A Choir of Millions

By Rivers Cuomo

I went to the World Cup in Korea in 2002 and got a taste of what real patriotism is like. I’m talking about millions—literally, millions—of people, all in red shirts, all drunk off their rear-ends, and all singing songs about how their country is the best country in the world. I’m talking about fireworks being shot off in every direction, vomit being spewed forth onto every street corner, and boys and girls, men and women, old and young, holding hands, dancing and jumping in the streets. I’m talking about confetti. And everyone—everyone—had black hair, white skin, Korean eyes, and Korean bodies. They were all Korean. Except for me. And my three friends.

Even though this was soccer, we were never afraid for our lives. There was no hint of violence in the air. There was only joy, exuberance, and pride, and, although we were foreigners, the Koreans showed us immaculate hospitality, genuine fascination, or, at worst, feigned indifference. I would rate the experience up there with some of the most transcendent experiences of my life.

That’s why I was so disappointed to see, a few months later, back in the Ol’ U-S-of-A, on the front page of the L.A. Times, as I happened to be walking down Sunset Boulevard, passing a newspaper dispenser, a full-color picture of a similar scene: God-knows how many Koreans, in red shirts all, storming the streets of Seoul, not in celebration, but in protest, vehement protest, and not against someone or something else, but against me, I mean, against America, and, I imagine, all that it stands for. I stared at the newspaper, through the little plastic window, and thought to myself, “What happened? What did I do?�

There are a lot of people out there, apparently, who don’t like America. They want to kill Americans. This makes me sad.

I tried to blow off the issue, but kept thinking, “Millions of people want to kill me and I don’t know why.� I decided to conduct a serious inquiry into myself, my life, my actions, my motives, and my habits, and find out why, exactly, I am hated.

The first thing I had to admit to myself, with shame, as I examined, is that I do not floss regularly. I know this doesn’t warrant killing me, in and of itself, but I think it points to a deeper flaw in my character: I’m stubbornly reluctant to expend energy on any activity that doesn’t bring me immediate material or social rewards. Indeed, that sounds very American and perhaps that is one reason I am hated.

Second of all, I have listened to a lot of Heavy Metal in my life, decadent music by some culture’s standards. I had the Ozzy Ozbourne album where he had the jelly-like substance dripping from his mouth and I thrilled at the thought of him biting a head off a dead bat. I played electric guitar, loudly, through my teens, regardless of others’ ears and peace of mind, and grew up to be a rock star and continue the legacy of decadence that is rock music. I admit this.

I also watched a fair amount of TV growing up. In eighth grade, I would come home every day from school and watch Guiding Light. One of the only times I’ve ever been star-struck—like totally pulling-on-the-sleeve-of-the-friend-next-to-me-saying-“look who’s here!�-star-struck—was after my band played on Saturday Night Live in 2001, and at the after party, in the plaza in front of Rockefeller Center, the actor who played Phillip Spaulding—lover of the mysterious Nola Ryan—walked by. Some cultures might find this shallowness hateful in me, and I can understand why.

I practically flunked out of high-school, completely taking the opportunity, and my own talents, for granted. I even cheated on my English final exam, senior year. I got caught, though, so I don’t feel as bad as if I had gotten away with it. Ultimately, I didn’t give a darn about classes. I just wanted to play floor hockey and look at girls. Now that I’m an adult, I still pretty much just want to play floor hockey and look at girls. What culture would look up to such a base creature?

I don’t really have any faith in any sort of a God. I’m “agnostic�, which means, “I have no idea what’s going on.� I’m pretty comfortable with that term. It also means, however, that I don’t practice religion. I don’t go to Church. I’ve never read the Bible or the Torah. I don’t think I even heard the word “Islam� until I was in my twenties. That would make me hateful in the eyes of many.

I don’t take much responsibility—actually, any responsibility—for my government, or what they do. I often don’t know who our vice president is. I’ve never voted. I know that this sort of apathy, though it may once have been fashionable in America, is now just loathsome.

I don’t read the newspaper (except as I’m walking by dispensers on the street), I don’t watch the news, I don’t know who’s on the ten dollar bill (or the five or the twenty unless I think really hard.) I basically have no idea what’s going on outside of the one square mile area in which I live. I have made millions of dollars and yet almost all of it sits in banks, who-knows-where, while millions of people starve to death every year. (Is it really millions that starve? I have no idea, because, apparently, I do not care enough to check. Shameful!) I have had girlfriends, who loved me with all of their hearts, who thought the world of me, who did anything I asked, who bought me groceries, gave me rides, gave me a place to live, gave me faith in myself and my manhood—who I used for all they were worth. I ran away, once, when my brother was being beaten up, and I pretended like I didn’t know it was happening. Worst of all, when I try to make sense of myself, the world, and my desire to be a better person, I get overwhelmed and give up. I crawl back into my little shell and just hope that things will be okay. That’s pretty bad.

Therefore, I can understand why the world hates me. I really can. But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept the fact that I’ll never be able to join the crowd in Korea, to join them in singing, dancing, shooting off fireworks, and knowing that my voice is but one in a choir of millions.