Chapter 2: The way I want to live my life.

"The next real literary ‘rebels’ in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually o endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naïve, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and the squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the ‘oh, how banal.’ To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of over credulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above punishment without law."

david foster wallace. "e unibus pluram."

picture: the cold war kids. my newest obsession.
and the only thing that gets me out of bed in the mornings these days.

Chapter 1: Literary.

i've always wanted to be a literary person. you know, one of those cool, all back wearing, scarves in the summertime, black eye-linered, cafe inhabiting individuals who just exude the essence of all that is... hip. alas, this has not happened to me. partially because being literary also means that i have to write, which i seemed to have forgotten along the way.

i realized that basically, until now, i have been a poser, and one of the worst kinds. not only did i dress and make-up and eye line the part of someone i was not, but i also earned the respect of the spectators around me who thought i was a rather respectable being who actually did write. and possibly wrote well. sorry to disappoint, but not really. all that typing you saw? yea, that was me on aim.

but i believe that i can be a new age literary: one who actually does write. now, i'm not accusing any of the quintessential literary types of being posers, but honestly, if i could do it, anyone could. and all that time i used to spend looking the part, i'm now going to focus on doing the part. sort of.

so let's see if this works out, right? i mean, as my mom would, say, "i can try."

Introduction

so i guess the first question that anyone can ask is, "why would i want to read the world according to you, anyway?"

and i say to them, "solid question."

not convincing, i know. but i think that my voice is one that should be heard, however pretentious that may sound. my view on the world is now better than the next person's, but it might be a little more entertaining. (again, as pretentious as that may sound.)

all i ask is that you give me a chance. just one chance, and see if i have what it takes to keep your attention long enough to hear me out. and if not, tell me so. i'd love to hear some honesty one of these days. one thing i can guarantee you is that i will be as honest as possible with everything that i say, though there may be some poetic license taken with the humor.

so i welcome you to my world...