I slumped in line at Starbucks during my morning coffee break, desperate for my ritual fix of caffeine needed to get me to the afternoon coffee break. My ears piqued at the conversation of two young women in line behind me; it was more interesting than the narrative in my head castigating me for having a job where leaving to get a coffee is among the workday’s greatest thrills.
I decided to eavesdrop on the young’uns, hoping they might be good Millennial “snowflakes” and say something naive and ill-informed; that might make for a hearty, contemptuous laugh when I needed a momentary respite from the drudgery at my desk. I pretended to surf my smartphone so they would not cotton on and listened in.
They were talking about Tim Horton’s – another coffee franchise. Tim’s, as everyone calls it, was for many decades an iconic Canadian-owned brand. In keeping with current capitalist trends, it has since been bought out by billionaires from somewhere far, far away who will no doubt take the scandalous proceeds from selling swill and turd, and launder it further away still to avoid paying taxes.
Before Tim’s was sold off to the highest bidder, the chain had become a national treasure in the hearts and minds of Canadians, despite the consistently poor quality coffee and the negative impact of its doughnuts on the health of its customers. Tim’s is a case study in the efficacy of marketing strategies appealing to jingoism and Canadian affinities to baseless, sentimental tropes about who we are – hockey and friendliness paradoxically, prime among them (hockey is a sport where men skate around beating the crap out of each other in fist fights or with ‘hockey sticks’). Tapping into the endless feel-good well of such delusion helped Tim’s establish an almost cult-like brand loyalty among millions of patrons; a loyalty that absolutely requires its consumers to suspend their reason, judgement, and discernment about what they put in their bodies.
This is not me pointing a pretentious finger at others. Until I moved to a city that did not have one of the cultish coffee chapels on every corner, I too was a branded dupe. There were many days when, as I struggled to finish my graduate thesis, I fell asleep at my desk and woke up in a cold sweat yelling “Medium, double-double!” (For those not indoctrinated in the tongue-speaking of Tim’s, that is a medium coffee with two pumps from the cream-dispenser and two sugars.)
In any case, one of the two young’uns behind me said, “Hey, I love my Tim’s. I’m not a coffee snob.”
So, let me get this straight. Someone who, given the choice between a cappuccino made of fresh ground coffee beans exposed to the right amount of pressure, heat, and filtered water or a cup of Tim Horton’s made from low-grade coffee beans ground up and bagged seven weeks ago, sitting in a decanter that hasn’t been washed in three days, is a snob for choosing the cappuccino? That is some dicey logic m’lady.
I hear this kind of thing constantly in my town, one to which I have since returned after living in a vapid metropolis on the West Coast of Canada where only billionaires from China and the Gulf Arab states can afford to live. My hometown is a working class town, full of people who take pride in being no frills, regular Joes. We’re salt of the earth types. Those interested in hoity-toity, frou-frou, glitz are advised to make their way to Toronto.
Most days the aversion to all things ‘bling’ is what I love most about where I come from. If you’re a stranger or if you’re new to town, folks here will bend over backwards to help you out even if, at the outset, they don’t like the looks of you. If you’re standing at a bus stop you are guaranteed a conversation about the weather or the NHL hockey team. If you’re stuck in an elevator there will be no awkward silences because everyone will give their two cents on the situation. You will know every minute you’re not alone.
At the same time, beneath the folksy-town charm there’s a smothering, conformist leitmotif; one that is at times a little unhealthy and incredibly stultifying if left unchallenged too long. My fellow townsfolk love country music; not the Johnny Cash, Willy Nelson, Roy Orbison good stuff, but the schmaltzy pop-oriented stuff that country music purists agree sucks.
Folks here like getting shit-faced drunk, not as a by-product of an event where drinking happens, but as leisure in itself. Grown adults routinely indulge in binge-drinking rituals like college frat boys, dulling their consciousness with as much of the cheapest, skunkiest alcohol their meagre working class money can buy. Ten hastily consumed drinks into an evening, and they regress to their un-socialized, poorly-inhibited teenaged selves.
For some, weekend nights come to a raucous close with a clumsy flight down the stairs and an injury that lingers weeks longer than it did when they were spry sixteen year olds. For others, their bed for the evening is the chair they passed out in; at some point wetting their pants in their sleep, a fact that, unlike in our teenager years, will not only be remembered for posterity but documented too, on social media. Clinging to the edge of a toilet bowl as if it were a life raft is the customary Saturday night ritual. When townsfolk have to wake up for church a few hours later they cling to barf bags begging Jesus to save them from their hangovers.
Oh yeah, folks around here love Jesus as much as they do hooch. It is emblematic of formidable piety because folks worship hooch more than anything else in the world. Jesus, booze, and Tim’s elicit zealous affinities among my city brethren.
