My Impassioned Defense of Macklemore (because he def. needs it)
moose
ilovelife94
  Confession: I’ve been obsessed with Macklemore lately.
  I’ve also been doing a lot of reading about why people hate Macklemore, and yes, he’s cringe-worthily earnest. And yes, his infamous text message to Kendrick Lamar was cringe-worthily self-promotional and strove so, so hard to show how self-aware he was. And yes, it might be annoying how much he refers to himself as an artist (despite how hard he may or may not have worked to get where he is). And yes, he somehow equivocated “hip-hop” to “YouTube comments,” and that’s certainly a bit of a stretch. And maybe sometimes he looks pretty stupid. But I freaking love him.
  I’ve read that Macklemore is “hip-hop for people who don’t like hip-hop,” creating an awful sort of hip-hop pop rap for the hipster white guy who’s fresh out of college and probably working at a marketing agency and likes what he considers to be “everything” but is really a narrow selection of what the Power That Be deem acceptable music for his culture and status. I think that’s an easy and lazy dismissal.
  First of all, there’s always been an argument about whether art can be both massively appealing – accessible, not eclectic – and still be considered art. This bitch girl I used to know dismissed a book we were reading in college because, as she told me, she likes her entertainment to be “truth-reflexive” or “entertainment-reflexive,” but not both. And Macklemore has tons of fans who like his music. Sexual fantasies aside, Macklemore has some serious appeal, even if the writers at Slate and Thought Catalog insist that the people he’s appealing to must be somehow beneath them on the totem pole of hip-hop intellectualism (because he’s not genre-bending like Kendrick Lamar – but isn’t calling him a pop rap hip-hop star is a genre-bender in itself?).
  Secondly, I’ve read that there are plenty of hip-hop artists – queer and otherwise – who supports gay rights, which is why Macklemore is so annoying. The fact that he’s popular for making a pro-gay rights song is somehow a dismissal of all the other queer hip-hop artists. As a star riddled with White Male Privilege, we must burn him at the stake, because he’s indicative of what the Grammy’s have become – a joke of a ceremony run by a bunch of stogy old white men deciding what music gets the gold seal of approval and gets passed on to the masses. But that doesn’t take into account the fact that Macklemore + Ryan Lewis are seriously the second musical artist IN HISTORY to make it to the top of the charts without a major record label backing. Yes, his songs can be over-the-top warm-hearted (“Ten Thousand Hours,” looking at you) and make me a more than a little embarrassed to say that I enjoy them. But you can’t claim that he’s part of the system he’s thwarted.
  I’ve watched “Otherside” over and over and over trying to figure out why I like it, what I think makes it great. At Slate, writer and critic Jack Hamilton asserts, “It’s the lowest sort of middlebrow, an art-like commodity that shallow people think is deep and dull people think is edgy.” You’re talking about a post-black (read: white) hip-hop pop rap artist who did a lot of drugs, made some really god-awful music, got clean and got hooked up with a brilliant producer, defied the system and rose to the top independent of a) a record label and b) any sort of endorsement from the hip-hop game, busted out two catchy (if silly and harmless) No. 1 hits and “robbed” some of the best rappers in the business of a Grammy.
  He raps about stupid shit – about thrift store shopping, ancient cars, not doing drugs, playing basketball, a dead announcer for the Seattle baseball team (OK, seriously, vom). But he also flies in the face of everything that non-hip-hop lovers (read: white people) assume about hip-hop in addition to what hip-hop aficionados claim they love about the genre. What’s not edgy about that?

Timothy hay
moose
ilovelife94
Listening to mewithoutyou even though I swore I wouldn't ever again and I don't even have the energy to muster to hate you anymore. Which is probably a good thing. It is just something that happened to me once, pretty insignificant if you think about it: love. A fairly ordinary love that was strangely and possibly deceptively one-sided, but really, who cares? Write it in the chapters of my past, a skinned knee when you're 6. This too shall pass. And in it's own way that's sad too, the realization that the only remaining tie was my pseudohate and occasional reflection, and that too is gone. I don't miss you. I thought, in a way, I always might -- that I would at least have that. 

