Home Town Delightz #2 - There you are, you pesky rascal!

I love this thing.

So this hat has been my favourite thing since I bought it on impulse in Forever21's big opening weekend the other month.
It went mysteriously went missing over the weekend of manic travel between Brum-Selly-Home-TheBoy'sHome-Home-London-Home-TheBoy'sHome-Notts-Home. Inevitable, really.


BUT. I JUST FOUND IT. Tangled amid knitwear galore, that was also travelling about manically with me. Pure joy. Though I think I'll still wear a different hat laterz...








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Apologies to The Boy and The Cat in particular for unfair accusations of theft. Lav Yaz ;)

Hipster Narrative #6 - 'Irony' - Pretentious profound literary shit passed about on facebook.

Upon fleeting reflection of an enraged-exhausted-freezing-mid-seminar-fag-break discussion we shared last week, TheCanadianHipster linked me this earlier.

DAVID FOSTER WALLACE ON IRONY

Make no mistake: irony tyrannizes us.
Irony and cynicism were just what the U.S. hypocrisy of the fifties and sixties called for. That’s what made the early postmodernists great artists. The great thing about irony is that it splits things apart, gets up above them so we can see the flaws and hypocrisies and duplicates. The virtuous always triumph? Ward Cleaver is the prototypical fifties father? “Sure.” Sarcasm, parody, absurdism and irony are great ways to strip off stuff’s mask and show the unpleasant reality behind it. The problem is that once the rules of art are debunked, and once the unpleasant realities the irony diagnoses are revealed and diagnosed, “then” what do we do?
Irony’s useful for debunking illusions, but most of the illusion-debunking in the U.S. has now been done and redone. Once everybody knows that equality of opportunity is bunk and Mike Brady’s bunk and Just Say No is bunk, now what do we do? All we seem to want to do is keep ridiculing the stuff. Postmodern irony and cynicism’s become an end in itself, a measure of hip sophistication and literary savvy. Few artists dare to try to talk about ways of working toward redeeming what’s wrong, because they’ll look sentimental and naive to all the weary ironists. Irony’s gone from liberating to enslaving. There’s some great essay somewhere that has a line about irony being the song of the prisoner who’s come to love his cage.
The problem is that, however misprised it’s been, what’s been passed down from the postmodern heyday is sarcasm, cynicism, a manic ennui, suspicion of all authority, suspicion of all constraints on conduct, and a terrible penchant for ironic diagnosis of unpleasantness instead of an ambition not just to diagnose and ridicule but to redeem. You’ve got to understand that this stuff has permeated the culture. It’s become our language; we’re so in it we don’t even see that it’s one perspective, one among many possible ways of seeing. Postmodern irony’s become our environment.
All U.S. irony is based on an implicit “I don’t really mean what I say.” So what does irony as a cultural norm mean to say? That it’s impossible to mean what you say? That maybe it’s too bad it’s impossible, but wake up and smell the coffee already? Most likely, I think, today’s irony ends up saying: “How very banal to ask what I mean.” Anyone with the heretical gall to ask an ironist what he actually stands for ends up looking like a hysteric or a prig. And herein lies the oppressiveness of institutionalized irony, the too-successful rebel: the ability to interdict the question without attending to its content is tyranny. It is the new junta, using the very tool that exposed its enemy to insulate itself.
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 to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of 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 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, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the “Oh how banal.” To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows.

'Apparently the man himself agrees with us.'

Hear Hear.

Addiktion #35 - I think I'm Gonna Die.

The Boy Is Mah Faves <3 
Ain't down on lovin' any time soon. Innit.
  


...
You gotta write down what you know.

You gotta make sure that it's known.

You got a talent don't you know?
You're more talented than you know.

And you give it a shot
And give it the time
And be surprised how far it goes...

You got a few things on your shelf.
You got to look through for yourself.
You gotta choose what to read.
Choose what to believe.

And you don't take it from anyone else...

Hipster Narrative #5 - The typical facebook jabberings of panicky literature students while adventuring On The Road.

RedFeltHatGirl: should not be awake and reading On the Road at 3am... somehow the wine and caffeine seem to have worked together beautifully.

ThatBlondeGirl [morning response to RFHG]: I woke up to my alarm an hour ago with the book underneath me. So basically I took Kerouac to bed, but didn't bother to finish him off ;)

Pretty much every one of my course friends/acquaintances have been fighting with Jack Kerouac's On The Road all week. I am in the same boat. I've not come to the end yet. I've been attempting to reach that final destination for over two years now.

Tonight I will finish it. I will get there. It has to be done, it's the last c20th American Lit and Culture seminar of term tomorrow. And the last Good Bye to our Inspirational Mentor.

Gotta get there. Kerouac, you're a fucking prick.

A Polite Response To The KoolKids Across The Road - Ah cheerz guyz. Cheerz.

So it's taken me literally ALL day to sit down and read seven pages of a dense literary text that I should have had completed and reviewed by week six. It is now week ten. 

