Kenny G, Pineapple Pizza, and the Art of Being Disliked

Kenny G, Pineapple Pizza, and the Art of Being Disliked
Photo by Parker Hilton / Unsplash

It was during one of those interminable, bouts of treadmill that my radio based playlist decided to have with cosmic DJing. The track: "Quasimodo" by Lifehouse—a band I'd hitherto associated with the sort of earnest, vaguely spiritual alt-rock that served as the sonic wallpaper for every CW drama circa 2002.

The treadmill is a dangerous place: it has a way of stripping away your carefully cultivated cynicism, leaving you raw and receptive to even the most mainstream of musical messagery. And so it was that I found myself actually listening to Jason Wade's lyrics, which reimagine Victor Hugo's bell-ringing outcast as a poster child for radical self-acceptance.

There's this verse that goes:

Does it scare you that I can be something different than you?
Would it make you feel more comfortable if I wasn't?
You can't control me
And you can't take away from me who I am

Now, I'm not typically one for literary analysis via pop music (Could you imagine it? "Teenage Wasteland to Spiritual Yearning: A Postmodern Analysis of Adolescent Angst in Turn-of-the-Millennium Alternative Music."), but in my defenseless state, these lines struck me like a gargoyle dropped from Notre Dame Cathedral's bell tower. Here was Quasimodo essentially giving a giant middle finger to societal expectations and the suffocating desire to be liked.

This lyrical epiphany collided in my treadmill induced trance with a quote hidden in the deep recesses of my cortex:

You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, some time in your life.

Initially, I'd attributed this to Winston Churchill, because apparently, my brain likes to imagine history's notable figures walking generating quotes (instead of doing the things that made them historic). But no, it turns out it was Victor Hugo himself who penned these words—the same Hugo who birthed our hunchbacked hero.

The synchronicity was almost too much for my magnesium-deprived neurons to handle. Both the song and the quote seemed to be tag-teaming my psyche, forcing me to realize an uncomfortable truth:

I had become pathologically terrified of being disliked.

And this realization, dear reader, was the beginning of a journey down a rabbit hole of self-reflection so twisty and turny that Lewis Carroll reached for Dramamine.

Now, I don't mean the garden-variety desire to be liked that most functioning members of society possess. No, this was a full-blown, metastasized form of approval-seeking that had spread to every corner of my psyche. I found myself performing mental gymnastics worthy of an Olympic breakdancer, constantly calculating the potential like/dislike ratio of every word, action, or decision.

"But surely," you might be thinking, "this level of social hypervigilance must come with some benefits?" And you'd be right, in the same way being perpetually on fire would make you really good at stop, drop, and roll. Sure, I'd become a master of social lubrication, capable of navigating the most treacherous of interpersonal waters with the grace of a diplomatic dolphin. But at what cost?

The cost was authenticity. Or to put it in terms our friend Quasimodo might appreciate: I'd become so focused on not ringing anyone's bell the wrong way that I'd forgotten how to make any music at all.

Let's look at that quote again:

You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, some time in your life.

"You have enemies?"

Enemies.

The word itself seemed to carry a weight, a gravitas that "people who don't like you" lacked. It implies action, conviction, a willingness to plant your flag on the hill of your choosing and defend it, popularity be damned.

And here I was, a grown adult, still desperately trying to be the metaphorical equivalent of a benign, beige wall – inoffensive to all, memorable to none. I had effectively made myself the human version of unseasoned mashed potatoes at a potluck dinner.

It was time, I decided (in that way one makes grand, sweeping decisions when walking for nearly an hour and going nowhere), to learn how to be disliked. To embrace my inner Quasimodo, hunch and all, and ring my bell without fear of who might cover their ears.

But how does one go about developing this skill? It's not exactly something you can sign up for at your local community college ("Intro to Being Disliked 101, Tuesdays and Thursdays, bring your own emotional armor").

What are the things in my life that I'm willing to be disliked for?

It is the kind of question that, once asked, burrows into your brain like an earwig, setting up camp and refusing to leave until properly addressed.

So, there I was, at what felt like 2 miles, embarking on a sort of impromptu vision quest in the confines of my own gym. The goal: to excavate from the depths of my people-pleasing psyche at least three things I'd be willing to stand firm on, even in the face of potential social ostracism.

My peculiar taste in music

Now, this might seem like a softball to start with, but hear me out. In a world where musical preference has somehow become a personality trait, admitting that you unironically enjoy, say, the oeuvre of Kenny G, is tantamount to social suicide in certain circles. (I'm not saying these circles are right. I am saying admitting you have Kenny G's "Songbird" on your workout playlist is a surefire way to get some very concerned looks at your next dinner party.)