My prairie kinsmen love large, gas guzzling, parking-lot hogging, lane encroaching pickup trucks, even though most of us don’t haul bales of hay anywhere. We just like big trucks, probably because it is winter six months of the year and having a fuel-efficient sub-compact car is invitation for untold misery in the snow, ice, cold, blizzards, … etc. A sports jersey and baseball hat is the weekend uniform for men over the age of thirty-five.
People ’round these parts eat meat three, maybe six times a day. They have little tolerance with the self-righteous, tea-totalling vegetarians imploring everyone to eat kale, hug trees, read books, care about things besides hockey, and call cross-dressers ‘trans-gendered.’ We are blue-bloods. We love our trucks; we love our dad-bods with bulging waistlines and chins that multiply year after year until our necks disappear.
We love lining up for shit coffee. You get the idea. These are the run-of-the-mill things we do where I live.
Back in my twenties, I came up with a term for my hometown brethren who were ardent adherents to the ‘Tao of Red-neck’: “Ham’n Eggers”. I have heard local radio DJs use this term recently, a testament to how well travelled the moniker has become over the years. It is satisfying to have come up with a term of endearment for my hometown folk that others see fit to use. When I dashed off to the bougie west coast and was drowning in shallowness and materialism I grew to miss those pissed-drunk, bible-thumping, truck-loving, steak-eating Ham’n Eggers.
In other words, I don’t disavow local traditions from on high; I do not denigrate Ham’n Eggers. I love Jesus too, in my own Buddhist way. I love periodically binge-drinking, especially while watching Canada win another World Cup of hockey. If you need to drive through snowbanks to get to work, nothing gets the job done better than a half-tonne. I absolutely love ham and eggs for breakfast. It’s divine. If I could eat meat six times a day without becoming morbidly obese, I would, but I can’t so I don’t. It gives me a handy self-righteous brick-bat; the prospect of certain death by coronary disease incentivizes actions to decrease the chance of doing something to call me out as a hypocrite when I castigate others for being flesh-addicted cretins.
I love people in my town for who they are. My disdain for Vancouver and its vapid culture sets me apart as someone who has, despite my best efforts, been successfully inculcated by the ‘Gospel According to Ham and Eggs.’ I’ve lived in a big city with poseurs awash in fancy suits, name-brand gotch, who adorn their personas with elements of a fantastic life purchased on credit. It seemed mostly to impress the mirrors on the walls. Frankly, I much prefer the ham and eggs of my town.
On the other hand, affixing of the label “snob” upon those of us who embrace things not ham and egg is a bit passive aggressive, isn’t it? Throughout my life, I’ve been variously called out for liking classical music, reading books with no pictures, talking about philosophy, doing yoga, meditating, not really caring about professional sports, or having an avowed interest in what goes on in the world beyond the wheat fields hugging my town.
All along I’ve had to fend off the insinuation my interests were somehow fraudulent, part of an affected persona; that I chose the things I liked purposely, in order to be a contrarian. I am subjected to a variation of this riposte repeatedly, “Ooooh, this guy thinks he’s all fancy ‘cuz he knows stuff other than hockey fights and Duck Dynasty.” I think the word you were looking for, my ham and egg brother, is ‘pretentious.’
It strikes me as a shrewd way to enforce conformity. I’m not suggesting everyone has to travel the world, drink exotic Indonesian coffee beans at breakfast, or run to their nearest yoga shala for a moral cleansing. But the lack of curiosity in the flat denunciation of the difference is maddening – and is very commonplace among many folks who surround me. Instead of this: “You’re such a snob for not liking Tim Horton’s or Rascal Flatts” how about this: “Why would you say Tim Horton’s is shitty coffee and David Bowie is such a genius”?
My partner and I often tussle for control of the radio dial when we’re driving to or from work. She wants to listen to one of the fifteen Top 40 pop or country radio stations on the radio dial in my town, each of which plays the same twenty hit songs. These are the auto-tuned songs, the songs with beats ripped-off from samples of real artists, songs that transform the existential angst of life into campy pop-culture massacres; songs which, in a year, will compel everyone to stick an ice pick in their ears.
Sure, they’re filled with catchy beats that make you want to bop your head. They sound great in a night-club; they are ideal background music for the spectacle of lights and dancers who flank the pop star on their circus tour. But here’s the thing; they’re pop songs. They’re made to appeal to the most undiscerning base demographic of music listener in existence. They’re window-dressing in a whole genre of music that, on the whole, can be classified as “Music for people who give zero fucks about music.”
