I start the year with nothing to say. After all this time of holding something in my pocket, that maybe there was one thing I could excel at and call my calling, I say the same thing. So no ace in the hole because nothing significant is said. Repeatedly, that I'm shocked at the changes, that I'm trying to stay abreast of them, that I want to define and codify them so that we knew exactly what was happening right now. That I'm not stereotyping. That I want to satirize and encapsulate the emerging DIY spirit, emerging from lame artistic grifterism, that is now commercialized and remarketed by desperate corporate sources in the same way the Manic Pixie Dream Girl was codified by commercial interests in 500 Days of Summer as an unreachable, perfectly quirky jacking post. The new Mobile start up boom is powered by the refusal to compromise one's dreams with the savvy niche marketing and "big ideas lure" of the entrepreneur, as well as the specific creative output of the artisan. Parodied by the Google Chrome ad of the man who created a book of schmaltzy Basquiat/Adventure Time/Daniel Johnston scrawled drawings with a vague, entrepreneurial message of dreaming BIG (which has renewed the lease on life of 40 year old porkpie wearing Baby Bjorn dads... seriously, "Now I can get my mbira band started!!"), the internet Stilton enthusiast friendly word AWESOME, and the social media branding roustabout acclaim of randomly being picked up by a German blog. The TED Talk graduate metaphor couldn't be more perfect. On a diet of TED Talks, working class salumi courses, Times Magazine, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, and 3rd Ward classes, who could have produced something better? It's a better highly specific legacy than being famous for temper tantrums and catch phrases on a reality tv show, or avoiding selling out by choosing a vague artistic Caption of Drew Bertram, Artist, Lacey Butler, Photographer, or being photographed splayed out on the floor in a fashionable pool of PBR, American Spirits, and a headdress listlessly mumbling to Steve Aoki on the phone. I'm happy those days are over...Ms. Kennedy.
The Dream of the 1890s is Alive in New York as Portlandia perfectly summarized. Your roustabout 30 year old trust fund artist is a farm to table charcuterie handler, your freelance photographer is NPR's most attractive rooftop kale farmer. Dyna Moe's hipster animals define the niches creative loafers have fought to find for themselves to experience their dream, a fulfilling work life, and business acumen with a grassroots sticker and no fear of selling out. The wave of independent business is sweeping in anyone who can articulate their dream with a selling point and sun filled kickstarter pitch. Want to be a food writer? Start a bed and breakfast for penguin enthusiasts in the Baleares. My stoner high school acquaintance who took up yoga created a line of Eastern Religion friendly confectioneries. (I'm being vague on purpose.) Could he have built his own website with serene, Toms-like assurance if he was merely a yoga teacher? Could the girls who created a one stop shop for haute costume jewelry for gay men and their muses ever been in Forbes AND the Daily Candy if they stayed Financial Analysts and continued to wear a subdued gray palette? No. Their amount of fulfillment would only have correlated with buying the most bioluminescent sneakers and most stylish leggings with reflecting tape for NY Marathon training.
As mainstream regurgitations of "The Small, Quirky Problems of a Dysfunctional/Mismatched Twosome/family in a Flyover State" replayed the docile, twee, sexless indie spirit of 2006 with full laptop dj indietronic apathy. Garden State degenerating into the high paid stars slummin it for a heartfelt "Middle Aged Loser Befriending Pregnant Teenager and Buying New Lease on Life" indie dram..edy. The already attenuated, anodyne idols that my friends pumped in through ipods even on the toilet, even eating, even doinking such as Okkervil River, Animal Collective, The Books, Iron and Wine, the popped up but well written songs of Rilo Kiley, Magnetic Fields, Of Montreal, The New Pornographers, and the insipid, bubble gum rehash of terrible 70s and 80s music that is Girl Talk, Ratatat, and Annie. The playfully weak and childishly whispered anti folk of Coco Rosie, The Moldy Peaches as the least worthy offender (your 6 year old sister asking "Who-oo-oo's got the crack"), Devendra Banhart, Cat Power's voice crawling sensually on its last legs as millions of girls with bangs prostrate themselves in front of it, and the Joanna Newsom and Regina Spektor that wormed its way into my ear that I actually liked. Ultimately the winkingly weak, twee, and self consciously catchy nature of this music was parodied, like 500 Days of Summer, by the commercial sounding Peter Bjorn and John "Young Folks." Smiling "dance" hooks like Phoenix's attempts lending themselves perfectly to car commercials. Degenerating into bands with playfully weak names, The Fiery Furnaces, Bat for Lashes, The Fleet Foxes.
