Wednesday, November 26, 2003

I'm becoming one of those critical theory/cultural students who can't order a coffee, flick through a catalogue, attend a barbeque - do anything really - without making a comment that is situated in relation to the theories of this or that critical theorist/continental philosopher.

I've also joined a creative writing group of 30-year-old+ men - yikes! I paid $8 for a vintage Prince badge the other day, also. And I'm reading lots of Nietzsche. And coming to know more about 'art'. Jeeeeeeeez.

And denying to myself (in order to prove what sort of superior human being I am[?]) any inclination to learn about the details of this latest M.J. fiasco. Or at least making a show of coming to the whole thing through 'theory', if I ever relent - it absolves me, somehow.

Have you ever noticed how, whenever someone affirms the fact that they actually really like trashy T.V. (The Bachelor/Meet My Folks-type action, in particular), they admit this as if they were somehow being transgressive or unusual? When in truth, trashy T.V. does not "work" solely by being an immediate superficial spectacle, or an easy brainless thrill - rather, it lays its final blow as it produces a feeling of naughtiness, of indulgence, as you sink back into the couch, lay the remote down...

Up the charts: The "wooh"s in Dizzee Rascal's "Fix Up Look Sharp", wordy orgiastic Nick Cave rhapsodies, dancing.

P.S. It occurs to me everytime I see it, that the Living End's "Sex Pistols pastiche" is one of the saddest (ie. lamest) things of which I can think.

P.P.S. Do you think Justin Timberlake might be a robot?

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