Hey, that’s okay. Not everyone has to care about music. That’s not the point. The point is that, just because this pop-culture sludge is rammed down millions of people’s throats, and because millions think they like the crap does not mean it’s good. Millions of people thought National Socialism and Bolshevism were good too, right?
The point is, those who listen to pop or whose tastes in everything else mirrors what the masses enjoy cannot claim to have discerning taste. Their faculty of judgement, dulled by the fact of its mass-production is, as we Ham’n Eggers like to say, “As useful as tits on a bull.”
Eventually my partner shakes her head. She is incredulous I am insinuating, yet again, she has bad taste. She is a good sport about it. I dig a little deeper into my foxhole with explanations and rationalizations to try and talk my way back into her heart. I provide logically defensible reasons why her taste in music is terrible. As the look on her face becomes more and more stone-like, my neurosis about the fact I will not be having sex for a few days stirs panic. When I am in the grip of neurosis run amok, my mouth flaps so quickly it causes tons of damage before my brain can find the off switch.
“Okay, so we’ll be listening to Justin Bieber and Hedley in two-hundred years like we’ve been listening to Mozart, right?” I say. “Heck, even forty years from now, do you think we’ll be listening to Selena Gomez and Rihanna like we’re still listening to the Rolling Stones and John Coltrane!” I implore.
Ultimately I retreat from the fight. Fine. I’m a music snob. I am making her feel self-conscious about her taste in music, which she conflates. Do I also think she has bad taste in clothes? What about her family? Are they bad too? Is anything about her good? Without saying it directly, I think she is intimating that I am man-splaining! Me?! A man-splainer? No! I am just trying to gently tell her her music totally sucks. Every time I have to hear it a part of me dies.
I brace for a chilly evening and sex involving baby oil, Google, and more self-love than I can usually muster.
Okay so I guess there is no measure for anything. I guess anything we do to occupy the excess hours of our existence – playing video games, masturbating, watching the seventh remake of a comic book movie – is inherently enriching. I guess those who read nothing other than Twitter feeds are right to claim their opinions on world affairs, the economy, and climate change are as valid as those who spend their lives immersed in any of these fields.
Really? Let’s get serious. The idea those who swaddle themselves in the vacuous chimera of mass culture to the exclusion of all else possess authoritative views in matters of taste, or anything else, is totally fucking absurd.
Hey, I’m no less capable of guilty pleasures than anyone else. I grew up with a single mother whose most reliable babysitter was the television. I ate that shit up. Escaping into re-runs of The Big Bang Theory is a great way to avoid the reality that the life of the modern, middle-class adult is a Sisyphean nightmare compared to the lives our far less-educated, less-indebted, less burnt out Baby Boomer parents enjoyed – the ones we personally witnessed growing up. Soulless, mind-numbing junk is an easy salve for the nagging pain of existence.
At the same time, I would never say someone is a “loser” or something similar if they said Homeland sucks. I wouldn’t defend my taste by turning their opinion around on them. In the grand scheme, television is drivel; a truism that counts even for well-acted, suspenseful, and relevant dramas. I harbour no delusions to the contrary, a fact that is readily apparent by the low tolerance my stimulus-craving brain has for it. My curious mind quickly tires of the formulaic, clichéd, derivative heaps of manure most television programs cultivate by the truckload.
Curiosity; that faculty of mind distinguishing human beings from apes and pigs. It’s what compelled humans to invent the tools of modernity that have made our lives infinitely easier than those of our ancestors: the combustion engine, electricity, airplanes, computers, and so forth. It’s a mental faculty that has proven instrumental to our continued survival; one whose slow death our culture celebrates. Every day I am beholden to countless instances of Westerners pissing on the grave of the one virtue that secured our place at the top of the food chain: human wonder.
Throughout history, there are scores of examples where absolute rulers have sought to cast a pall of ignorance over the masses. How did they do this? They withheld education, books, and sought to control the information available to them. In lieu of power and participation in the fate of the nation, they gave them bread and circuses to pass the time. The despots of yore knew ignorance was more powerful than a loyal army to keep the masses subdued.
A mind engaged inevitably comes to be a mind that reflects; one that is prone to ask “why are most of us struggling and poor while that small batch of billionaires is getting richer every year?” Minds habituated to reflections of that nature are not as easily swayed by the answer, “Don’t worry struggling middle-class peon, the wealthier we billionaires are, the better off you will be. Eventually. Just wait a little longer.” Only those whose wits have been irrevocably dulled after years of sloth and torpor indulged in front of the television would be satisfied by such incredibly foul, deranged horseshit.
