I’ve never seen ‘Stranger Things’ and you oughta know why

I was at an early Halloween party when I saw the scariest thing of the entire spooky season. No, it wasn’t the two people dressed as Trump supporters, with the woman opening her bathrobe to reveal a, um, furry strap-on. (Is that bit of commentary somehow more inflammatory toward Trump-ites?) Instead, it was all my friends dressed as characters from Stranger Things. (Which I should have known given it was a themed party. To which I wore a pun costume.)

It was unsettling because as my closest buddies came to me to validate their handmade costumes, I could only stare blankly before muttering that I’d never seen the show. And as a member of a group of people who take pop culture consumption deadly serious, they reacted with equal parts disgust and pity. I probably would’ve gotten a better reaction if I’d dressed as a Hilary Clinton/Harley Quinn mash-up.

More spine-tingling, though, was that my revelation scared even me all but briefly. I like to have something to say about new pop culture because I excel at remembering useless stuff and I care a lot about Beyoncé and Batman comics. But what had turned into “I’ll get to the show when I’m not sick or moving or I’ve finished The Blacklist” had become an outright dismissal of this phenomenon. Between stuffing my face with candy and watching muted horror movies on TV, people tried to persuade me to give up my ignorance and embrace the fad.

“It’s soooo well written.”

“There’s, like, telekinesis in it!”

“The kids are precocious!”

“It’s just like stuff we watched as kids.”

“It’s only eight episodes, Coplan.”

Yet my friends’ pleas fell on severed ears. Because after thinking about my time in the pop culture shadow over a long train ride, I’m more than happy with being the strangest thing among my peer group.

Warning: Please don’t take the following as an argument for why you shouldn’t watch the show if you haven’t by now. I don’t want to tell you how to consume culture; this is just one man’s opinion and personal insights. Mostly, though, I don’t want to be responsible if your friends shun you on the spot.

My friends’ shocked looks and condemning stares made me feel as if I was being a purposeful contrarian. That’s not always the best way to operate, as I firmly believe that opening yourself to new shows and songs and ideas is the best way to learn and grow as a consumer. Only this time, I’ve gracefully accepted the label.

Partly because I like being difficult as a way of entertaining myself. But also because I think someone has to do it from time to time. Before this Halloween episode, I was the only person I knew of who actively disliked Radiohead. There are plenty of reasons why I’ve routinely shat upon the world’s biggest band, and the biggest holds true for ST: Someone has to be a counter-balance. If everyone in the world loves Thing X, then we don’t learn from it. We just applaud its existence, thank our stars every time we watch it or listen to it, and we’re incapable of understanding its greater value.

If all that sounds like a load of self-applauding malarkey, so be it; if people hate you then you’re only doing them a service. You’re forcing them to really analyze why they care about a thing in the first place. Why do you feel so strongly about it, and what does my refusal to embrace this (song, show, movie, etc.) say about your own feelings or perspectives? Do you need me to like something to reinforce your own opinions on said product? You’d be surprised at how agitated some people get when you say you don’t like or haven’t seen something they cherish.

If you’re doing it to be a jerk, then it’s meaningless. But if you have reasons why you might not want to engage, then there are lessons to learn. We as people, those who chow down on pop culture, can explore the gap between consumers and the opposing faction. It’s not about changing people’s minds, but giving people perspective. To ensure they have feelings about some piece of culture for reasons that uplift and celebrate good art, and not consumption for the sake of avoiding being bored or having to talk to your bae instead.

This isn’t all to say that I’ve 100% ruled out the possibility of coming to ST down the road. Because that’s very possible, especially given an extended period of boredom or I need something to tide me over till Narcos S3. But the idea of waiting 3, 6, or 9 months is somehow more appealing to me. If only for the simple reason that I can come to the show on my own time. Again, this isn’t to willfully be disengaged from the rest of the world, but there is something I detect among my friends’ interest in ST that I find unnerving. And not just because someone walked around all night carrying an Eggo box.

It’s the way they’ve all sort of clung to show, how they watched it alongside everyone else and now they can analyze it and obsess over it in this echo chamber. Nothing new comes from a collection of people screaming the same ideas into one another’s face. It has the tendency to allow a few good ideas to emerge, but everything else just becomes a wall of white noise. If I were to come to the show on my own, when people have stopped singing its praises or talking about it in think-pieces, there’s less of a chance I’ll be swayed by opinion or inundated with knowledge that would influence my viewing.

To use Radiohead again, I came to OK Computer years after most people had made up their minds; I got a chance to absorb the songs at my own pace, and in a way that made sense to me. I thought about them for what they were to me, at that very instant, and less about what other people thought or what these pieces mean to those existing fans. There is something pure about discovery on your own terms; I’m not forcing this thing into my life and instead let myself sip it slowly to decide if makes me feel happy/scared/angry or if I can reject it outright. In this way, I grew to appreciate OK Computer in a very specific way, and I have unique moments tied to a few songs.

