Culture cannibal

Diane,

If you are what you eat, then I am culture. 

Let’s get the shocking twists out of the way early.  If this is the pilot episode, we cut to (name withheld) bashing Laura Palmer to death, and roll credits.  The twists are these: nothing much is important; I’m not actually a fictional FBI agent from a long-ago-cancelled TV show; and if you’re shallow enough (like me) to enjoy babbling about trivialities in the face of inevitable extinction, then this is the right place for you.  ROLL CREDITS.

Behind the coffee-and-pie facade, who am I really?  Let’s see:

An aspiring musician who has recorded a large number of albums, in almost as many genres and under almost as many band names.

An aspiring novelist with one neo-film noir-informed novel under his belt and two ideas for further novels that stake out claims to other well-trod pieces of ground.

A music listener and consumer who dabbles in genres like the earth was going to fall into the sun tomorrow and take all the electro-world-illbient-funk with it before I got to hear any.

A movie watcher and collector with shelves of spaghetti westerns, horror movies, dramas, comedies, actioners, kung fu flicks, and at least one vampire-themed softcore europorn.

What I am, then: I am a true eater of ideas.  An intellectual Galactus.  Madonna minus the elaborate stage shows.  If that sounds self-deprecating, it’s really not.  I’ve come to terms with it, believe me.  I can be a country troubador and a hard-boiled crime writer and a reggae-loving hippie and a death metal aficianado.  Just try to stop me, Diane.  Your efforts are doomed to failure.  I’m unstoppable, because I long ago stopped seeing the purpose of originality.  It’s all too appropriate that the name and identity plastered across this blog are not mine.  It’s all too appropriate that this is blog number six million in the blogoverse.  It’s all too appropriate that this is my own second attempt at a blog, and the first one featured a rant exactly like this one, which I stole from someone else.

What’s more, we’re all like me.  If post-modernism is a label without meaning – or without one specific meaning – that’s really quite fitting, isn’t it?  After industrialization, we became a dump culture.  We are a breeding ground for genetically flexible parasites.  We are where last week’s foie gras and yesteryear’s copy of “London Calling” turn into a dinner date that we can all appreciate, even if it leaves a slightly odd taste in our mouths.

Diane, this is heaven.  You simply must come out here when you have the time.

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