“Top 10 Reads for the Summer”- “The Best Games of 2023, Ranked”
- “Twelve Items Every Pantry Must Have”
- “5 Movies You Need to See”
- “Seattle’s Best Restaurants”
There is no scarcity of voices eager to tell us what to do, what to like, what is good. “Listicles” abound, plastered with headlines shot through with words like “Best” and “Ranked.” But, “Best” according to whom? Who decides how these things are “Ranked?” Not me, for sure. Probably not you, either. But here’s the thing:
- I’m enjoying a book my friend didn’t like.
- The music I’m listening to is probably not on your playlists.
- I loathe brie cheese.
- A well-maintained and -manicured lawn is my idea of a crime against nature.
In other words, my tastes are different than yours, and yours are different than mine. And that’s okay.
My tastes in music, books, and cuisine aren’t better than anyone else’s. Yes, I was trained as a musician, have written novels, and have taught myself to be a better cook, but my personal likes and dislikes in these areas aren’t better. Obviously, they have been influenced by what I’ve learned, but they’re not better. “Better” presumes there is some Platonic ideal against which all others are found lacking, and while this might work for some objects, when it comes to things like sandwiches, it’s useless. There is no “best” sandwich. There’s just your favorite kind of sandwich. And there’s mine.
“Bestseller” doesn’t mean “best,” and it damned sure doesn’t mean you’ll like it. Neither do awards, kudos, upvotes, likes, retweets, or some stranger’s rankings.
Where there are quantifiable characteristics that can be evaluated, let’s compare and discuss them; we might learn something, see something we never saw before, and possibly modify our opinion. But when we’re dealing with the unquantifiable, when we’re talking about basic visceral likes and dislikes, we just need to chalk it up to personal preference.
I’ll enjoy what I enjoy, and you do the same. I won’t think less of you because you love brie cheese (though I may wonder how you manage it).
In short, I don’t want to yuck your yum.
k
My father was a painter. Oils, acrylics, pastels, charcoal, pen and ink, on canvas and on paper. By trade, he was a lithographer, but at home, he was a painter, and that’s how I always thought of him: as an artist.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 