We drink, we web-board, we love just a little bit, and then we slowly turn our sights to the horizons, another list scarred into our hearts we are tired, we are at peace. We commend each other with backhanded compliments and surly, near-constructive criticism.
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As snow begins to fall outside and we anticipate the fresh dawn of a new year, the Singles List reminds us of the beautifully compact moments in life, the satisfaction we feel when a song resonates with the architecture of great pop form, and the comfort of re-treading the recent past, already faded into the next Singles Jukebox list or torrent of yousendits. Most of us, though, are happy in a quiet, conclusive way. Frankly, it's usually the British staff members. Some of us are tearful: "My completely goofball pick that clearly had no pull with anybody didn't make the list this only reinforces the alienation I feel at Stylus." Some of us are outraged. It's never been specifically attributed to the editors or the list itself, but the pace and frequency of the messages, growing progressively more intense until they reach a searing whinny around Thanksgiving, seems almost unmistakably bound to a looming, collective desires of Stylus's spirit to present a gleaming, gently perfect retrospective come December. Much of it is the sound of heavy breathing, usually from the mouth. Correspondence on the staff message board begins to tense strange overtures begin to creep from deep within the thicket of homoerotic fraternizing and fantasy football talk, we are silently and individually compelled to their horrors. "Don't forget the Stylus year-end singles list." In the waning summer, the mere suggestion of December sends a chill down our spines. Every year around August, the emails start. Everyone performs their requisite metaphors about quantifying their appreciations (the irreconcilable differences between fruits seems to be perennially useful) we toss around apologies in hopes of sopping up some kind of sympathy, but really it's just a thorough exercise in method acting as the obsessive, spreadsheet-keeping, trap-minded, calculating, coldly statistical culture-gobblers we're supposed to be. We love to make it, we hate to make it we love to hate to make it.
One moment, the list makes you surge with bitterness, another, it renders you soft, placid, almost euphoric like a lover, the spectrum of your emotion and dedication is tested sometimes to the point of exhaustion. We understand: you love the list, you hate the list you love to hate the list. We have a strong belief in the emotional depth of humankind. We're supposed to say stuff like "We know you hate lists, but…" or "Come on, everyone loves a good list…" and nudge your shoulder and clink our glasses or something chummy like that, but we at Stylus are truth-seekers, so let's just look this one right in its steely eyes and take a deep breath.
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