Compendia

English novelist Nick Hornby has written some terribly funny and often moving novels, including About a Boy, that have been adapted for the screen and made into successful and charming films. My favorite of his novels (and of the films based on them) is High Fidelity starring John Cusack and directed by Stephen Frears (who also directed Cusack in the chilling and excellent film The Grifters). A good friend of mine finds Rob, the main character in High Fidelity, too much of a self-absorbed jerk to enjoy his story. I find the writing of the book and screenplay both so terribly funny and engaging, I can almost forgive Rob his bad behavior because he's got the right amount of charming self-loathing and occasional spot-on insight to keep me caring for him, and he does learn from his mistakes and try to make up for the harm he does to others. Supporting roles by the perfectly cast Tim Robbins, Todd Louiso and Jack Black are so entertaining that I never tire of their characters or characterizations. I watch this film at least once a year.

In the book and film, Rob, a miserable and directionless man in his thirties, owns a record shop and is always making top-ten lists of favorite songs for different modes and moods. Throughout the story, he expands the use of top-ten listmaking to encompass and explain most aspects of his life. Everything and everyone meaningful to him gets turned into a list eventually. To him, when getting to know someone, it's what they like, not what they are like, that matters. To Rob, people are their top-ten lists personified. As he works his way through one list in particular in an effort to understand how he made his way to the dead-end he seems to be in, he starts to realize how limiting his world view has been, how self-defeating selfishness is, and how he might be able to turn things around not by whining about his own needs all the time, but by standing back and considering how his actions affect others.

It strikes me that, to a certain degree, social networking sites and dating sites are of Rob’s mindset: answering questions and listing favorites does give others a flavor of someone's style, taste, interests, aesthetics, values, etc. But trying to create an avatar, a virtual online self, or a public profile based solely on such data often means skirting around issues that really matter and describing oneself by way of one’s stuff: one’s photos, favorite films and music and books, lists of one’s jobs or education or friends, etc. This can encourage a certain competitive "who's hipper?" element: do my favorite songs and movies have more indie credibility than yours? Is my mix of favorite books obscure enough but mixed with enough ironic popular reading to let you know that I'm deep yet insouciant, not really of this world but fully aware of it? Is my personal balance of vintage coolness and of-the-moment hotness sufficiently scintillating to lure the cognoscenti my way? It can be a selfish way of sharing.

Of course, such websites are marketplaces of flesh and ideas, and those who present themselves to the world on them are trying to put forward their best selves and appeal to the sorts of folks they think would captivate and entertain them in return. It's natural that most of us want to create an aura (often illusory) of confident coolness. Some sites appeal to those who don't WANT to fit in and be like everyone else; they encourage independent spirit and expression, which I like. The flip-side of such sites is a tendency for those who frequent them to focus so much on pointing out how they don’t fit into the real world that they can start to alienate others by not knowing when to stop adding unexpectedly piquant flavors to the basic vanilla custard of their profile. One never knows when the extra little tidbit thrown in, that last minor ingredient, will be the one thing that either thrills or turns off the coolest kid in the room.

Some folks overshare, others make laundry lists of things that are acceptable or terribly un, and others make bulleted lists of things that are strictly off-limits, making it clear that they will not tolerate any deviation from certain parameters in their friendships with others. Love them, love their tastes and guidelines. Others share very little of themselves and hope their inscrutability will draw in the curious and make them look ultradeep. Others are merely too lazy to flesh out their electronic simulacra.

I like profiles and pages that list lots of favorites and share enough information about their owners to challenge, entertain or delight visitors; I'm usually of the "more is more" school and like positivity and extras: I enjoy this, this and this, too! is more inviting than Please don't be this, enjoy this or do this. Minimalism (in design, music, writing or life) is great when the few elements showcased are of excellent quality, textural and tonal variety and are of enough interest to make one both energized and relaxed in their presence. However, having more details, more options, more positive pieces to work with, more parts to choose from so that the ones that don't work don't make up too large a portion of the whole, more topics that one can share, more foci to draw or repel one's attention—such an embarrassment of riches gives people more possible positive points of connection.

In this overcrowded yet lonely world, I rather like it when people offer their insights and interests up in profusion, so that, like a sampler platter, I can pick and choose from many options and focus on our areas of connection rather than disconnection.

What do you collect? Dreams, names, hopes, shells, books, sheet music, dust bunnies? You are not a list or a compendium of lists, I know. But what are you a compendium of?