The latest culmination of years of engineering and physics is connected to your fingertips. You are the Higgs Boson in the Hadron and your task is to avoid getting smashed. You are not steering. You are driving.
You’re thinking three steps ahead. The Buick cruising at 68 mph slides into the right lane. Pass. Then you’re immediately back to the right to overtake the dude in the BMW hugging 70 in the left lane because “Brah, it’s a Bimmer, the ultimate driving machine. I exist for the fast lane.” Pass. The two minivans smell what you’re putting down and switch lanes. Accelerate.
You lay into the pedal. 85 is effortless. Then you notice the tractor trailer 50 yards ahead digging into the brakes, trying not to flail into a full fishtail. The F150 behind you is too close.
Do you have a strategy?
Happy Pi Day! No, wait, happy Kidney Day! No, that’s not what I was going for either. What I meant was Happy Steak and BJ Day!
But isn’t that everyday? some will scoff. No, it isn’t. Some days one wants roasted chicken, others it’s carnitas, other times it’s fish. Enjoy the holiday. It may not be holy, but it is holey.
Recently I noticed that my lefty friends have completely given up on questioning authority. Now they are mouthpieces for it. I tweeted this observation with the pithy statement, “Everyone finds a religion.”
Then, perhaps thanks to serendipity, a family member sent me these passages from Francis Schaeffer. Published in 1976, Schaeffer nailed what would unfold .
As we consider the coming of an elite, authoritarian state, to fill the vacuum left by the loss of Christian principles, we must not think naively of the models of Stalin and Hitler. We must think rather of manipulative authoritarian government. Modern governments have forms of manipulation at their disposal which the world has never known before.
…to quote Eric Hoffer, “When freedom destroys order, the yearning for order will destroy freedom.”
At that point the words left or right will make no difference. They are only two roads to the same end. There is no difference between an authoritarian government from the right or the left: the results are the same. An elite, an authoritarianism as such, will gradually force form on society so that it will not go on to chaos. And most people will accept it—from the desire for personal peace and affluence, from apathy, and from the yearning for order to assure the functioning of some political system, business and affairs of daily life.
Everyone finds a religion, but elevating Caesar to a deity never ends well.
Hipstes really need to get over their early life crises.
Mr. McNeil is one half of the lauded street-art duo Faile, known for its explosive swirls of graffiti art, wheat-paste sloganeering and punk rock. He wears his hair in a top bun and bears tattoos with his sons’ names, Denim and Bowie, on his forearms. His wife, Nicole Miziolek, is an acupuncturist.
“We were the we’ll-never-leave-Brooklyn types,” said Ms. Miziolek, 36.
But faced with overpaying for a Brooklyn home that would barely contain a life with two young sons, they decided to look northward. “When we checked towns out,” Ms. Miziolek recalled, “I saw some moms out in Hastings with their kids with tattoos. A little glimmer of Williamsburg!”
First, I don’t think the tattooed footie pajama set has started tattooing their children. Yet. Second, what is it with the Peter Pan syndrome? The focus is always on “man up,” and we all know that 40 year old who is doing it wrong, but the girls are just as bad. It’s just like that TV show “Downton Abbey.” Except in real life, everyone is like a character from “Girls,” only two- or occasionally three-dimensional, and they sip fair trade organic bourbon and soy milk while reclining in said footie pajamas and refusing to admit why they like “Downton Abbey.” In other words, same as it ever was, only with different accoutrements.
Young families have been moving to the suburbs for as long as there have been young families and suburbs. That many of the young families moving to New York suburbs should be Brooklynites, and that many of them should fancy themselves “creative types” and that they, like their parents and grandparents before them, should believe themselves capable of bringing their superior sensibilities to the land of compromises and comfort should come as no surprise. See:Revolutionary Road.
And yet, the New York Times has seen fit to print yet another style section feature on thesuburban exodus of Brooklynites called, what else, “Creating Hipsturbia.”
