In Defense of a Philistine

Thanks to a friend's Facebook link, I stumbled upon comedian Jason Good's brilliantly accurate blog. I did so at lunch on a day when Husband was home sick, so I proceeded to bombard his inbox with link after link after link.

It's just so true. I feel like that's our marriage with our kids. It also makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, my kid isn't that way because I'm a horrible parent. My kid is that way because all kids are that way: insane.

This entry, though, is all Me. Husband and I go round and round on this frequently. I accuse him of music snobbery; he accuses me of music ignorance. I label his music "Girl with Guitar on Stool;" he labels mine "ridiculous, without merit, and for the masses." (He is a little bit of a snob about such things). My younger brother is a landscaper/professional guitarist (it takes a while in a musician's career to lose the slash) with impeccable taste for all thing rockabilly, jazz, and old old country. Meanwhile, I heart me some TLC. I do like some "good" stuff: The Roots, Spoon, Phoenix, etc., but in general I prefer to avoid self-consciously depressing music. Why are all you people so sad? And why do you want to make me sad too? And why can you not be arsed to enunciate when you sing?

The economy is lagging, one of two major parties in our country wants "believes in evolution" to be a disqualifier, women in Congo are raped repeatedly. I don't need a hipster's angst to assault my mood any more than real life does. If it doesn't put a bounce my step or make me dance at inappropriate times and in inappropriate venues, chances are I'm not going to be too into it. This is probably a flaw and an indication of why I am no genius, let alone an artistic one, but I embrace it. If you ever need a lift, ask for a Rachel-created playlist, and I'll happily help you out.