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Is There a Gene for Tackiness?

When I was a freshman at Rutgers, back in the late Neolithic era, I intended to pursue a career in biology. I was happy studying mitochondria and brachiopods and the discarded Lamarckian theory of evolution. (Lamarck postulated that giraffes developed their long necks simply by stretching for food in the treetops, generation after generation. The neck-stretching giraffes gave birth to longer-necked offspring, and so on down the line. I'm not sure Lamarck was entirely wrong -- how else to explain why pop music gets a little more obnoxious with each generation?) Anyway, I might have gone on to become a practicing biologist, complete with a Ph.D. and a white lab coat -- until I discovered that sophomore 'bio-sci' majors were required to take organic chemistry as well as a notorious GPA-killer called quantitative analysis. Freshman qualitative analysis had been terrifying enough; no way was I going to quantify something I couldn't even qualify. So I did what any practical-minded, survival-oriented student would have done in my place: I switched my major to ancient and medieval history. Now, all these eons later, I sometimes regret my decision. Biology would have been a stimulating and useful occupation. And being a cynical biologist might have been almost as much fun as being a cynical columnist.

As a biologist with a bilious view of contemporary popular culture, I might have devoted a few years of my career to unlocking one of our most perplexing scientific riddles: the origin of bad taste. Think about it: we humanoids are purportedly the most intelligent and sophisticated life-form ever to ride on this endlessly spinning planet, yet we're the ONLY life-form that has seen fit to create plastic lawn ornaments. You don't see male aardvarks wearing gold chains or pinkie rings; you don't see three-toed sloths hanging black-velvet Elvis paintings in the treetops. Most of the so-called lower animals have the taste and restraint to shun martial-arts movies and all-night bimbofests at the Playboy Mansion. Bad taste is an exclusively human enterprise. Only our particular breed of higher ape could possibly have designed the hellish wasteland of a suburban highway strip or the grotesque amusement park known as Las Vegas. Yet even within our generally taste-impaired species, we see occasional examples of human-engineered beauty and refinement that transcend the norm for benighted humankind. The Parthenon, the paintings of Vermeer and the poems of Keats tell us that we're not totally shabby. Even in the realm of pop culture, we can point to stellar examples like 'Citizen Kane' or the brilliant early recordings of Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five. So how does a scientific mind go about isolating the origins of crap?

It's tempting to speculate that some groups are more immune than others to the shame of congenital tackiness. You could formulate the hypothesis that women are more tasteful than men, for example, and you'd have plenty of evidence in your favor. After all, whenever you encounter a stuffed moosehead above the fireplace, or beer cans piled high in the window, or a six-foot-wide TV screen clinging to the living room wall, it's safe to assume that someone on the premises carries a Y-chromosome. But I can point to examples of equally wretched taste that are almost exclusively feminine, like decorated three-inch fingernails, metallic blue eye-shadow, unicorn art or Princess Diana commemorative plates. So we can safely conclude from my evidence that bad taste is not a matter of gender: both sexes must plead guilty in equal measure. 

Where else do we look for bad-taste indicators in human society? I say we use a reverse approach: where DON'T we find tackiness? I've observed, during the course of my studies, that you rarely encounter bad taste among preppies, college professors and gay men. Each of these groups has demonstrated an affinity for quality objects, meticulously arranged and tastefully displayed in their living quarters. The preppies, clad in their understated tweeds and tattersall shirts, can show you their sedate wing-chairs and nautical paintings, their white mantelpieces and heirloom clocks. College professors tend to clutter their abodes with an eclectic mix of antique maps, Peruvian wall-hangings and authentic African tribal masks; their built-in bookcases are stocked with actual books rather than bowling trophies. As for gay men, they can tell us a thing or two about objets d'art and tasteful accent pieces, not to mention lovely drapes. When gay men embrace tackiness, as they sometimes do (think of Liberace), they generally embrace it at arm's length and always with an ironic giggle.

What do these three groups have in common? We know college professors and gay men tend to have few if any children -- especially college professors who are ALSO gay. Their homes aren't littered with plastic Lego blocks, Barbie accessories or stuffed purple dinosaurs with goofy smiles. We might assume, therefore, that having children automatically causes an abrupt decline in taste. But this hypothesis overlooks the preppies, who dutifully produce as many offspring as the rest of us. What other common bonds can we find among the three tasteful groups? All three are educated above the norm, more than reasonably intelligent and predisposed toward social snobbery. They shun tackiness because they know it would lower their social standing. It could be that they've been FIGHTING their inner Liberaces all these years -- that some of them harbor a gene for tackiness but refuse to give it expression. Maybe they desperately want to wear orange velour shirts, watch a Rambo flick or hang one of those poker-playing dog paintings on their den wall. They probably shouldn't try to repress their genetic heritage, but as a cynical biologist I'd have to admire them for trying so valiantly. Humans may be the only animals capable of bad taste, but they're also the only creatures capable of resisting it.

© 2000 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. 

Profile of a Cynic...

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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