I was sitting at the end of the synthetic grass soccer field with my team mates after a 1-1 draw today when I remarked to Reng, our goalie, that there appears to be a tuft of grass growing out of nowhere on this synthetic grass pitch. There next to us were three clusters of real grass each the size of a palm, and each consisting of about ten or so blades of grass.
In the midst of our incredulity that there was real grass growing on a soccer field carpeted with fake grass, I said, "life finds a way." And Reng returned a knowing look and said, "Sam Neill."
It is such a frickin' silly cheap thrill but it's a positive emotion type of elitism elicited by being united by something obscure; the knowledge that you are privvy to exclusive information. I believe it explains why people who listen to underground music love to keep their music off the mainstream, and subsequently love to attack bands who were once 'indie' or 'alternative' for getting on the pop bandwagon and selling out.