Every fucking person on the internet can call themselves a writer. They’re writers because they blog or they write these humorous little pieces from time to time but they still lack any substance that a real novel has going for it. I know that you’re thinking, “Where do you get off saying who and who isn’t a writer, you schmuck?! All you do is write your stupid blog and poems with bits and pieces of actual work here and there.” Real writers are published in some shape and form to me. I long for the writers with originality. I feel like more and more I’m walking into bookstores and reading The Hunger Games Part 38: Banality is Fun. Fuck Originality.
Palahniuk is out there and we had David Foster Wallace. I’ve got the last of Philip K. Dick laying on the floor but even that was old school jots of idea he put down before death and that were put together after his untimely death. I also recently read an underground novel called Fuck-Up, which was quite the read because that’s how I feel in this post-college world that bought and sold me on the idea of opportunity. Doesn’t help that I’ve had my heart ripped up this year to add to that feeling of a fuck-up. But that’s what I mean, where the fuck are those books that sort of grab us? I don’t want to read the same tired traditions over and over again. Then again, when I ever get a novel or short story out there I hope to God it’s not this fallacy we call a decent novel these days.
I mean, shit, where is the underground anyway?! Is it so far underground that I can’t find it? Where are the magazines, zines, etc., that Bukowski got his start in the 60’s and 70’s? And another thing, why the fuck are books so expensive? I read everything about the decline of actual books but you assholes are jacking up the price way above what the beauty of reading is worth. You know how I circumvent your filthy practice of depriving me of books? I buy them on fuckin’ Amazon or I check them out from the library and then buy them on Amazon. Personally, the idea of selling my books is just an atrocious thought but, by all means sell your books all over the place for me to whisk up into my ravenous appetite for reading material that doesn’t suck the long dick of mediocrity.
I never thought I’d see the day when our literature would fall into the trap of reproduction that the movie industry is so fond of taking part in. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, Johnny Rockets is planning to make a drive-in-movie restaurant, a drive-thru concept (with breakfast menu), a food truck and a mobile pop-up restaurant. And they’re calling this shit new and original?! If I want to go see a drive-in movie, I’ll go to the drive-in near my goddamn house! I don’t need a restaurant bastardizing a classic concept in the name of higher revenue streams. Of course, no one really cares. They see it as new and exciting! Who wants to make their food better or create something else when you can easily slap your name on an already used concept and have the American public lap it up like a dog basking in the smell of its own shit. Come to the food trough of unoriginality!
Maybe originality per se doesn’t exactly exist (though the Hunger Games proves that wrong). Maybe I am pigeon-holing my experiences with reading at this point. Or maybe if we stopped allowing tired and worn out trends to hog the scene, we’d have better books, movies, food, politicians, and less shitty reality television and sitcoms. Is this shit just not that obvious to the rest of the adoring public? Have we become so brainwashed by crappy programming that we’re allowing ourselves to get dumber and fill our lives with inane babble to fill some dreaded silence? Certainly I miss college because I learned to understand the silence as just empty space for our thoughts, or a bond between that person and I that we didn’t have to talk to enjoy each others company. Dear me, do I miss intellectual conversations and actual dialogue about concepts and ideas. You can keep the damn Kardashians and shit. Unless I need the utter idiocy of reality TV stars to make a point, just keep them the fuck away from me.
Just someone give me some stimulating conversation, a good book, cigarettes, coffee, a beautiful woman, love, none of this stupid student loan debt, the means and ability to live and oh, stimulating sex. Is that all really too much to ask for?
For the Rest of Us... 