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E-mail to a friendDo yourself a favor: print out this editorial by David Brooks--shame of the Chicago Maroon--on acid free paper and store it in a cold dry place, or put it on your flash drive, or your Kindle, or on a server at your favorite hosting facility, and when you turn 50, reread it, and if you think, hey, that's me now, ask yourself why you are professionally self-conscious about taste, and think about technology throughout history as an evolutionary process and the role of early adopters and cultural exchange, and read Ecclesiastes, and just try not to be a dick about it going forward because if you even have time to think about eclecticism as an aesthetic you probably have it pretty damn good.
Plus: Hey, speaking of eclecticism, I can't say how much damage to society you would do by going to see a free in-store from a wonderful local, kind of obscure psychedelic rock band whose lyrics are all in Spanish, but Allá is playing Permanent Records tomorrow in support of the gorgeous new El Tiempo, which Miles Raymer convinced me was great, and it is. Local, "obscure" tastes--part of what makes Chicago, like many places throughout the world, a wonderful place to live. Or you could wait until they're in the New York Times or whatever.
Update: Now I'm listening to Lonely China Day's Sorrow. They're kind of the Coldplay of Beijing--the lead singer definitely picked up a bunch of tricks from Chris Martin. It's pretty interesting; I wouldn't say I'm a big fan, but it's pleasant and nice to work to. Incidentally, I didn't discover this through the Evil Internet but through the very 20th century medium of the newspaper promo copy dump box.
*Title of the e-mail from Chicagoland correspondent ptb that included this link.
Pvt to David Brooks: I'm listening to Keith Jarrett's recording of the Goldberg Variations; the next thing in my iTunes (ooh) library is Lifter Puller's Fiestas and Fiascoes. Because they're both remarkable works of human achievement that make me glad to be alive. [Blogger: raises middle finger.]
The Dark Night of Profound Cultural Illiteracy we are rushing into has just begun.
The following is something I wrote to a young book reviewer aggresively doing his best to trash the book "The Dumbest Generation": ultimately, and sadly, relying on inapplicable comparisons to similar conservative cultural reactionaries (e.g. Bloom's 1987 Closing of the American Mind) of the past and the ridiculous assertion that millineals are offering us radical culture and art.
"What art, sir? I live in Chicago, the new art capital of the country --as opposed to that pigpen of hillbilly poseurs, Brooklyn-- and I am continually shocked by the absolute lack of originality in much of what shamelessly passes for art in your generation, especially at the "fringes" -- everything is pathetically derivative, from music to physical art ... at the moment, e.g. the found/trash/recycled art movement and its cheesy taggin/grafitti compadre go on as if this is something new and revolutionary ... brutally ignorant of how its emptiness was booed off stage twenty years ago on "Family Ties", when then Mallory's frighteningly illiterate "found" artist boyfriend Nick was ushered in to usher that shit out. From Ladytron to the Long Blondes, from the shameless mimicry of those idiots Interpol to recent crap by the likes of Hot Chip ("ready for the floor?" ... wanna see pathetic lifting, youtube the band Secession circa 1985) and Black Kids (not only are they yet another silly mimic of the Cure, but they have pathetically decided to exclusively focus on their uber-crappy "Kiss Me Kiss Me" album) .
The real sad part, however, is the overall increasing illiteracy many millenials seem to squueze into, with both pain and joy, as they do when squeezin into their skinny pants (why, why in god's name did this trend have to reappear right when we are getting obese at alarming rates?). I know this may be a hard concept for many of you, so I'll take it slow ... the situation with your generation regarding art but more importantly reading is profoundly disanalogous (take your time, google it, come back, we cool?) to that of previous generations. There is something painfully wrong when contests to see who can text the most in the shortest time span are publicly applauded. There is less and less language, vocabulary and conceptual hardware with which to flourish the more brutally illiterate one gets. When Heidegger famously stated that language is the house of being, he kindled many fires beyond the metaphysical ones he was targeting. Language is the house of
being but also the tool we express ourselves with. Not just cheezily or narcissistically, but when we are in pain, abused, misunderstood, feel our freedoms frustrated, wish to promote what we value, getting to know what we value, and WHY we do, etc.
In "To Kill a Mockingbird" (see, no references to someone like that Psuedoliterary Carny Foster Wallace or William Gass), if one kindda reads it, you know, not as given by Wikipedia or on film, one will notice that a subtle but profound message Harper Lee wishes to impart is that the humanistic armour and motor running Atticus Finch is largely, if not exclusively the product of ... READING (BOO!), and lots of it. It is reading and the EXTENDED concentration (boo, AGAIN) required to read say, a novel, that helps one imaginatively travel and place oneself (whether socially, sexually, tearfully, or philosophically) in a diffirent place, different shoes. The less we read, the more deeply solipsistic we get. But then again, one would have to be dumb as hell to expect members of this generation to care enough to establish habits that can help them both appreciate and confront the moral complexity of daily living and decision making.
Thousands of years ago (ok two, but it's all the same to you guys anyway) Socrates (as recorded,
portrayed, or absolutely fabricated ... what a fukin' fascinating question ... by Plato) stated that the unexamined life is not worth living. But what happens when even the questions generated by this issue are not only unimportant, but unrecognized in the first place? What happens if igrorance-fed defensiveness and a grand ballroom celebration of blidiocy is yanking us further into Plato's cave?
Where are you? I can't see you.
Shit ... I can't even hear you.
Hello?"
If only cultural snobbery was our chief concern ...