For instance, I think about walking through the airport terminal on my way to Georgia, and how delighted I was, every time I hear “Paranoid Android.” My thoughts on the band haven’t changed, but I reached a middle ground because I followed my own way to these songs. That’s not to say I wouldn’t enjoy something if I followed the leader, it just feels like it happened when it was meant to. That’s the only way art can really live inside you meaningfully.

I’ve read enough (spoiler-free) reviews and essays on ST to have some idea of not only what the show is about, but what makes it so special to folks: it’s another profound exercise in nostalgia. There’s references in everything from Goonies and The Lost Boys to E.T. and Twin Peaks. I’m all for a walk down memory lane, but it seems some of my friends are ready to move to goddamn main street. Which makes me wonder: Do they like it because it’s good, or because it reminds them of something they love and find essential to their own pop culture DNA? I have no problem with that latter notion; I often think the only reason I love wrestling today is because it’s the first thing I fell into hard (and it’s something my father and I have always shared).

But this rampant nostalgia in recent years feels toxic to me, frighteningly counter to the creation of art. Not necessarily because aping stuff from the past is old hat, though there is a certain laziness to it. More so that keeping our eyes so intently on the past means less attention is paid on what’s new and fresh. To simply recycle motifs or props doesn’t leave enough space for us to explore emotions or sentiments that feel uncharted. That’s undoubtedly hard to do; as playwright Anton Chekhov once said, “There is nothing new in art except talent.” But to dismiss the journey of finding and cultivating new ideas and rely on things from the past just feels defeatist. If you’re not pushing boundaries and at least reaching at new emotions and perspectives, then the art you’re making is in service of something bland and safe.

Even this approach of remixing culture can be done expertly and without foregoing that sense of innovation. Case in point: This year’s new album from Brooklyn producer James Hinton (aka The Range), titled The Potential. Already a master sampler, Hinton took to YouTube to plunder random bits from singers and MCs, compiling the album into stirring, deeply textured pieces like “Five Four.” I don’t know any of the folks Hinton sampled, but there’s an inescapable sense of familiarity throughout the LP. Probably because he picked bits that strike at really basic emotions. Or that his approach — tumbling down YouTube for content — is something most of us have done. But part of Hinton’s skill, and the album’s ultimate success, is that these feelings of nostalgia aren’t overwhelming.

Maybe it’s because it’s all done with the tiniest of song pieces, and that means there is a pronounced disconnect between the larger material. It doesn’t change the fact that these songs hit in the same soft spot as ST does in other people. You can illicit those feelings in a way that makes people think, and doesn’t just reward them for recognizing your sources or influences. That to me is far more worthwhile, and makes me feel both smarter as a consumer and more thankful for these subtle tinges of awareness or recognition.

While I didn’t outright dismiss the possibility of coming to ST down the road, I still have to recognize that it doesn’t seem all that likely. Especially because most people will forget about it until just before S2 roars back. But also because there is a certain immediacy to pop culture. If something doesn’t hook you right away with its premise or content or basic approach, then it’s less likely that it will in a few months time. There is the option that you can change as a consumer, and your interests might at last align with the show/song/movie. But there’s only so much flexibility and leeway available, and it’d have to be a substantial shift on your end.

I look at it sort of like my relationship with Brussels sprouts: I didn’t like them as a kid, and even now as I recognize the importance of eating veggies, my stomach still turns when I see those leafy bulbs. It’s easy to think that this immediacy is a bad thing, as it locks people out based on something as arbitrary as their schedule or if they’re in the right place emotionally/mentally. But I also think that it’s an important part of how we interact with media. Stuff that hits us right away means we’re in tune with it, more willing to take the time to understand the nuances.

Dismissing a product outright, like ST, is just a good indicator that something was off, and that at the most essential of gut levels it was never meant to be. So often it seems like, especially since the rise of Netflix shows, people come to properties on the urging of friends. It’s cultural FOMO, and while that pressure expose people to great art, it’s just as essential to understand yourself and pay heed to how you feel about certain pieces of culture. That’s not to say you can’t analyze something suggested by friends, but it does help color your opinions at least in theory. I believe in myself as a discerner of what’s good or interesting, and I should trust myself to say “nope!”

In the middle of the party, everyone who wore at ST costume posed for a photo. I saw my friends goofing off, eating waffles and hit each other with faux baseball bats. They were stupidly happy, and not just cause they were together. But there was this thing they shared as a group, this silly, meaningless show about cute kids and alternate dimensions. Without getting overly sappy, it was a beautiful moment, especially in a time where Trump, killer clowns, and skull-shaped hurricanes have me dreading End Times.

I may not understand what it is they love so much, but the fact that they dressed up in celebration deserves my respect and admiration. That great art can be this huge force in the world. Maybe these products won’t save lives or cure disease, but they can offer the world a much needed tinge of magic.

Still, at least we all agreed that mini-Twix bars are the bomb.