If there's one thing this world needs, in times like these, it's another blog by a white fella talking about the news and culture he loves to hate.
Unless otherwise noted, all posts on this site are authored by, and the property of, Bob Howard.
All in On other's hard work
I have written four thousand something words about an album that is finally old enough to drink something besides the sacramental wine.
Over on SOCIAL MEDIA, an endless stream of everyone else's shit, sometimes you might find yourself TAGGED or CHALLENGED to, like, dump a bunch of ice water on your head or BE THE ONE PERSON WHO CARES ENOUGH FOR VETERANS TO NOT JUST LIKE BUT SHARE THIS POST or buy cheap RayBans from criminals, or something. Recently, I was tagged in one of those goofy nü-chain-letter tag-fests. Normally, I'd ignore it with appropriate, removed disdain, as one should ignore any awful social pestilence, like "the wave" at a sports stadium, for example. But this was about books! I like books!
...It is a feeling of absolute uncontrol, of being lost within one’s own body, a fracturing of physical and mental identity and will and experience into incommunicado fragments of the self.
"...performed by an elaborate Trans-Siberian Orchestra cover band unsure of what they're doing, exactly, but dead-goddamn-serious about doing it."
We have had a reactionary cultural response to the age of irony, and well-meaning deference, sincerity, empathy, and credulity have conspired to replace objective shared reality with a collective ethic of solipsism--and then held that solipsism up as a virtue of progress!
When you refuse to even nod in the direction of the rapid pace of change, when you dismiss the sincere concerns--to be clear (again again again) I think they're mostly wrong--of millions as absurd random nonsense, you only exacerbate the divide. You're not interested in conversation with these people, you believe them to be outside The Project. And then they go and elect a screaming lunatic and huckster as president of the United States, the shrieking and growling fruit of our rotten tree, just for the indignant satisfaction of having a flaming middle finger in your face all the time.