What seems to be entirely lost on these suburban pioneers (and The Times) is that despite their tattoos and their gluten-free baked goods and their farm-to-table restaurants, they are following in the exact same footsteps as their forebearers. The creative types who have long condescended to settle in the small towns of the Hudson River Valley have always carried their tastes with them, along with the notion that they may be in the suburbs, but they are not of the suburbs.
I didn’t think hipsters were generally religious, but apparently I was wrong. I should have guessed given the dogmatism shrouded in irony.
Indeed, the Brooklyn aesthetic is so ubiquitous and slavishly adhered to that it displays all the suburban hallmarks that we love to deride. The conformity, the dull sameness, the utter lack of imagination. In his excellent 2005 essay I hate Brooklyn Jonathan Van Meter quotes one of his friends on Williamsburg: “It’s not that I don’t like the culturati hipsters, but the last time I was in an environment where people only wanted to be with people exactly like themselves was in a fucking mall in Minnesota, which is why I left there twenty years ago.”
Like is attracted to like? That’s unpossible!
Indeed, the sturdy, retro, all-American character of the river towns fits well with the whole Filson/Woolrich heritage-brand aesthetic. People who set their cultural compass to the Brooklyn Flea appreciate the authenticity.
“Hastings-on-Hudson is a village, in a Wittgensteinian sort of way,” Mr. Wallach said. He added, “We are constantly hearing about the slow-food movement, the slow-learning movement and the slow-everything-else. So why not just go avant-garde into a slow-village movement?”
Is slow-village ironic or just painfully unaware? What about this:
Marie Labropolous recently moved from a one-bedroom rental in Brooklyn to a four-bedroom 1970s split-level in Hartsdale, about 10 minutes from her shop in Dobbs Ferry. She and her husband, Simeon Papacostas, now have space for a music studio in their basement, where they enjoy regular “pajama jams,” she said.
Footie pajamas, natch.
Honestly, I’d rather live amongst hipsters than some other subgroups, though I can do without the preening moralizing and facial hair can never be ironic–it’s just facial hair. What really strikes me is the closeness Hipsturbia shares to the rise of energy drinks.
Bear with me, I’m rolling.
The Millennials are afraid of growing up. They express it differently–some with tattoos and cultivated tastes and some with business casual and “coffee tastes yucky” uncultivated tastes–but they cling to youth as though adulthood equals death. It’s a bizarre thing, especially given the fact that they continue to age and seemingly remain alive. They may attribute it to the industrially faded Black Keys t-shirt or the Chuck Taylor’s, as though styles for the young are the fountain of youth, but the simple fact is that demography is destiny.
Embrace that shit. Buy a minivan and call it a minivan, not a swagger wagon. Get a haircut and a pair of loafers. Spend your weekend building a swing set instead of an urban rooftop worm farm. Learn to drink coffee instead of frappuccinos. Get drunk on wine instead of tequila shots. Look forward to senility and ample opportunities to mock the next generation, even as they remind you of yourself.
It’s the circle of life.
Nursing homes are depressing places. Myriad grandmothers and grandfathers, reduced to little more than mushrooms, sit, unaware of their own existence. Unable to feed, bathe, or care for themselves, they are not what one would refer to as “viable.”
Moreover, these mushrooms are a drag on their own children. Some cannot afford to care for them and the government should really do more. They are an impediment to travel and self-actualization. Most of these kids never even planned on having parents. And now they are burdened with them.
If you look closely at the Constitution, you’ll discover that this is an infringement on every human’s right to happiness and awesomeness, as well as the separation of self and responsibility.
This cannot stand.
We could hope for a solution in the form of Ethical Suicide Parlors or the Carrousel, but as the concern is really about the Baby Boomers, we know that ain’t gonna happen, so it is up to us to develop a radical legislative solution.
