a lot about my looming birthday over the past few months--especially as more and more friends from high school and college cross that bridge ahead of me. Curious about their journeys, I like to follow my wishes for a happy birthday with a question about their newly-turned-40 perspectives. They consistently report the view from the other side of 39 is just as good, if not better, and brings with it a clearer vision of one's self. Which makes sense, when you think about it, as meaningful introspection tends to deepen with age. Maybe that's a good thing, too, since navigating the unmapped road of adulthood is singular to each person and takes years to figure out. Still, several questions keep returning to mind: what does it all mean, this aging process? Who am I, and how did I get to the brink of 40? Of course, the answers to these questions are equal parts exceedingly simple and immensely complicated. I am a son, a brother, a grandson, an uncle, a husband, a nephew, a cousin, a friend, a coworker. I grew up in Minnesota and lived there until I moved to Virginia in 2011 with my husband, which also tells you I am gay. I identify as Christian and believe with every fiber of my being that my religious beliefs and homosexuality are absolutely compatible. I think education is the single most important asset to a person's life. My favorite color is orange, my favorite season is winter, and my favorite foods are tacos, popcorn, and chocolate chip cookies. These are the easily identifiable answers to the questions I've been pondering about age, experience, and identity. Each simple answer also forced me to question the assumptions and understandings I held about my sense of identity and purpose. Then, to complicate things further, every time my path seemed straightforward and I thought I had figured out which way I was heading, I hit an unexpected turn. Or a switchback. Or a speed bump. Or a series of potholes. Or a five-point intersection. Maneuvering such obstacles, both seen and unseen, took and takes a certain level of maturity and perspective that only come with age and experience. Along the way, many family, friends, coworkers, and contemporaries helped me navigate the road before me. Sometimes they held my hand. Other times they pointed the way or offered suggestions and alternate routes. I think that's true for everyone, even if not always obvious and intentional. After all, one person never gets very far alone. Many wonderful people aided me on my journey and continue to do so. (A number of not-so-wonderful people pushed me along, too, but I'm an eternal optimist and like to focus on the positive.) There are also many people I've never met--some real, some fiction, some not even people--that helped me along the way as well, and I am not afraid to admit that they, as elements of pop culture, helped me through this life and world, too. Books and publications, movies, music, television, and video games all provided moments of self-discovery, motivation, reflection, and pure, unadulterated joy. It's an attribute specific to our late-twentieth and early-twenty-first century society that popular culture invades our lives, admittedly not all for good. But every once in a while a movie comes along that changes the way you see the world. A television show teaches you the value of friendship. A song tears at your heart, inspires you dance, or makes you believe you have perfect pitch, no matter how often you hear it. A book provides a passport to a world that pushes the boundaries of your imagination. A video game transports you to an alternate yet fantastic reality. An album gives meaning to your struggle and by doing so also gives that struggle a much needed voice. Yes, it is hard to deny the power of popular culture and its ability to shape and reflect our sense of self. And that's where my Countdown to 40 comes in. On the eve of this culturally-defined milestone, I want to take a look back at the movies, books, albums, songs, television shows, video games, and publications that carried me along the way or that I carried with me. So, beginning February 1st I will be reflecting on 40 of the most important, influential, and favorite pop references of my life so far. Then, each day until March 12th, the big day, I will post my thoughts on a particular movie, book, album, television show, video game, or publication that influenced my sense of self and why. Concurrently, I'll be counting down my Top 40 favorite songs of all time (as of January 2017--the list is never entirely set in stone). Because, let's face it, I'm a sucker for a best-of list and couldn't narrow things down to a single countdown. |
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I am a self-proclaimed pop culture geek and list enthusiast who is celebrating the big four-zero by counting down the most important, influential, and favorite music, movies, television shows, books, and video games of my life so far. Categories
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