What is the snooty, independent magazine and movie's obsession with the small, quiet problems of the possibly religious people in a Flyover state or otherwise unremarkable city? I'm looking at you, sparsely written New Yorker articles about observant, unfaithful men in tipi motel rooms with a haunting twist, stories written from the point of view of a middle child adolescent escaping from religious band camp, and the recent story of a shy gay-looking guy doing fake weddings for Iraq soldiers with a Jennay Hollywood aspirant in Michigan that he's in love with. People swishing their Riesling or Pinot Grigio in Scarsdale over a roast chicken or educated older people in Madison, Wisconsin have little to do with preteens, Iraq war veterans, flyover religious bible camp extremism, or, on another topic, profiles of underrated behind the scenes geniuses you just haveta know about like Tomas Maier or Ester Dean. New Yorker profiles shine a, granted, more earnestly written, light on the underrated geniuses of the underrated movement you never heard of that snakes its spidery influence through the large cities of America, the uneasy marriage of nations in the UN, connecting its web all the way to your raised ranch in Scarsdale. Ultimately, the message is that you must pay attention to this previously obscured person because their tiny light of genius or influence shines onto all the cities and continents of the current moment, and thus is obscurely pertinent to your previously uninformed light. The finesse and delicacy of the non famous string puller like Ester Dean is outlined in compound sentences and adjectives that prickle against each other, piled into a complex result. I don't understand why the New Yorker stories don't throw their readership's problems back on the page left open and planned to be read near or on the toilet, just like Stephen Sondheim did with Company. Why beguile the reader with enigmatic, somewhat pointless fiction, of the specific problems of a tiny Cooper salesman, his more distant disease stricken wife, or combative, beautiful and runaway logical teenage daughter? Why not write a story about the small problems of a systems engineer in Westport worried about his heart health, his spiralling, boring wife, the autistic son of his old age, and needled vaguely by hints of promiscuity from his pre-teen daughter? Without him traveling to Nebraska by Greyhound. Why not write a profile that unashamedly shines the light of insight on a big ass big wig and not his right wing napkin tester? Mike Bloomberg and not Mike Bloomberg's aide's child wrangler whose hand that rocks the cradle rules his tie choices and the infrastructure of New York? Because the New Yorker dances awkwardly between the political articles of Newsweek/the Economist, the purely literary reviews and personalities of the Atlantic, your poetry teacher's crappy chapbook, and the Sunday Funnies. The thin veneer of snobbery unites all the pieces as "I swear this is high culture" and "Did you hear Bruce McCall's high class parody of toddlers drinking Riesling with crushed Paxil to ease their anxiety of mobile phone apps and April 15th? Roz Chast wrote about neurosis as if New Yorkers were still distinctive, agoraphobic Jewish people with accents!" Indeed, they are your podiatrist in a comically loose fitting suit. They are the chilled aluminum ice phallus in the plastic wine bottle when you should be getting a freakin Brita filter and switching to water with oranges in it. As TED Talks' 20 minutes of specialized learning "I swear we're innovative and big ideas entrepreneurial... Now I know about the ecobiology of bee pollen courtship," the New Yorker's tidbits scream, "take this in in memory of high culture!" Even the right triangle poem that says snow from all sides? The fifth grade sonnet I sent was much better than that offering. I challenge you to create immersive articles that either teach completely or create art earnestly. These tidbits provide the satisfaction of a Pitchfork review, turning noses higher up (Dinosaur Jr.'s pre-first album unreleased cassette mixtape was better!) and educating no one.
