Self-Suckdom
How does one know if one sucks?
I mean how do you ever know if you are any good at what you do?
The only real gauge of our abilities is the feedback we get from our peers, but they are subject to the same relativist principles as the rest of us. And masses of people paying compliment to your work, in whatever form it might take, could indeed be a further indication of your suck done! For is it not true that the masses are asses?
Think of the most prosperous bands in the United States today; they are the worst shit I have ever had the displeasure of hearing. White people co-opting urban cultures slang, styles and mannerisms and making a bucking fortune in doing so.
It is kind of sickening.
Not to dissimilar from the whole Elvis phenomenon of the last era. A suburban white kid steals the underground black cultures songs and ideas and becomes known as "the king"but even the ones not rapping and 'owe-ing' out suck.
The adult contemporary movement popularized by the hybrid pop/country/Christian rock singers. As if one of those three in the phrase wasn't enough crap on its own, we get singers and bands that categorize all three! wheeee!
I have just come to realize that I am a complaining piece of shit. The only things I can think to write about are my numerous complaints and grievances that I am too humble and reserved to speak aloud. I guess I could. Just complain out loud like the rest of the world I mean. But that would make me feel like the rest of the world. Outward and out of line. I have always felt that an impartial confidante couldn't exist in a human being. One that didn't charge by the hour at least. So I have become the introvert who spills the milk to one and only one source.
The page.
The pen.
The song (well, three.)
And how vain of me to do so and let others read it. better yet, pay to read it. I guess there's some thick irony involved in taking the stance as the quiet complainer. As I am seeing tonight, I mouth off as much as the person. I just have a different and more fiendish way of routing those frustrations. I guess if I were to start again and choose my angst's mode of transport, I wouldn't really do it any differently.
Perhaps I would just try and tell myself that somewhere, someone is reading it and listening to it or seeing it thoroughly enjoying themselves. be it out of pure entertainment and comedy, or because of the simple fact that they understand where it is I am coming from.
I mean how do you ever know if you are any good at what you do?
The only real gauge of our abilities is the feedback we get from our peers, but they are subject to the same relativist principles as the rest of us. And masses of people paying compliment to your work, in whatever form it might take, could indeed be a further indication of your suck done! For is it not true that the masses are asses?
Think of the most prosperous bands in the United States today; they are the worst shit I have ever had the displeasure of hearing. White people co-opting urban cultures slang, styles and mannerisms and making a bucking fortune in doing so.
It is kind of sickening.
Not to dissimilar from the whole Elvis phenomenon of the last era. A suburban white kid steals the underground black cultures songs and ideas and becomes known as "the king"but even the ones not rapping and 'owe-ing' out suck.
The adult contemporary movement popularized by the hybrid pop/country/Christian rock singers. As if one of those three in the phrase wasn't enough crap on its own, we get singers and bands that categorize all three! wheeee!
I have just come to realize that I am a complaining piece of shit. The only things I can think to write about are my numerous complaints and grievances that I am too humble and reserved to speak aloud. I guess I could. Just complain out loud like the rest of the world I mean. But that would make me feel like the rest of the world. Outward and out of line. I have always felt that an impartial confidante couldn't exist in a human being. One that didn't charge by the hour at least. So I have become the introvert who spills the milk to one and only one source.
The page.
The pen.
The song (well, three.)
And how vain of me to do so and let others read it. better yet, pay to read it. I guess there's some thick irony involved in taking the stance as the quiet complainer. As I am seeing tonight, I mouth off as much as the person. I just have a different and more fiendish way of routing those frustrations. I guess if I were to start again and choose my angst's mode of transport, I wouldn't really do it any differently.
Perhaps I would just try and tell myself that somewhere, someone is reading it and listening to it or seeing it thoroughly enjoying themselves. be it out of pure entertainment and comedy, or because of the simple fact that they understand where it is I am coming from.
posted by Jeremy at 4:58 PM
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