4. TASTE

Going diary-mode...

Wemby last night (2026), iPhone

I often feel like a prisoner of taste in that I find it hard to have meaningful relationships with anyone whose taste differs significantly from mine. This is something I don’t want to be true, because it feels superficial, so I’ve often put it to the test, ending up in relationships with people whose taste I find puzzling—only to confirm the profound alienation the disparity evokes in me.

I mean mostly taste in culture with a narrative element (movies, books), not pure aesthetics, because those are the forms I care about the most. I don’t need total alignment so much as shared enthusiasm, faith in the other person’s curiosity about things I’m also curious about. Intersubjectivity is impossible, so why not make things a little easier by both loving The Leftovers?

But sometimes I see my desire for this type of compatibility as an obstacle to connection. I have an idea in my head about the people who care less about taste than I do: they’re a happier lot, more blithely accepting, the kind of people who laugh easily and have a constant rotation of eight-person dinner parties. They are more loving and so more deserving of love. I think/know this fantasy speaks more to the intellectual desire to reason your way out of your feelings—as if understanding the reason for your solitude will soften it—but still.

I say all this because I realized recently that basketball is an incredible exception. My reaction to difference in basketball is way more connective than it is in other narrative forms (and yes, I would consider basketball a “narrative form.” It’s about the stories, you guys). This is a shocking departure from my usual form, which in and of itself is a gift.

I still feel the thrill of tribalism when people love the same players and teams that I do for the same reasons. And I still find it frustrating and baffling to talk to someone who, say, sincerely loves James Harden, but it’s frustrating in a way that feels exciting, a wounded attachment that nets out to a feeling of closeness. I would be genuinely curious (if confused) to hear from someone who loves OKC in a way that I would not be about someone who loves the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

My ire, when it exists, lands on teams and players, not fans (unless they’re just total assholes). For example: “corny” is a word I keep hearing in the discourse these days, this era’s “cringe,” a semantic clearing-house for any sentiment that you want to avoid. While I can’t imagine ever fucking with someone I find fundamentally corny, I have a weird tolerance for the NBA equivalents. Go with God, Jayson Tatum; he’s not for me, but I can see how the thrill of everything else that man can do would absolve him and blind a Celts fan to what I consider to be his black hole of charisma. I mean, I like Tyrese Haliburton.

The only other way I practice this brand of peaceful acceptance is with music. When someone likes a song I don’t, it never feels personal and I’m happy for them. Still, I wouldn’t say I feel particularly connected to Mumford and Sons fans; whereas with ball, I do care on some level about every sicko.

I guess this is what everyone always talks about when they talk about sports: the chance to engage in a low-stakes environment with a massive tent and marvel at the ability to “find community.” Last night, I went to a Clippers-Spurs game here in LA and I felt more warmth for a pair of snickering frat bros behind me in line than I ever thought possible.

It helps that analysis is often beside the point. Attention and curiosity take different forms— passion trumps opinion, despite the endless hot take factory of basketball media that tries to threaten that basic truth. And as someone who feels a lot of pressure to be verbal, I can’t stress the relief I feel in the moments when I can find expression outside the verbal, of which basketball is a main outlet. (Also why basketball is like sex… but that’s a discussion for another time…).

I mostly communicate about hoops by texting a handful of straight male friends, and while we’re often sending takes and memes and tweets, the real thrill is in catching a random game on a Tuesday night and live texting about it. The transcript of these exchanges is loose and pure, a series of “wtf/holy shit/omg/whyyyyy,” non-verbal in essence despite being literal text. The point is not to be thinking, thank God.

None of this makes me want to translate this ethos into the rest of my life. I value taste too much, as much as I do the opportunity to break free occasionally of its shackles. I can’t get excited about every man who also likes Movies, and you can’t convince me that’s a moral failing. But it’s nice to know that I can talk to him about the Lakers. Maybe that’s enough.