I know what you're doing. I hate when you're cloying. I love when you follow your dreams. I love when you create incisive, compelling content. I hate when you use the same formula. I love that you're trying to be serious about your calling. I hate/love that you're secretly an unemployed freelancer with a big idea. I hate when you're snobby, anodyne, and loving of snobby cheeses like Humboldt Fog and space distillers like Neil DeGrasse Tyson. I love when you rage with intensity, when you tear and then create art. I wonder where we're going to go and how we'll continue to make business dreams from penury. I don't fit in, Let me watch. Let's punk out without fully breaking or developing hifalutin non-business ideals.
The Dream of the 1890s is Alive in New York as Portlandia perfectly summarized. Your roustabout 30 year old trust fund artist is a farm to table charcuterie handler, your freelance photographer is NPR's most attractive rooftop kale farmer. Dyna Moe's hipster animals define the niches creative loafers have fought to find for themselves to experience their dream, a fulfilling work life, and business acumen with a grassroots sticker and no fear of selling out. The wave of independent business is sweeping in anyone who can articulate their dream with a selling point and sun filled kickstarter pitch. Want to be a food writer? Start a bed and breakfast for penguin enthusiasts in the Baleares. My stoner high school acquaintance who took up yoga created a line of Eastern Religion friendly confectioneries. (I'm being vague on purpose.) Could he have built his own website with serene, Toms-like assurance if he was merely a yoga teacher? Could the girls who created a one stop shop for haute costume jewelry for gay men and their muses ever been in Forbes AND the Daily Candy if they stayed Financial Analysts and continued to wear a subdued gray palette? No. Their amount of fulfillment would only have correlated with buying the most bioluminescent sneakers and most stylish leggings with reflecting tape for NY Marathon training.
As mainstream regurgitations of "The Small, Quirky Problems of a Dysfunctional/Mismatched Twosome/family in a Flyover State" replayed the docile, twee, sexless indie spirit of 2006 with full laptop dj indietronic apathy. Garden State degenerating into the high paid stars slummin it for a heartfelt "Middle Aged Loser Befriending Pregnant Teenager and Buying New Lease on Life" indie dram..edy. The already attenuated, anodyne idols that my friends pumped in through ipods even on the toilet, even eating, even doinking such as Okkervil River, Animal Collective, The Books, Iron and Wine, the popped up but well written songs of Rilo Kiley, Magnetic Fields, Of Montreal, The New Pornographers, and the insipid, bubble gum rehash of terrible 70s and 80s music that is Girl Talk, Ratatat, and Annie. The playfully weak and childishly whispered anti folk of Coco Rosie, The Moldy Peaches as the least worthy offender (your 6 year old sister asking "Who-oo-oo's got the crack"), Devendra Banhart, Cat Power's voice crawling sensually on its last legs as millions of girls with bangs prostrate themselves in front of it, and the Joanna Newsom and Regina Spektor that wormed its way into my ear that I actually liked. Ultimately the winkingly weak, twee, and self consciously catchy nature of this music was parodied, like 500 Days of Summer, by the commercial sounding Peter Bjorn and John "Young Folks." Smiling "dance" hooks like Phoenix's attempts lending themselves perfectly to car commercials. Degenerating into bands with playfully weak names, The Fiery Furnaces, Bat for Lashes, The Fleet Foxes.