This is what gets my back up about the “snob” comment, especially when it’s wielded against anyone or anything that smacks of intellectual discernment. It is symptomatic of the anti-intellectual fervour that has cast a long shadow over North American culture for decades; since the senile guy who once starred in Bedtime for Bonzo became the most powerful puppet in the Western world. It’s a catch-all ad hominem that allows for the quick dispensation of arguments too complex for addled, lazy, ignorant minds to apprehend. “Climate change? Universal medicare? Billionaires paying taxes like me? Pffft, what a lib-tard,” is what results from decades of elites doing everything in their power to whittle away institutions that diminish ignorance and sharpen minds. Our nations are beset by structural issues that need solutions from elected officials with intelligence, integrity, and wisdom. The electorate must be capable of discerning when such a rare creature bravely leaps out of the woodwork; they must be able to separate the wheat from the chaff.
With collective consciousness at its intellectual nadir, it becomes possible for a corrupt huckster like Donald Trump to stand as a legitimate candidate for President of the most powerful, wealthy, and influential nation on the planet. When I heard he had the audacity to seek the nomination, I thought he would have been laughed off the stage. It’s one thing for an unprincipled, lying, megalomaniacal blowhard to toot his horn so as to fatten his wallet. I don’t like it, but I can’t fault a guy for fooling suckers out of a billion bucks, but presuming to seek the honour and privilege of the Office of The President of the United States? You’re fucking kidding right?
Yet there he is, the guy with the skin tone of a Cheetoh and the most ridiculous haircut of any celebrity has corralled legions of dupes into believing he would be a good custodian of US trade and foreign policy. It is unbelievable. He is the one politician without the shame enough to lie about his misogynist, Muslim-banning, chest-thumping, race-baiting, and total ignorance about the world around him. The only thing he continually lies about is his net worth, which is telling about where his priorities lie. He’s not running to serve Americans, he’s running because it is great fodder for the next reality television program he wants to produce.
The lack of discernment in matters of taste has overtaken the electorate’s capacity to discern what is or isn’t politically in their own interests; has rendered them incapable of adjudging incompetence when it is standing right in front of them frothing at the mouth. Donald Trump perfectly reflects America’s cognitive descent down the rabbit hole of absurdity, a place where the more daft, emotionally-stunted, and incapable of thinking things through a person is, the more approbation they enjoy. The American elite has steered their countrymen towards this dubious place by serving the same shit coffee incessantly, wearing down the will of resistance to the affront not with reason, but with the kind of persistence only money can buy. Trump embodies the cultural atrocity of absolute collective ignorance sown by the American corporate elite – Republicans and Democrats alike.
Closer to home, many of my fellow Ham’n Eggers swallow the turd in a cup about how taxes, government, and immigrants are bad. They believe it because the guy on television said so; and they took him at his word because he is a WASP male who looks more like them than the other “snowflakes” decrying the heinous tactic of spinning fascistic propaganda and spewing divisive vitriol just to win votes. All the while, exponential growth in corporate wealth and executive incomes despite increasing poverty and inequality seem perfectly normal. Nobody believes the outrage about the system being rigged by those with money for those with money because they are too busy watching reality television; watching professional athletes bash each others’ heads in to critically examine the racketeering and corruption rings the guys in the suits at the country clubs have been using to rake it in all these years.
For a long time folks have been consuming cups and cups of shit coffee served up on a shiny platter suggesting it is good for us. The longer we’ve been choking it down, the less bitter the taste. A diet of such deprivation cultivates a mind to the taste of shit until it stops pining for something more wholesome and true. A mind thus malnourished believes the common sense dogma aimed at convincing the ninety-nine per cent to be happy eating shit and dying without ever having won the grace of government favour to improve their chances of tasting something a little better.
Next time you hear someone say “That cuppa Tim’s sucks” try to restrain your instinct to defend the turd. Don’t automatically succumb to your impulse to silence the differing view by uttering slurs like “snob” or “bleeding heart liberal.” Don’t believe the hype; it will dull your capacity to adjudge the shit coffee and fascist demagogues as terrible for your soul and your country. Instead, listen to your fellow citizens who, despite being fed the same shit, were able to find something else that tastes so much better, whose ability to adjudge the taste of the popular swill a little more critically was not dulled by their ignorance of the alternatives. They were driven by their curiosity to search out the possibility of something different and better and what they learned is how easily we can be fooled into believing what is false and reprehensible as virtuous and true.
In the end, I’d rather be a snob than a fool. Enjoy your shit coffee like the rest of the mob if you really want to. The billionaires are ecstatic you are bamboozled by the shiny platters and continue to buy it. Your strong affinity to things that increasingly dull your mental capacities, your skepticism of those who are able to know shit when they see it, will fill their pockets with your shit-eating money.