I’ve referred you to Human Events Online’s list of the “most harmful books of the 19th and 20th centuries”. I’ve also referred you to the counter-list posted on the blog Ghost of a Flea, which lists what the Flea considers to be the most helpful books of the past 200 years. For the record, I agree far more with the Flea’s picks.
However, the books on both sets of lists are about Big Ideas:
large-scale concepts that often touch on our lives in a rather indirect
fashion. “Yes, John Maynard Keynes, Charles Darwin and John Stewart
Mill have all been important thinkers,” you’re probably thinking, “but
will they help me find a new job, get in shape or…you know, meet chicks?“
Okay, maybe you’re not thinking that. I’m not (anymore). But those of
us who are still eligible bachelors probably are. Looking through their
C.S. Lewis, they’re probably screaming “Dammit, Clive! Less tape, more screw!“
A friend of mine — a charming, perfectly nice, well-educated gentleman
to whom I’ll refer to as “Diego” — if asked to compile a list of
candidates for most harmful books of the 21st century (yes, it’s a
little bit early, but why wait?), would say that this book deserves the
number one spot:
Diego claims that He’s Just Not That Into You
has poisoned the dating landscape. The basic premise of the book is
sound: if a guy doesn’t put much effort into the relationship, it means
that he’s not into you. The problem, Diego says, is that the book
(whose popularity was no doubt helped by the fact that one of its
authors wrote for Sex and the City) has raised the bar on what one has to do to prove that he’s truly “into you”.
“Returning her calls, dinner and a movie — those used to be the
baseline,” he said, “but not anymore. Everything has to be a event. If
you haven’t somehow planned a date to be some kind of production, they think you’re just not trying hard enough anymore.”
After saying this, he put a bid on a hot-air balloon ride for two at the auction at the singles charity event we were attending.
A couple of women approached me at that point and asked if they could
touch my accordion. This led to a conversation to which I invited
another single gentleman friend of mine — whom I’ll call Bilbo — to
join. These days, I use the hook-up powers of the accordion to benefit
my single friends. The Universal Code of Dudes demands it.
Without the accordion, that conversation never would’ve happened. Yes,
I like to think I’m a sharp-looking fella who was snappily dressed at
the time, but it was a singles event where another fifty or so guys
were — depending on your tastes — equally handsome and stylish. If
the accordion didn’t give me some kind of edge and the ability to turn
ordinary evenings into unusual events (here’s an example), I wouldn’t drag its thirty pounds of bellows, reeds and mechanics whenever I went out on the town.
Maybe Diego’s right.