I finally got to point of concentration. A point of zen, of calm, of total acceptance of the chaos that is my room, house, location, body temperature, hair cut, pyjamas, etc.

I had FINALLY gotten there. It felt good. It felt like the future. Like something more than these constant self-indulgent and ever-distracting blog posts. It felt good.

This is all that has lasted the months of damp and cold
and chaos. This is my Peace and Quiet.

But. Some presumably charming young students, I'm guessing they be koolandshit, I probably know half of them for their DamnFineCaps and MightySteez, decided to start The Party. 


But. It's in the middle of the road (I think, there are a lot of MightyFineVehicles out there). 
Or if not in the middle of the road, in the middle of one of the most dense student areas in the UK. Victoria Halls, We Salute You. 
We live and breathe students here. Parties, yeah. Do it. Innit.


But. At 5.01pm in the afternoon? At the most stressful time of the year for us all? Deadlines have hit? But because you're a fresher it doesn't matter that you interrupt EVERYONE on their way to and from the library?
AT FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON?! REALLY?! 


My window, curtains, chair and whole body and feeling the beautiful vibrations of a SeanaPaula remix of some sort. I'm sure the place is bangin'. I'd be there in a second.


But please guys, could you turn it down? Just a little bit? So I can sit in my bed with my book and drown you out with the delicate tones of Bon Iver? Or not?


Oh? What's the I hear? Has some nasty security guy come in and told you to turn it down? Perhaps even the nice community police officers I met today?
Ah. Well that's nice of you. It's just my window that's shaking now, not me. Okay. That's better.


Or not? Did I just hear the volume being sneaked back up? Are these shivers? Or shakes? Or just the SIKASFUK BASE driving me wild?


Oh is that it going back up even further? Well, Why the hell not at 5.06pm on a freezing cold and miserable Thursday?


I give up. Have fun. I'll probably be round to crash it later. Save me some shit.


...


OHHHH. OR NOT? Can I return to the tranquil peace I've been striving for?!
I hear what now feels like a peaceful silence. Just the calm and collected hustle and bustle of the library run. No cheap dubstep imitations. No grotesque references to bodily functions. I can't take that right now.
It's all over. Our taxes are clearly worth it. 


Sorry guyz.
BUT DEAL. 

A Concise Response To SellyOak's Finest, The Community Police.

Pity

Not to be confused with Empathy, Sympathy, or Compassion.

 

Pity evokes a tender or sometimes slightly contemptuous sorrow or empathy for people, a person, or an animal in misery, pain, or distress. People who have previously experienced the pain or misfortune in question may feel greater pity.

What Ever Happened To My Rock 'n' Roll?

The Boy and I have tickets to see BRMC tonight. We can get them refunded any time due to a last minute date change (THE BASTARDS). I've never seen them live before. The Father and I have been big fans since I was little. They make an excellent soundtrack to the highs and lows of pre-pubescent life.

I'm dressed for it. I even had some food (I am back to being TheCrepeMaster again). 

But I'm tired. And messy. And my head hurts. And it's cold out there. And I need to read up on Gatsby. And everything else in The World.

Hmmmmmm...

I think I'll go. I love loud gigs. And I miss them. The Head Banging. And The Leather. And The Lace.

Especially when The Duke Spirit are supporting.

Hey Boy! Wait up!

My Darlings, I miss this.

Hipster Narrative #1 - A typical morning in the life of a wide-eyed and aspirational arts student.

Life : Hey! You there!

Girl : Wha'? Me?!

Life : Yeah, you! With all your GenericArtyBohemian potential! Come! Live life to the full!

Girl : ... Nah, I don't have time for life right now, I gotta wash my hair...
Life : WTF?! Stop procrastinating, you lazy fuck. First Class Honours ain't called First Class for nothin' ya know.
Girl : Nah, I'm serious I gotta was my hair.

Life : Uhh wottevvs babe.. It can't be that important - it doesn't look that dirty.

Girl : Uhh wottevvs babez. I just had to rip out two massive revolting dreadlocks. Despite only ever using an entire bottle of OverPricedBestSellingBlondeConditionerThat Doesn'tNecessarilyBetterTheCheapButCrap-LookingOption.

Life : Stop freakin' out bitch - it can't be that bad.
Girl : Uhhhh yeah, it can. My scalp is bleeding. Look [reveals scalp].
Life : Uhh...
Girl : [staring at herself in the mirror with a concerned expression] Perhaps the Low-MaintenanceAlternativeGenericAsFuckHairCut isn't so Low-Maintenance after all...
Life : [stunned by gore of scalp] Jeez...
Girl : Or perhaps it is, and I just need to learn how to brush it again. With a hair brush, right?
Life : Wha...? Are you serious?
Girl : At least once a week, right?[whips out CheapSetOfMensBeardTrimmers and proceeds to groom]
Life : Oh for Fuck's sake. I give up.



Yes, this is Alice Dellal. And yes, I do have this haircut.



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TRUE STORY.