What is the snooty, independent magazine and movie's obsession with the small, quiet problems of the possibly religious people in a Flyover state or otherwise unremarkable city? I'm looking at you, sparsely written New Yorker articles about observant, unfaithful men in tipi motel rooms with a haunting twist, stories written from the point of view of a middle child adolescent escaping from religious band camp, and the recent story of a shy gay-looking guy doing fake weddings for Iraq soldiers with a Jennay Hollywood aspirant in Michigan that he's in love with. People swishing their Riesling or Pinot Grigio in Scarsdale over a roast chicken or educated older people in Madison, Wisconsin have little to do with preteens, Iraq war veterans, flyover religious bible camp extremism, or, on another topic, profiles of underrated behind the scenes geniuses you just haveta know about like Tomas Maier or Ester Dean. New Yorker profiles shine a, granted, more earnestly written, light on the underrated geniuses of the underrated movement you never heard of that snakes its spidery influence through the large cities of America, the uneasy marriage of nations in the UN, connecting its web all the way to your raised ranch in Scarsdale. Ultimately, the message is that you must pay attention to this previously obscured person because their tiny light of genius or influence shines onto all the cities and continents of the current moment, and thus is obscurely pertinent to your previously uninformed light. The finesse and delicacy of the non famous string puller like Ester Dean is outlined in compound sentences and adjectives that prickle against each other, piled into a complex result. I don't understand why the New Yorker stories don't throw their readership's problems back on the page left open and planned to be read near or on the toilet, just like Stephen Sondheim did with Company. Why beguile the reader with enigmatic, somewhat pointless fiction, of the specific problems of a tiny Cooper salesman, his more distant disease stricken wife, or combative, beautiful and runaway logical teenage daughter? Why not write a story about the small problems of a systems engineer in Westport worried about his heart health, his spiralling, boring wife, the autistic son of his old age, and needled vaguely by hints of promiscuity from his pre-teen daughter? Without him traveling to Nebraska by Greyhound. Why not write a profile that unashamedly shines the light of insight on a big ass big wig and not his right wing napkin tester? Mike Bloomberg and not Mike Bloomberg's aide's child wrangler whose hand that rocks the cradle rules his tie choices and the infrastructure of New York? Because the New Yorker dances awkwardly between the political articles of Newsweek/the Economist, the purely literary reviews and personalities of the Atlantic, your poetry teacher's crappy chapbook, and the Sunday Funnies. The thin veneer of snobbery unites all the pieces as "I swear this is high culture" and "Did you hear Bruce McCall's high class parody of toddlers drinking Riesling with crushed Paxil to ease their anxiety of mobile phone apps and April 15th? Roz Chast wrote about neurosis as if New Yorkers were still distinctive, agoraphobic Jewish people with accents!" Indeed, they are your podiatrist in a comically loose fitting suit. They are the chilled aluminum ice phallus in the plastic wine bottle when you should be getting a freakin Brita filter and switching to water with oranges in it. As TED Talks' 20 minutes of specialized learning "I swear we're innovative and big ideas entrepreneurial... Now I know about the ecobiology of bee pollen courtship," the New Yorker's tidbits scream, "take this in in memory of high culture!" Even the right triangle poem that says snow from all sides? The fifth grade sonnet I sent was much better than that offering. I challenge you to create immersive articles that either teach completely or create art earnestly. These tidbits provide the satisfaction of a Pitchfork review, turning noses higher up (Dinosaur Jr.'s pre-first album unreleased cassette mixtape was better!) and educating no one.
I know what you're doing. I hate when you're cloying. I love when you follow your dreams. I love when you create incisive, compelling content. I hate when you use the same formula. I love that you're trying to be serious about your calling. I hate/love that you're secretly an unemployed freelancer with a big idea. I hate when you're snobby, anodyne, and loving of snobby cheeses like Humboldt Fog and space distillers like Neil DeGrasse Tyson. I love when you rage with intensity, when you tear and then create art. I wonder where we're going to go and how we'll continue to make business dreams from penury. I don't fit in, Let me watch. Let's punk out without fully breaking or developing hifalutin non-business ideals.
I have the same thing, the same thing to say. Last night some yelling teenage strangers told me "You're egocentric. Not everything in the world revolves around you." Because they were yelling the n word and showing their stomach and I turned around and said "Are you calling me that?" And the guy was like, "I didn't even notice you. Not everything in the world revolves around you." And I was like "Yup." And then a couple streets later I cried. I'm here with nothing to say.
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