Taylor Swift passed through Lisbon. Twenty-four hours earlier, I fled the city. I have nothing against you, dear Taylor, even after wasting 90 minutes of my life on her documentary, “Miss Americana.”
I fled to avoid the maddened crowds that came to pilgrimage for the diva. I still saw her bodies, sleeping in the streets, outside the Benfica stadium, where the concert was taking place. I walked around their bodies, carefully, without stepping on anyone, like in zombie movies.
Wise decision. Seismographs say that the Eras Tour scored 0.8 on the Richter scale when the singer offered the Portuguese audience the song “Shake it off”. Despite everything, far, far from the 2.3 recorded in Seattle.
It's a beautiful metaphor. For her fans, Taylor Swift is a blessing from heaven. For me, it's a natural disaster.
(And if the reader asks if I've already listened to Taylor Swift's albums, the answer is yes. Can we stop there?)
These confessions were not well received by friends or acquaintances, who took my words as an aesthetic and ethical offense – either to themselves or to their teenage children.
I tried to defend myself: I'm not a crowd man. I react in the same way to big football games or popular festivals that fill the streets.
When Lisbon residents celebrate Saint Anthony, I flee to Porto. When the people of Porto celebrate São João, I flee to Lisbon. When we both celebrate something, I flee to Spain – and, from party to party, I might even end up in the Sinai desert, as long as the Bedouins don't start with ideas.
But we don't need to reach big dates. It's the same thing at over-populated private parties, which is why I specialize in the so-called “French exit”, an expression from the English that the French call “English exit”.
(Fun fact: it's the same thing with the “French vice”, aka sodomy, which the French call the “English vice”. But I digress.)
The “French exit” is a way for you to disappear from parties without anyone noticing. I correct. People don't notice because they still believe you're at the party. How do you do this?
Practicing. There is no other way. It's like playing the oboe.
At first, everyone noticed. “Who's that jumping out the window?” And the host, understandably disappointed, replied: “It's Little Couto, our boy from Aveyron”.
Over time, I learned that the essential thing is to talk to half a dozen strategic people, hosts included, ending every conversation with: “I'm going to circulate a little more, the party is great, if you'll excuse me.”
When the other guests meet the strategic people and ask about my whereabouts (“Have you seen Little Couto?”), they always respond: “He must be out there.”
(And I'm at home, with two slices of cucumber on my eyes, ready for my beauty sleep.)
I told these stories to alleviate the harm of my words about the singer. Nobody was moved.
I even suspect that a professional colleague cut ties with me after hearing the words “Taylor Swift” and “inaudible” in the same sentence. What's wrong with these people?
Science, as always, can help: years ago, three researchers published a controversial study in the magazine “BMC Psychology” that only confirms old suspicions. The title is “Celebrity worship and cognitive skills revisited”.
According to the authors, people who declared a great adoration for celebrities performed poorly on verbal and non-verbal cognitive tests.
That's right: the greater the adoration, the greater the chances of you arousing the doctor's interest. Jane Goodall.
One doubt, however, persisted: was this cognitive weakness a cause or consequence of celebrity worship?
Researchers hope to illuminate the mystery with new studies. I'm willing to help – and, taking the initiative, I already sent my colleague the sacramental question: “Did you become like this after Taylor Swift or was it before?”
When he responds, I promise to share the discovery with the scientific community.
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