That is why I’m urging all of you to contact your legislators and ask them to support the Forcibly Go Gently Into That Good Night Act of 2013 (FUGGIT). This act would make it legal to “retire” aging citizens who are detrimental to quality of life—our quality of life. Initial options for retirement will consist of ice floes, happy pills, and crack cocaine while hang gliding with hookers. Other options will be introduced in committee.
Additionally, timelines for retirement are delineated. The last thing we want is solipsistic chaos! As waiting for full-blown mushroom status certainly infringes on the aforementioned right to whatever one is in the mood for, we must set standards for pre-mushroom retirements. Rather than set strict guidelines for number of years, though, the recommendation is to weight productivity against resources consumed. When ROI goes negative, then it’s goodnight for grandpa.
Of course, some troglodytes may choose to not retire their aging relatives. They are free to do so, but please ask them to support the FUGGIT Act of 2013. It’s about freedom and, this time, it really is for the children.
Perhaps I should rename this place “ephemeral aesthetics” and go all-in on whiskey, hotties, and tunes as those have been of more interest of late than howling into the abyss. Yeah, everything sucks—destruction, decline, stupidity. But the beat goes on. Just ask Nero.
She sold out well. A nice mediocre take of what every girl is going, Shame her gym memberships and hair straightening have paid off more than her guitars. She used to be all about the music, now it’;s all about the image. Sad.– from a comment on this interview.
I just discovered Dirty Ghosts, so maybe the dude above is correct and not just a typical hipster “you were special when you were poor and only I liked you” prig. Regardless, it’s a stupid argument. Always. Be happy that artists you like get recognition. Validate your special snowflake tastes some other way. And the guitar is what makes this song.
Dirty Ghosts–Ropes That Way
I heard of Dirty Ghosts via Allyson Baker via Aesop Rock as they were previously married and she played guitar on his latest release Skelethon. I’d prefer this video if it were solely the gritty ballerinas as I find them oddly compelling, but the song is about riding a motorcycle at night and the general clarity and peace that one can experience while operating a motorized vehicle, so I guess the motorcycle was necessary.
Aesop Rock–Cycles to Gehenna
Via the Rabbit Hole known as YouTube, here’s the latter remixing the former.
Dirty Ghosts–Shout It In (Aesop Rock remix)
Lastly, we’ll venture in a different direction altogether–a captivating video that is pleasantly reminiscent of a Georgia O’Keefe. Notice how at the onset, the waves are moving apart from one another. As the love starts crashing over, like a tidal wa-a-ave, and the tempo shifts up to a thumping drum and bass rhythm, the waves start moving together. It’s a good argument for being bold, crashing over her, and moving in such a way that you provide a colliding influx.
Sub Focus ft. Alpines–Tidal Wave
Perhaps it’s my preternaturally sunny disposition. Perhaps it is the fact that I’m married and approaching forty. Perhaps I just have pedestrian tastes, but lately I have taken exception to a silly trend. Namely, perfectly lovely young lasses are being besmirched, denigrated, disparaged, and generally bad-mouthed for their lack of abject perfection. And to that I say balderdash, gentlemen, balderdash.
I will readily concede that tastes do vary within an objective mean. And I will concede that being married and approaching forty does mean that I’m more inclined to gaze upon Ms. Upton’s rack city and ruminate upon the fecundity of Spring and the wonder of life in general. Take a quiet moment, gaze upon those munificent mammaries, accentuate the positive, contemplate life, and tell me you disagree.
Or, for example, take this Southern Belle.
Her hobbies are fishing, shooting, and motorboating. Make that being motorboated. Personality matters! And piercing blue eyes don’t hurt. Sure, we could engage in a fruitless discussion in which we reduce her to a 4.89743/10, but where is the fun in that? Nay, ’tis better to imagine a warm summer afternoon, a well-stocked cooler, and the jiggly glory of bikini skeet shooting.
You internet warriors, you “5/10 – would not bang” digital apex predators, just stop it. It’s okay to be attracted to girls. There are many lovely ones out there. Enjoy the view.