I'm really stuck in between a rock & a hard place on this one. So much so me scrotum is permanently twisted into a knot. You see, I pride meself as the purveyor of all that is cool & great in pop culture. Just like how Jeremy Clarkson dismisses certain cars as being uncool simply because the tail-light is two cms too long or because the engine note is a touch fruity upon acceleration. (It isn't just the Kelisa that has run foul of his cool-o-meter, certain Beemers & Ferraris have as well).
With moi, its more to do with film & music. Examples of the former - in the 'good' category of recent celluloid, Pan's Labyrinth; "a wonderful fable that sucks the audience into an enchanted kingdom like a bag of magic mushrooms". Bad, no make that effing terrible, Fantastic Four: "marvel team relegated to poor one-liner gags & over reliance on Silver Surfer coolness." Get the point?
Now, I am even more dismissive of other people's CD collections. I am the eternal critic, a Lester Bangs wanna be. American Idol's Daughtry? "As far as charisma-free grunge-lite goes, this definitely tops the table. If you want tune-free earnestness, go listen to any Pearl Jam album after 'Ten'." The problem that has gotten me balls in a jam is that my significant other wants to go for the . . . wait for it . . . Jackie Cheung concert. Noooooooooooooooo! (echoing into a deep, deep abyss)
If there is one thing I hate, no; despise , no; abhor . . . aaargh . . . you get the point, is fookin Canto-pop. Ok, I may be half-Chinese and have nary a spot of hair on me chest but that doesn't mean I have to put up with this shit. I don't fookin care Jackie effing Cheung is a "Hong Kong legend with xx number of albums". They are all shite! I do not care that he will change his costumes 500 times during a show and will be backed up by 1000 dancers! I am not gay!
The problem is I can't just put me foot down and say 'no' like a macho man. You see, me other half has been kind enough to follow me for certain gigs in the past by artistes she doesn't quite fancy herself. She points out the Al DiMeola show a few years ago where she fell asleep during one of his 20 minute extended jams. She also agreed to go for the recent Shakti gig even though she is not a terribly fond of John "Mahavishnu" McLaughlin's output (especially the fusion years which I use to torture her whenever her bastard man u wins). And she also agreed to go watch Napalm Death for a second time, though she's quite ok with this lot of heavy meisters.
She is after all, for better or worse, my wife. Though I don't recall the priest saying anything bout a Jackie Cheung concert. I am dreading the day. It will take hours to park & get good seats. It will take hours for the show to end. It will be hours before the pricks who have triple-parked move so you can leave. And on top of that, I will have to listen to two, maybe three, hours of quality-free muzak designed for fluorescent-stick waving teenyboppers.
If say 'no', it will forever blot me record book with her & I can forget winning any argument or have any chance of currying favour with her. On the other hand, if I go, at what cost to me mental health, and more importantly, to me status as a denizen of cool?
Talk bout lose, lose situation . . .