Things I dislike for no apparent reason:
Norah Jones. Sometimes I can almost appreciate her, but then the next time I hear a song of hers, I can only hear Buffy’s alternate lyrics (or alternate lyric meanings) and I can’t take it seriously. Or I just feel like I want the song to hurry up and get to the point.
Swiss Cheese. I’m sure there’s a time and a place for this cheese. I had fondue once that was made with Swiss and it was pretty okay, but the rest time I think that it’s a little creepy, kind of rubbery and it has no flavor but a terrible aftertaste. Also, it kind of reminds me of when you leave cheese on the counter for a little to long and it gets those greasy bubbles on its lukewarm surface.
Angelina Jolie. I’m not really interested in if she broke up Aniston and Pitt, nor do I really care about how Maddox’s adoption and Pitt’s love saved her from her self-destruction and cured her habit of carrying blood in a vial around her neck. I’m also tired of her being touted as such a busy mom when her six children have a matching set of six nannies (yes, I know, they probably don’t all work the same shifts, still.) Every time she does some huge great work or saves one more child through a highly publicized transaction, I throw up in my mouth a little. A lot of people adopt children without any fanfare, even famous people. Edie Falco (of the Sopranos) adopted two children very quietly, and I applaud her for it.
Music in concert. I once truly enjoyed an Ingrid Michaelson concert with Buffy. It was at a tiny theatre and we had decent seats which we remained in the whole time, we laughed through the entire opening artist, we had dinner out afterwards and Ingrid sang every one of my favorite songs and none of her sad ones. Other than that, concerts have too many people packed too close together for comfort, swaying or dancing or stumbling or jumping. I prefer my music at home, when I can make dinner or finish a project or write a blog post (or a novel, someday) at the same time. Standing in a dirty venue in the dark wondering how many more songs they’ll play before I’m released is not the best way for me to spend $20.
Internet companies that publically declare bankruptcy and then call several times a week to attempt to sell you more of their services than you are already forking out an arm and a leg for. Enough said.
Christian romantic fiction. I’m sure there’s some good stuff out there (I would suggest Foreign Bodies, by Hwee Hwee Tan as an example of an exceptional novel about Christianity without being preachy or ridiculous), but it is so hard to find. The cliche story lines about men and women whose dramatic conversions coincide with the appearance of Mr. or Ms. Right in their life, the long preachy sections (Lori Wick, anyone?) where you’re pretty sure they just copied their sermon notes into the text, or the cozy little married couple who orchestrate the romance of their friends from the comfy safety of their marriage bed. (Seriously. Do married couples in Christian romance ever have conversations with each other outside of their bedrooms?) Even realism in the genre is unreal. Depression, grief, loss, pain, anger, disunity – when you sand away all the gritty reality of them into something palatable for your audience, it also loses its poignancy and ability to resonate within our lives. (Hmm. I have some more thoughts on this. I might have to address them later.)
I have side-tracked myself with another discussion in my head, so I’m just going to call these it for today. Perhaps I should make some more bread.