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Life Lessons Media

When I Grow Up, I Want to Be Two Guys Named John

If a nerd is someone whose every word and deed are predicated on the belief that appearing smart is more important than getting laid, then They Might Be Giants are, in fact, nerds: their music doesn’t sell sex; it sells smart-kid whimsy. Arty, melodic, and well wrought in a formal way, it bristles with wordplay and musical ideas. — Azerrad, Michael. “Urban Legends.” The New Yorker, August 12, 2002.

Friday night, Ari and I went with my high school friend Michelle and her husband to the They Might Be Giants concert at Kings Theater. It was an awesome experience, seeing so many middle-aged nerds getting together to celebrate the original nerd rock band. It’s like everyone took a night away from their crossword puzzles and board games to belt out songs about the capital of Turkey.

And I got to thinking: Why bother going to concerts? It’s to have a transcendent experience—to be more than we are. It’s like going to temple. We all stand together with a set of songs that we sing together. And up front are the two Johns—John Flansburgh and John Linnell of They Might Be Giants.

When I ask myself, “Who do I want to be when I grow up?” I’m really asking, “Who are my heroes?” The question “Who do you want to be when you grow up?” is one we mostly ask kids, like adults already know the answer. But honestly, I’m still asking it. I think I could do a lot worse than the Johns. Here are two men who followed their interests down every rabbit hole of curiosity, from avant-garde art-pop to children’s educational songs, and somehow made a life of it.

They are in their early sixties now, and still doing what they love. Still touring, still experimenting, still playing songs for the people who get it—and knowing full well that not everyone will. It’s not just impressive; it’s aspirational. Imagine keeping your sense of play and curiosity intact after decades in an industry that tries to wear you down.

Their music is such nerdy fun. They’ve written songs about James K. Polk, the 11th U.S. president, and James Ensor, a Belgian painter famous for his eerie depictions of masked figures. They write about topics that are, on paper, deeply uncool. And yet, that’s exactly the point. They Might Be Giants is an invitation to drop the exhausting performance of coolness and just like things.

I love They Might Be Giants for their authenticity. As Sarah Vowell says in the TMBG documentary Gigantic, they offered a way to participate in rock and roll without having to adopt the “broken, alien, messed-up” persona often associated with rock culture. Unlike the rebellious, self-destructive ethos of 1960s rock, They Might Be Giants embraced a more grounded, relatable identity—one that allowed “normal middle-class drivers” to enjoy music without pretending to be more damaged than they actually were.

They challenge you to fall in love with an idea and create something from it. To create lots of things that may or may not work and try them out. It’s an approach that’s equal parts curiosity and bravery. It’s easy to create one thing and polish it endlessly until it’s “perfect.” It’s much harder to be prolific. To keep creating without knowing if the thing you’re making will ever “work.”

This unconditional love of an idea is what it means to be a nerd. Not just someone who likes “nerdy things” but someone who is willing to fall in love with an idea, no matter how odd or impractical, and love it fully. Nerds don’t love from a distance. They fall hard. They love without pretense, without trying to justify that love to the rest of the world. You don’t do it for status. You do it because the idea itself deserves attention. They Might Be Giants are nerds not just because of what they love but because of how they love it — with full hearts and an open invitation for you to join them.



Yes, they played “Istanbul” and “Birdhouse in Your Soul,” but it wasn’t just a victory lap of old hits. They’re still experimenting, still trying things just to see if they can be done. Last night, they played “Sapphire Bullets of Pure Love” — but backward. Not just the notes reversed. The entire arrangement played live in reverse, like someone had pressed rewind on reality. Every instrument, every lyric, every sound unfolded in this uncanny, dreamlike way. Then, for the second act, they played it forward, and suddenly it all made sense again. It was clever, unnecessary, and kind of perfect. Afterward, John Linnell deadpanned into the mic, “At this point, anyone who was dragged to this show by a friend is asking, ‘Why?’” The answer, as always, was unspoken but obvious: “Why not?”

Ari didn’t really get it. He wasn’t familiar with most of the band’s music aside from the kids’ songs — and they didn’t play those. I get it. If you’re dropped into a concert like that with no context, it probably feels a little like being the plus-one at someone else’s family reunion. Everyone’s laughing at in-jokes you don’t understand. But he still understood the idea. He knew that this was a nerd rock haven; it just wasn’t his nerd rock haven.

I wondered what his nerd rock is. He immediately answered, “AJR. I’d like to see that.” This makes so much sense. AJR has done such interesting things with their videos and music. For example, they collaborated with engineer and YouTuber Mark Rober to create a 3D printer orchestra for their song “Yes I’m a Mess”. They also worked together to find the world’s smallest violin, a playful nod to AJR’s song “World’s Smallest Violin”. These are classic examples of nerdy creativity — taking an idea, no matter how niche, and building something wild, playful, and entirely unnecessary (but in the best possible way).

I won’t ever be a rock star, but I do know that I want to live like the Johns—following my interests wherever they go, finding joy in the weirdest places, and, if I’m lucky, being able to share it with people who understand. They might be giants, but they’re also just two nerds who never stopped being curious—and that’s something worth aspiring to.

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