Have you ever felt like you’re trapped in a bubble, oblivious to the world everyone else seems to live in?
The other night, I found myself at a friend’s birthday party, clutching a cup of jungle juice that tasted mostly like Orange Crush. Not bad, I thought. I made an awkward lap around the room, realizing just how few people I actually knew, and decided it was probably time to mingle.
I walked over to a friend who introduced me to two women—one I recognized from another party, the other a total stranger.
“How’s your night going?” I asked.
“Good! We just came from the Role Model concert,” one said, her eyes lighting up.
“Role Model?” I echoed, confusion overtaking my face.
“Yeah, you don’t know Role Model?” she shot back, disbelief clear in her voice. “He’s a singer. Like indie/alt-pop. I’m obsessed.”
Now, this really stumped me. I’m not exactly a know-it-all when it comes to music—in fact, I’m often overwhelmed by how much exists that I’ll never have time to listen to. Still, I feel like I know my fair share of artists. If Role Model wasn’t on my radar, I figured he must be some new, up-and-coming act.
“Where was the show?” I asked.
“The Fillmore,” she replied casually, as if it was no big deal.
“The Fillmore?!” I blurted out, shocked that this mystery artist had packed a venue that size.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and showed me a video from the concert: a sea of bodies pressed tightly together, screaming for this guy I’d never heard of.
“Wow, I’ll have to check him out,” I said, mentally bookmarking his name. The party rolled on, but that moment lingered with me long after I got home.
The next day, I looked him up. Role Model has 5.2 million monthly listeners on Spotify—not massive, but definitely not small either. The music was okay (not really for me), but I couldn’t shake that woman's “obsession” and my total ignorance.
But things like this aren’t unusual anymore, right?
Earlier that night, I’d asked someone if they were watching Severance. “No, sorry, I don’t have Apple TV,” they shrugged, as if I’d mentioned some obscure indie documentary rather than a hit show.
Culture—the glue of our shared experience—is supposed to unite us. Music, TV, books: these are the bridges we build over small talk at parties, the sparks turning strangers into friends.
Yet when there’s an endless buffet of content competing for our attention, will we ever be able to get on the same page again?
No, Grace, I Don’t Think They Have
This, of course, isn’t a new phenomenon. Everyone, for the most part, is aware of what's happening. Just the other day, I saw a post on X that captured this exact sentiment—with 25k likes to prove it.
Gone are the days when 50+ million people gathered around their TVs for the Friends finale or when Michael Jackson’s Thriller sold a million copies per week.
Even this topic itself has found its way into social commentary. In his essay, “The State of the Culture, 2024,” Ted Gioia argues we’re living in a post-entertainment world where distraction (TikTok and endless scrolling) has replaced traditional culture. We no longer latch onto blockbuster moments; instead, we chase dopamine hits from bite-sized, personalized micro-content.
This cultural shift has been occurring for more than a decade. Back in 2011, NPR released a series called Fractured Culture that explored how America had splintered into numerous subcultures. Culture in the 21st century is less about geography, ethnicity, religion, or age, and more about what media we consume—and, perhaps more importantly, how we consume it. Simply put: while you’re obsessively dissecting Severance fan theories on Reddit, grandma and grandpa are watching reruns of M*A*S*H on TV, and your 15-year-old cousin spends hours glued to TikTok influencer drama recaps.
We’re spending our time differently, which means we’re living in different worlds.
No Frog Legs For Me, Thanks
But is it really such a bad thing that we’re all consuming different media?
It’s genuinely amazing that if something piques your curiosity—no matter how niche or strange—you can probably find someone out there who shares that same obsession (à la Swifties or K-pop stans).
Even a hundred years ago, if you stumbled across a book in the library that piqued your curiosity—let’s say, about frogs—there was a good chance that this interest began and ended with you alone. Maybe if you lived in a big city, you had a slightly better shot at finding like-minded people, but even then it wasn’t guaranteed.
I like to think of it through the metaphor of a family dinner. We used to live in a world where everyone was forced to eat hotdogs, hamburgers, and potato salad. Maybe throw in some fruit salad and mac & cheese—the good old staples. But now, we live in a world that’s more like a potluck, where everyone brings their own peculiar dish. You might end up spending an hour trapped in a corner, listening to your uncle ramble on about how he’s mastered the perfect recipe for frog legs (metaphorically speaking, of course).
And so I can’t help but feel as if the pendulum has swung too far. Sure, maybe I don’t want hamburgers and hotdogs every single time I see people, but I’m not exactly craving frog legs either.
Playing Connection on Hard Mode
At the end of these posts, I include my top five favorite songs released over the past week. Music is one of my true passions, and doing this helps me keep up with the ever-changing landscape of new music.
Yet I realize my selections are eclectic and unpredictable, spanning multiple genres without clear criteria. In other words, it’s just stuff I genuinely think is good—not exactly lowest-common-denominator material.
This poses a problem.
Most people don’t want an endless parade of new discoveries. They just want more of what they already like. To stick with our dinner metaphor: they’re not interested in your uncle’s frog legs—they just want a better version of mac & cheese.
And it gets harder when I realize I’ve never even heard of their version of mac & cheese (e.g., Role Model). It’s as if we’re trying to connect with each other on “hard mode.”
So, once again, how do we find common ground?
As I lingered at the party that night, I met all kinds of people—some quiet and reserved, others bold and boisterous, true life-of-the-party types. I glanced around, struck by the sheer variety of personalities, each shaped by their own interests and quirks. I imagined that each had their own version of a "Role Model" in their lives—something they were obsessed with.
Yet despite these differences, we all shared one important connection: we knew Jerry, the guy whose birthday we were celebrating.
So what did I do?
Every time I met someone new, I asked a simple question: “So how do you know Jerry?”
I know what you’re thinking—this is just Social Skills 101. Of course that's the most obvious question to ask at a party full of strangers.
But here’s the thing—even if it is a dumb or obvious question, it still might be the best one. Because it opens the door to something deeper. It asks: "Why is Jerry worth celebrating to you?"
And even then, it’s not really about Jerry. It’s about the stories bringing each person to that moment—the relationships that shaped them and the experiences worth celebrating in their own lives.
Pop-culture small talk isn’t as easy as it once was, and that's okay. We don’t need to watch the same shows or listen to the same music to connect. Instead, we need questions inviting us to share more deeply, listen more openly, and find common ground in the meaningful moments we each carry to the table.
Even if the dishes we bring are completely different.
And if all that fails, you could always just use this line:
