Buffy The Vampire Slayer

May 27 - Some people just don’t get it. The obsession with pop culture, that is. They refuse to discuss Kant and "Blade Runner" in the same sentence. The rise of cultural studies is the scourge of Western Civilization, they sniff. Meantime, they’re sipping a Venti Mocchiatto with a twist of lime and pretending they’re in a Left Bank café when in fact they’re in one of the 164 Starbucks on any corner down the block.

WHEN YOU GET right to it, what’s the difference, really, among Britney Spears, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and Shakespeare? Are there qualitative differences? To be sure. But put an English professor, a twentysomething, and a 12-year old girl in a room. Place before them a copy of the "Complete Works of Shakespeare," a copy of a "Buffy" DVD and a copy of a Britney CD. The professor will talk about iambic pentameter, the twentysomething will end a lot of words with the "-y" suffix, and the 12-year-old will mimic to perfection the moves in the video "(Oops!) I Did It Again." Each will argue the superiority of his or her choice.

So, who’s right? Ridiculous question. It’s not a matter of right or wrong; it’s a qualitative opinion. In essence, the professor, the 12-year-old and the twentysomething come at their respective objects of affection with equal devotion. Must we respect their tastes? Certainly not. People are offended, however, not only by the cultural tastes of others, they are offended by the person harboring such delusions. The combination, apparently, is a package deal. Buffy’s baggage, for some people, is my baggage. I’ve seen it. Heck, I’ve dated it.

JIGSAW PUZZLE

What’s your poison?

Britney Spears "Buffy" Shakespeare

What’s your poison? * 4069 responses Britney Spears 21% "Buffy" 49% Shakespeare 30%

Survey results tallied every 60 seconds. Live Votes reflect respondents’ views and are not scientifically valid surveys.

It’s interesting to watch the cross-pollination, as it were, between the object of pop culture and the one who likes said object. In my own case, the best example of this is pro wrestling. I used to be quite defensive about watching it. Simply by tuning in, I was accused of encouraging misogyny, violence, and depravity. Heck, I didn’t put a super model through a breakaway table. Honestly. Wasn’t me. Or look at Marilyn Manson, who’s been accused of virtually causing the Columbine massacre. The link between the killers’ fandom and the killings was basic for many people. Never mind the millions of other Marilyn fans who never killed anyone. Juice: Missing ’Idol’ votes found in Indiana

Am I intrinsically linked to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," "Alias," "24," Phish, or Nick Hornby because I’m a fan? Do I have any autonomy from these tastes? I can’t imagine them as part of my DNA. The only connection is that something in each of these pieces of the culture speaks to me, emotionally or intellectually. There’s a social energy (to borrow a phrase from Shakespeare scholar Stephen Greenblatt) going on here, but it’s not quite the all-consuming symbiosis some people claim it to be. It’s more like a jigsaw puzzle.

Everyone’s tastes are shaped in a unique way, and sometimes the unlikeliest pieces fit into the culture puzzle of the psyche. Way back in 1935, for instance, the Warner Bros. version of "A Midsummer Night’s Dream," starring James Cagney as Bottom and Mickey Rooney as Puck, was nominated for a best-picture Oscar. When the movie had its premiere in Beverly Hills, audience members received (to quote David Niven) "an elaborate program embossed on the cover of which were four golden plaques, each containing a well-known profile: the three Warner brothers and William Shakespeare." So hey, I’m as surprised as anyone that I turn up the volume whenever "Cry Me a River" comes on the radio. A few years ago, I either would have fought the impulse or at least not revealed it to anyone. But why should I, or anyone, be embarrassed about my tastes? Why should we go out of our way to deny ourselves pleasure in the form of a song, book or movie that we really like? My own jigsaw puzzle dictates that a Coldplay song will resonate deeper within me than a Sean Paul jam, but sometimes I really like dance hall. I can appreciate watching a steel-cage match on RAW and realize that it’s not quite as satisfying as reading "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay." For other people, the only Clay they need is the one from "American Idol." Some people would love to believe that there’s only room for high or low culture, Placido Domingo or Roy Orbison. That would just be sad. If you can’t get up on a table and scream "Take On Me" at the top of your lungs with 15 of your new closest friends from the table nearby with the cute girl with the tongue ring, then you’re just not doing it right. Is it "Eleanor Rigby?" Jeez, it’s not even "Billie Jean." That’s not the point. At that moment, 16 of you are connected by something none of you can explain but all of you can feel. And it’s in those moments where culture itself - of all shapes, sizes, and demeanors - enters the collective spirit and prove its worth to us.