Trope

By Paul Ford

I occasionally read a web essay or a newspaper article where a man—so far, always a man—owns up to the “guilty pleasures” on his iPod. You've seen this too? Kelly Clarkson, let's say. Or a song by Maroon 5.

The structure of the argument:

1. I, the author, am an extraordinarily intelligent and cool person;
2. But I do listen to music that is considered to be shit;
3. However, this music (pick one):
1. is actually good, and you, dear reader, are too much of a snob too enjoy it; or
2. is not actually good, but despite my impeccable taste I deign to listen to it for amusement.
4. In either case I am awesome.
5. Deerhoof.

Over and over editors commission this story. Over and over I read myself into a froth, sketching a mental picture of the essayist as a scruffy fucksimper who suffers from chronic index-finger-swelling brought on by speed-dialing through all the music he shat onto his 500G jizz-hued iPod. After he gmails his guilty-pleasure opus to his editbot, who will rewrite it into a charticle, he heads to the bar to meet a friend and pulls the pod from his pocket. “Bro,” he says to the friend, “you'll never believe how much Devendra Banhart I have on this thing. All of the Devendra in the world.” He touches the cool white control disc, swirling his finger teasingly, and his friend nods wide-eyed at the flashing list of songs—until finally they reach the end of the Devendra listing and wander into Devo, and then, consumed, they run to the bathroom and passionately tug each other's beards—“rejoicing in the hands,” it's called—until they both reach mutual, musical ecstasy and cry out from the sweetness.

But Justin Timberlake is not a guilty pleasure. Putting oven cleaner in your daughter's Similac is a guilty pleasure, or smearing birdseed on your balls and visiting an aviary. Having a thing for Sting's lutework—

Goddammit. As I was drafting this my web server, which resides in Texas, was hacked into by Spaniards. Spamming Spaniards, or at least someone coming in through a machine in Spain. Off I go to set up a new, clean, new device that will present more of a challenge to intruders. If this site disappears into the ether—it was nice while it lasted, and send all complaints to the mysterious Iberian IP address 213.37.214.109.