As I skipped every instrumental track on the CD playing in my car this morning, I decided that I am into very obvious aesthetics. I like songs with words, paintings with glaringly apparent subjects and I feel just dreadful about certain modernist novels. Not all modernist novels, obviously, but the particularly sassy Irish ones.
I may be dense (and I just ate three buckets full of hummus for lunch, so I probably am) but I like to believe that it’s a matter of taste. I can’t be blamed if I buy into the pleasant simplicity of the narrative arch.
And speaking of narrative arches [standard seamless segue to follow]. Last night I was reading this article in the free Sacramento Bee my non-fiancé and I scored (it was just sitting on top of the newspaper box, asking to be taken or poisoned with anthrax) last Sunday. It was a regular column, a dual opinion thing written by a father and son, addressing some previous column in which they argued over whether the father should pay for the son’s gas. Apparently there had been a reader uproar over this, and the familial duo was rebutting accusations that the son was spoiled.
I could not resist rolling my eyes as I read the son’s defense. Yes, he knew that he had “entitlement issues” like all teens, but he solemnly believed that this didn’t show an improper upbringing. On the contrary, he believed that he would grow up to be an upstanding citizen and good provider for a future family. In his opinion, he was an okay guy.
“Stupid teenagers,” I thought. “I don’t care how many houses you built on a summer abroad program in Guam. I bet your father wrote this in an effort to pad your college application packet, so that you can get into a flashy university and in four years become a sloppy semi-employed person like me.”
And that’s when I realized. I’m a jerk. What’s more, I’m a jerk with possible entitlement issues and a free Sac Bee in her bathroom.
I may be dense (and I just ate three buckets full of hummus for lunch, so I probably am) but I like to believe that it’s a matter of taste. I can’t be blamed if I buy into the pleasant simplicity of the narrative arch.
And speaking of narrative arches [standard seamless segue to follow]. Last night I was reading this article in the free Sacramento Bee my non-fiancé and I scored (it was just sitting on top of the newspaper box, asking to be taken or poisoned with anthrax) last Sunday. It was a regular column, a dual opinion thing written by a father and son, addressing some previous column in which they argued over whether the father should pay for the son’s gas. Apparently there had been a reader uproar over this, and the familial duo was rebutting accusations that the son was spoiled.
I could not resist rolling my eyes as I read the son’s defense. Yes, he knew that he had “entitlement issues” like all teens, but he solemnly believed that this didn’t show an improper upbringing. On the contrary, he believed that he would grow up to be an upstanding citizen and good provider for a future family. In his opinion, he was an okay guy.
“Stupid teenagers,” I thought. “I don’t care how many houses you built on a summer abroad program in Guam. I bet your father wrote this in an effort to pad your college application packet, so that you can get into a flashy university and in four years become a sloppy semi-employed person like me.”
And that’s when I realized. I’m a jerk. What’s more, I’m a jerk with possible entitlement issues and a free Sac Bee in her bathroom.
1 comment:
I am offended that you would tag anything with "the hideous bulbous mass that is my car"
love,
ditemagi
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