Awake, late, hot, naked, reading a couple hundred pages of someone else’s dream and wondering how I got here, but we both know that’s exactly the kind of half-secret half-mystery that I’m never going to be able to answer.
Last week, I was interviewed by Margaret Durfy for her dissertation. Her subject is city living, urban subcultures, and hipsters. For whatever reason, she was put into contact with me by my friend Katie, who long ago fucked off out of NYC to go grad school in Boulder and, you know, be all successful and stuff.
Anyway. I met Margaret at Joe on East 13th Street. Despite my oft-professed misanthropy, I found her very affable, not least because she wanted to ask me all about my favorite subject: me!
I was talking with my friend Tony last night about music for help on a project I’m working on. During the course of the conversation, his list of five greatest records ever came up. His five certainly all belong on the list, yet maybe two would slot into my top five.
This led me to thinking today about the concept of greatness in art. Anyone who thinks about such things seriously will have a list of their own five greatest albums. Many, if not most, will have a list comprised of worthy choices. And you’ll have dozens, maybe hundreds, of different albums on that list. What does that mean?
I think I’ve figured it out.
When I was in middle school (which, for me, ran from sixth to eighth grade), every sixth grader was required to take an “exploratory” class as an elective. Which, you know, required elective. Very funny, right?
Anyway: this exploratory class covered the four main classes that could be taken as electives as a seventh- and eighth-grader. You had one quarter each in basic (not BASIC) computer programming, tech ed (shop class), art, and home ec. As far as such things go, this was a pretty effective way of exposing kids to the choices available to them.
I had been wondering what to do about my bag. After all, it was my first attempt, and as endearing as quirkiness may be, there were definitely flaws to be corrected in the design and execution. Still, I thought it might be a waste to basically chuck a perfectly functional bag, especially one that held such specific significance for me.
Luckily, someone else made the decision for me.
As everyone knows, we are all unique. There is evidently something in everyone’s personality that makes them different and worth knowing.
Leaving aside the fact that I have never seen in most people anything that makes them worth knowing, I have to question whether this alleged “uniqueness” in fact exists.
I (on the good days) consider myself a fairly gifted person. I like to think I can write well, that I’m well-spoken, maybe funny, attractive, have opinions worth sharing, that I’m smarter than the average bear (and for that matter, the average human), and super fucking humble.
So what?
So, I’m reading the accompanying article on Death Cab for Cutie’s session for Daytrotter when when I get bludgeoned by this question: “If this isn’t love this time, then what is it now?”
