Been feeling really Fake Plastic Trees lately, more than usual (whole life). Last year it was more The Smiths playing that role. And as 23-year-old who is only now getting into Radiohead, it’s funny to let it hit me the same way it would have on 14-year-old me. It’s like how you look at the lyrics of sad songs you listened to as a kid and realize that the lyrics to, à la She Will Be Loved sounded even more cucked now than it did then. Everything felt so much heavier then (back in my analog day), the rose-tint on my nostalgia is only applied for media consumption.
And then the slowed and reverbed versions of those songs come out, craving an intensity that the studio version provided in the first few listens, which has long dwindled to a few embers. The dosage necessitated heightening, thank God for the hundreds of bedroom-bound incels that spent 5 minutes in Audition. It’s probably more likely there’s a website you can just do that through now, long gone will the soft, highly-employable skills of adding a few effects on Audition be, join literally every other job left. Goodbye to the creators of what I consider an incredibly harmful habit. Unironically. Mass consumption of these versions of songs only exacerbates the numbness.
Ahh, the Incels! Been in such a hole I think my usual resonations with the Joker have heightened to a caffineic-degree. So misunderstood! And so so relatable. Had a wonderful discussion with some other (purposefully-kept anonymous) grad students about the Joker on your Government dollars. A few different things were on the agenda, and the inciting remark was on the relationship between the Joker and Incels. We quickly discarded this Vox topic for analyzing the Joker’s celibacy, to which I deduced (to much pushback) remains intact, as he is never seen on screen having sex. The Screen is my King, and who am I to go against my “best not miss.” Even Harley Quin is a clear attempt to reconstruct his Mother via the Madonna-whore complex, to which Batman is the key figure of desire.
If the Joker had sex with Batman, he would immediately become so depressed he would kill himself in the coming weeks. Somehow, with a fake gun that shoots out cherry-scented water. To have what he desired, what could come after this? He’s got verse 2 of Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me exploding cartoon dynamite sticks in his brain. All while a man too big to be Cupid, but dressed in the same garb, shoots a playing card etched arrow into his damaged-tattooed heart. Wow. SO incredibly deep on my part. Holy smokes, this is surely critique that deserves funding.
Feeling incredibly Fake Plastic Trees recently, in all the cliche ways. To be trapped in simulacra wanting the real thing, actually feeling something that feels “real,” whatever that means. And then the death drive arrives to you at an automated stop. You know that plastic lines everything. And all of your “real” needs fake- inserted in front of it (every time). It also allows you to not be just any run-of-the-mill loser. No, you are melancholy personified. There’s a poeticism to this—you’re more a trenchcoated man walking on cobblestone streets, compared to an alcoholic man pissing on cotton sheets. I remember Fisher wrote on a blog post about how the depressed man always feels to have a narcissistic accuracy on the diagnosis of their condition, a moral superiority. Made peace with the chaos via your nihilistic characteristics. Joker, no?
Weirdly religious tone as I’m reading this back. Might have to accelerate my inauthentically planned McLuhanesque turn to Catholicism. Term is good term has gone good, doing great how about you? Finished one paper with one remaining, around 2 weeks out before the next term arrives. Train keeps chugging along, wondering when the smoke from the chimney started having a slightly sweet metallic taste.
-> Slopunk <- 