The comedian Todd Barry has a great bit on hanging out with the dread “we agree on everything” couple who “pretend to share the most obscure opinions in the world” as an over the top, contrived way of trumpeting just how miraculously intertwined their consciousnesses have become thanks to the Big L-O-V-E. Median interests do merge, of course, especially in marriage — that is if you want to create a home rather than two herds of competing hobby horses under a single shared roof. At the same time, individualism is the birthright of the bourgeois (see the fantastic Age of Abundance) and to completely undermine that, under whatever auspices, does a great disservice to the generations of those for whom individual pursuits, interests and rights were — and in many parts of the world still are — subverted to the all-consuming struggle to simply survive. Not to mention one of the great things about a long-term relationship is how differences in taste can broaden horizons, drag you out of self-wrought ruts, and, with surprising frequency, bring the funny.      

Last year, for example, in a piece I wrote for the now-defunct magazine Radar on extreme metal culture, I recounted a conversation in which I tried to differentiate for my wife the nuances between the death metal and grindcore bands I was about to go see:

My long-suffering wife, a financial attorney whose taste in music runs more toward the Decemberists and Built to Spill than Nasum and Tragedy, finds it difficult to take an interest in some of my interests, try as she might. 

“You must be excited to see Pig Destroyer,” she said as I headed off to last year’s Summer Slaughter package tour.

“No, it’s Cattle Decapitation,” I answered, perhaps a bit snippily. Does she ever listen to me? “Different band.”

“Wasn’t Pig Destroyer playing, too, though?”

“Actually, Cattle Decapitation is playing with … well, just plain Decapitation and Cephalic Carnage.”

“What’s ‘cephalic’ mean?”

“Um, head, I think.”

“Head carnage? Okay, have a … uh, good time?”

Likewise, this morning I somehow came to make a crack about Mario Van Peebles — that kinder, gentler cultural descendent of Richard Roundtree whose entire career has fairly screamed If only I came of age in 1971! Sadly for Mr. Van Peebles, my wife insisted I had invented the name and, so, a few hours later, disregarding the fact that she has, you know, a real job, I badgered her with an email linking to the African American star’s IMDB page. Subject line: Here’s the part where you apologize…

Her response?

I think I can be forgiven for not knowing the name of the star of the movie  How to Get the Man’s Foot Outta Your Ass, aka Baadasssss!, aka Badass, aka Gettin’ the Man’s Foot Outta Your Baadasssss! 

Umm…touche! I love my wife. Even more than Mario Van Peebles. What choice do I have?

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