Thursday, November 23, 2006

I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Aronson, but you have … AMNESIA!!!

Irony is dead and sarcasm is bullshit. It has been stated that we are no longer living the Postmodern world but that rather we are living in the poorly termed postpostmodern world. Which, of course, is a meaningless designation that critics use to cover over the fact that they know the old world has passed but they 1. don’t have a fucking clue what is going on now and b. are not clever enough to come up with a real and lasting name for this newest of bullshit “periods” of art. I would like to think I am somewhat familiar with the concepts, but now is not the time to delude myself into make a blanket statement on art. After all, art is just a three letter word. As much an abstract construction as anything anyone else has ever said about it. I don’t know that the though is original though. So it would be premature for you superfans to be quoting me on it just yet.

There are a lot of things that I desperately feel the need to write, to write on, to write about, and yet I find myself unable. I have opinions on life outside of failed relationships and the merits of bourbon, scotch, tequila, gin, India pale ale, and other assorted means that the Muse uses to open the airways and fill the world with sound and glory. I need not go into a discussion on whether or not as an American I should prefer our one national spirit, bourbon (and it better be from Kentucky) or whether it is indeed acceptable to drink the national spirits of other nations: scotch, tequila, rye, London dry gin, Russian vodka (no grape fed substitutes allowed). As a relatively well traveled and cosmopolitan man, I can assure you that all spirits are equally valid and should be enjoyed for everything they have to offer. Life is, after all, mostly dull when you are sober. It doesn’t get any more interesting after drinking, but it sure fucking seems that way.

I want to call myself an anarchist. Not just because it is so punk rock or because I have an affinity for crazy Russians (though the statement has been made about me and I guess might in some ways be true, but I would imagine it is mostly coincidence). I do find myself with an affinity for the downtrodden and outcast, but again, that isn’t really a reason to be an anarchist. I just plain don’t believe in authority. I don’t believe that the imposed hierarchies are capable of governing and I don’t think that governing is a worthwhile concept anyway. For those of you unaware of the political aspects of an intellectual belief in anarchism, I would now direct you to look it up (the internet is good for that sort of thing, try wikipedia). Because, just in case you were wondering, I am not advocating people run around killing and raping each other. The Golden Age of Piracy has passed. Murder is no longer an acceptable means of resolving a bar fight or a cheating girlfriend. The problem, however, lies in the fact that despite what I would like to believe intellectually, I cannot allow myself to reasonably sustain views that are wholly impractical or unrealistic. I do my best to act in accordance with my beliefs, the modern world be damned, but I cannot deny the power structures that be quite that easily. Falling off the grid is no so easy as I would wish. I was about to quote Hamlet here, but it would have been awkward and most readers would have missed the line entirely finding it to be only one of my anachronistic phrases (as if I made most of those up on my own, too).

So I have this friend named Jeff. We went to college together. And that was enough. There was more, but that was enough. He is a big fan of professional wrestling and blonde girls with deep tans. One might immediately think that Jeff is obviously a boor and the worst example of American culture (yes, he does go to and enjoy strip clubs). But that is because your average American is an pretentious self-involved dipshit far too impressed with their utterly unimpressive selves. Suffice it to say, if you do not like Jeff, you are a loser and it is your own damn fault. The issue really is that Jeff has decided to become whole heartedly what your average intellectual wishes he could be but can only pretend to be with an ironic detachment because, after all, that is the nature of the mother fucker modern society has become. As far as I am concerned, Jeff has is better than most of you degenerate bastards. He knows what he wants – beautiful blondes. And he goes after what he wants – beautiful blondes (some of them are also cheerleaders and other such archetypes of perfection). So if you are jealous, be jealous. But do not begrudge him for going after and getting what he wants. Because that would be überlame and make you something of a assclown. It isn’t that Jeff knows everything or has the secrets of the universe hidden in his fifth pocket. Nothing quite so dramatic as that. Mostly it is that Jeff doesn’t worry about the bullshit and (surprise surprise) actually goes after what he wants. Me, I want different things out of life and women and the universe and everything. But that doesn’t mean that Jeff doesn’t have his shit figured out just well enough.

And the world goes on. Because what would be the point if it didn’t?


***
”The Defense Department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid.”
- Goose

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is the best piece of writing ever... Ever.