But the thing is: I'm tired of pretending that my playlists are expertly curated mixes of obscure indie bands and critically acclaimed jazz virtuosos. The truth is, it's a chaotic jumble that veers wildly from Mongolian throat singing to bubblegum pop to yes, the occasional Kenny G saxophone solo. And I'm ready to own that, side-eyes and judgmental eyebrow raises be damned.

My stance on pineapple on pizza

I know, I know. I've entered dangerous territory here. Few culinary debates inspire as much passion and vitriol as the great pineapple-on-pizza schism. But I'm planting my flag firmly in the pro-pineapple camp, and I'm prepared to defend this hill to my last breath.

There's something beautifully subversive about the combination of tangy-sweet pineapple with salty ham and cheese. It's a middle finger to culinary orthodoxy, a rebellion against the tyranny of traditional toppings. And if liking it makes me a pariah in certain pizza purist circles, so be it. I'll wear my pineapple pizza preference like a badge of honor. Besides, if pineapples grew in Italy, they'd have found their way onto a pizza.

My belief in the importance of admitting ignorance

This one's a bit weightier, but stick with me. We live in an age where everyone's expected to have an opinion on everything, preferably expressed in 280 characters or less (I've apparently missed that lesson). The pressure to appear knowledgeable about every topic under the sun is immense, and admitting ignorance is often seen as a sign of weakness.

But here's my controversial stance: I think there's immense value in saying "I don't know" or "I don't understand" (or "I don't really have an opinion"). It's not a failure of intelligence, but a recognition of the vast expanse of human knowledge and the impossibility of mastering it all. It's an invitation for learning, for dialogue, for growth.

And yet, I've lost count of the number of times I've nodded along in conversations about topics I barely grasp, terrified of appearing uninformed. No more, I say! From now on, I'm embracing my ignorance, wearing it proudly like Quasimodo wore his hunch (With less bell-ringing and more awkward pauses in conversation as I admit my lack of knowledge about the intricacies of 15th-century Flemish tapestry weaving techniques.).

Contemplating this trio of hill-to-die-on candidates, I can't help but notice a common thread running through them. Each, in its own way, was a small act of authenticity. A tiny rebellion against the suffocating pressure to conform, to be palatable, to sand down my edges until I fit neatly into the box of social acceptability.

And you know what? It felt... good. Liberating, even. Like I'd been holding my breath for years and was finally allowing myself to exhale.

Of course, the cynical voice in me (a particularly loud voice when the treadmill is running) was quick to point out that these revelations were all well and good in the safety of my own mind, but putting them into practice in the harsh light of day was another matter entirely.

But maybe, just maybe, that was the point. Maybe the willingness to be disliked wasn't about grand gestures or dramatic stands. Maybe it was about these small, everyday acts of authenticity. The courage to let your real self peek out from behind the carefully constructed facade, even if only for a moment.

As time remaining finally started dwindling, I found myself humming the Lifehouse song that had started this whole existential journey. "You can't take away from me who I am," indeed. Perhaps it was time to figure out who that actually was.

I'd like to say this treadmill epiphany led to an immediate and dramatic transformation. That I leapt out of bed, strode into the world, and began boldly declaring my love for Kenny G and pineapple pizza to anyone who'd listen (and many who wouldn't). That I became a paragon of authenticity, fearlessly embracing my inner Quasimodo and ringing my metaphorical bells with abandon.

But the truth, as it often is, was far less cinematic and far more mundane.

Instead, I found myself standing in line at my local coffee shop later that morning, absently humming "Songbird" under my breath. The barista, a young woman with approximately 17% of her head shaved and an impressively intricate sleeve tattoo, cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Kenny G fan?" she asked, her tone hovering somewhere between amusement and disdain.

And in that moment, I felt it. The old familiar panic rising in my chest. The desperate need to backpedal, to explain, to make myself likeable. To sand down this jagged edge of my personality until it was smooth and inoffensive.

But then I remembered. I thought of Quasimodo, of Victor Hugo, of the freedom that comes with authenticity. And I took a deep breath.

"Yeah," I said, meeting her gaze. "I am, actually."

She stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. "Huh. Weird. But cool that you own it. What can I get you?"

The world didn't end. I wasn't struck by lightning. The floor didn't open up and swallow me whole. Life simply... went on.

It was a small moment, barely a blip in the grand scheme of things. But as I sipped my coffee (which, for the record, I ordered exactly as I liked it: black), I couldn't help but feel a small sense of victory.

One tiny act of authenticity down. A lifetime to go.

How many other people were out there, sanding down their edges, hiding their Kenny G appreciation and their pineapple pizza preferences. How many were suffocating under the weight of projected expectations, terrified of being disliked?

What would happen if we all just... stopped? If we embraced our inner Quasimodos, hunches and all. If we stood up for something, even something as seemingly trivial as our taste in music or pizza toppings.

What kind of world would that be?

I don't have the answer. But with "Songbird" now playing unabashedly through my headphones, I can't help but think it might be a world worth exploring.