journey
moose
ilovelife94
I was walking downtown, alone, and thinking about being murdered, as I sometimes like to do. And I am not so much afraid of the dark or of my death as I am how it would affect other people. And I was thinking about Creighton, and the policeman or detective or coroner who would be tasked with asking him to identify my body, and how he would react. And that there is someone in this smallish sleepy city of ours who actually does that, who has to knock on someone's door and tell them that someone else is dead, and I wonder if they hate their job, or how they go home to their family at night and try to scrub the blood and death and spirit off their hands before serving dinner. And that seems so foreign, so cinematic, but even beneath the shiny veneer the city planners laid thickly on Main Street in the past 10 years, murder is still a thing, and death comes for us all. And I was thinking about the construction people who are working on the new highrise downtown, and whether they wonder about falling, at least at first, and if they wonder about dying, and I wonder about their families. And I wonder what they say when people ask them, "Where do you work?" Do they say, "See that new highrise downtown? I work up there." Or "I work with the construction company that's building the new highrise" or "I work in construction," or maybe they go home at the end of the day and drink a beer and look at their cat and no one ever asks them, "Where do you work" or "what do you do for a living." And I was thinking about how even though I'm alone on this particular walk downtown, there are a millionsomething people living in this area, and how many are passing me right now? And how many people would hear me if I scream? And how many of them are just law-abiding citizens trying to get home? And I was thinking about everyone I've ever left behind, or the idea of everyone I've ever left behind, and about the story I still haven't edited for a friend, and about how I should be doing that instead of wandering introspectively to the library. And I was thinking about Going Into The Room, but how I know I won't, because I can't or am not smart enough or maybe perhaps don't want to, and I'm not even sure if I like looking in the room, if I like the metaphysical postmodern drama. And I was thinking about how there are always the most unexpected people at the library, and how I know that's partially because they now have Internet but sometimes I like to believe its because of the books, that all these people are secret scholars that go home after working on the highrises and read Faulkner. And I was thinking about how I knew what I was going to say when I sat down to write this, and then I forgot most of it, and it never turns out how I want it to, and what that even means.

me, in 10 years?
moose
ilovelife94
This s maybe the saddest thing I have ever read. Plays into all my insecurities about growing up, settling down, getting married, having children. If I prayed, I would pray I never lose that edge. Literally made me hurt. In my gut.

"Although I might read more widely due to my profession as a writer, I, too, have found myself on many nights, once the children are finally asleep, the dishes washed, reaching for a decorating magazine by the side of my bed rather than the stack of National Book Award nominees."

Fuck decorating magazines, y'all.

(But I know this to be true: Pinterest is the first step. Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk.)

How I Feel About the State of the American Dream
moose
ilovelife94
I kind of edited this during a conversation with my mom for my own purposes, but the gist is the same. And god does it describe our generation. 

"The decade following college graduation is one of loss after loss; a time of people you once loved immensely peeling away into parenthood or panic attacks or bad marriages or sudden religiosity or the suburbs. You experience strange mixed feelings of trying to be happy for friends when they choose things you think you know will never make them happy; helpless panic as the strongest and most ambitious feminists give up and give in or maybe just grow up and learn to compromise and who are you to judge anyway? Over time, paths dead end and options disappear and life can feel like a narrowing of possibilities when you always thought it would be an ever-broadening horizon."

From here.

yes
moose
ilovelife94
"Perhaps the greatest reading pleasure has an element of self-annihilation."

Ian McEwan, from here

everything in the world
moose
ilovelife94
This is devastatingly good. I read it, cried, thought about it and re-read it. I'm becoming obsessed. It kind of knocked the wind out of me. I had been thinking about how I haven't really felt strongly about any of the characters in the past few books I've read and how maybe the "I love books" thing in my brain was broken or breaking.

And then I read this and it kind of reconfirmed my faith in myself as a human being and as an emotional person.
 
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/10/cold-pastoral-by-marina-keegan.html

Home
moose
ilovelife94

So it’s like this:

“Let me pause here to say that I am not sure what it is in my past that has convinced me I’m a levelheaded and methodical person, not prone to following impulse. It’s one of the bigger of my self-delusions. I should have guessed what would happen when I got to California—I didn’t think about money or employment or the kind of support system I might have if I moved to a state after spending less than a week there. I didn’t make a budget or research apartment rentals or neighborhoods. I just walked out of the baggage claim at the San Francisco airport and thought, without hesitation, Yes. By the time my friend arrived in a ‘94 Toyota Corolla with a sheet of Plexiglass welded over the top (a reveler had stomped through her sunroof after the Giants won the World Series), I was deep in the kind of mental acrobatics necessary to consider lifting up my life and resettling it, 2,000 miles away.”

Even at its worst, New York City is better than this place.


From here.


To My Theoretical Readers
moose
ilovelife94
If you're a regular (or even semi-regular) reader of this blog and even remotely enjoy hearing about my rambling personal shit, have no fear. First, this blog will live on. I've had this blog since, what, the summer before sophomore year of high school? I'm bad at math, but that's like a solid eight years or something. That's a long-term relationship. We're practically married. My posting has been spotty at best, sometimes silent and moody for months, which has probably crippled my ever-waning readership. But I like this blog, I like writing in it when I need to whine, and I want to do more writing in general. Writing about my happy, domesticated relationship here felt like a betrayal to my inner bitter crazywoman. Also, this is my personal space and Creighton isn't really allowed to contribute to that, as much as I sorta like him. So, Walrus, Writer, Engineer was born. It's a relationship/wedding/adventure blog. It's about "us." If you're into that shit, go read it. The title may change, and it's lifespan may be a short one, but for now, it's there. You're welcome.

Retiring
moose
ilovelife94
Katie:  HOMEWORK BLOWS MONKEY BALLS!!!
Emily:  I AGREE THANK GOD I DONT HAVE ANY
Emily:  actually
Emily:  i probably do
Katie:  haha you have monkey balls
Emily:  ...bitch

You are viewing ilovelife94