Column: Four Drinks Later
by Lesley Bargar | 00.00.0000

[editor's note: see that whole "column" thing up above? That means that the following opinions may or may not belong to the writer, but that should they belong to anybody, they're hers. In other words, this is not the collective voice of Filter, but the desperate cry of one angry woman who Filter supports in her quest for abusing the First Amendment. Read on...]



We've Been Had

When you spend the majority of your time sipping two-buck-chuck out of pint glasses on a crusty futon in your studio apartment, television becomes a hugely important part of your identity. If you’ve ever had the moment where you had to choose between buying groceries and paying your cable bill and you chose the latter, you understand what I mean. Sure, music is my favorite medium, but let’s leave that for a while, shall we? The new Modest Mouse album (obligatory indie music reference #1: these references will be counted throughout to satisfy those of you wondering why the hell an indie music magazine is publishing some girl ranting about TV) just doesn’t really help me shut off my enormous, overactive brain and escape into the mildly entertaining world of C-listers’ commentaries for hours on end, now does it? Nope, nuh-uh, no way.

Which leads me toward the interesting cultural phenomenon that will now take up the majority of this column, because, though I could revel in my onscreen world of narcissistic indulgence for...oh...we’ll go with “forever,” I am here to fulfill the same holy duty as my beloved television: entertain. So let’s begin...

Anyone who has watched TV in the past six months has noticed the slippery slope that VH1 embarked upon with its incredibly addictive “We Love the ‘80s” series this past summer. After realizing the flawless formula of semi-known stars delivering heaps of deadpan irony straight into the camera upon the mention of jelly sandals or the glow worm bedtime buddy, the other “music” network began scooping up every person who once sat next to someone who was in a commercial, placing them on a stool in front of a camera and getting their impressions of the wacky toys, food and fashion of days gone by.

Now, I am far too aware of the cliché nature of this column up to this point. Fuck, even VH1 has a program with C-lebrities commenting on how VH1 has too many of these shows. And God knows I am far too self-aware to allow a half-rate column to bear my name (note to self: get pseudonym). Which again, takes me even closer to my final intellectual destination. Now, we’re going to go on a little digression for a moment, so grab a piece of fruit and a sweater.

One of the current generation’s biggest weaknesses is its unbearable obsession with self-awareness. It’s like someone took 1,000 copies of Catcher in the Rye, shredded it up and stuffed it into little plastic caplets and gave these pills to our pregnant mothers while we were in the womb, causing us all to absorb a pre-natal fanatic fear of “phony.” The result of this is everyone walking around being far too conscious of how their actions appear to that dude in the Converse next to him, or the chick with the Walkmen album playing on her iPod (obligatory indie music reference #2).

So these shows are just not helping. Sure, they’re meant to let us look nostalgically at our silly pasts, but what they end up doing is make us look nostalgically at our silly present. When you watch Michael Ian Black talk about how stupid we all were for wearing acid washed jeans, does it not make you look at the dirty wash, vintage style jeans of the moment with a little hesitation? When Wham is mocked for the obvious homosexual undertones in their fluorescent colored shorts, don’t you look a little closer at that electroclash (obligatory music reference #3) guy? And how close he’s sitting to you? When kids’ cartoon heroes of the past are hailed as Gods by the Donnas (obligatory music reference #4) and Maroon 5 (obligatory music reference #5), don’t we all gaze at Spongebob and wonder what future mediocre music makers are gaining inspiration from his square pants and wacky undersea antics? The answer, because I’m writing this column, is yes.

These programs, meant to satisfy everyone’s primal love for “remember when?” chats around some beers with old friends (among whom are now Henry Rollins—obligatory music reference #6— and Carrot Top) are only making us step even further outside of ourselves. The reason everyone likes to giggle at our 1988 obsession with lace via Madonna is because part of us looks back fondly at the time when we could get blindly wrapped up in something as trivial as a fashion statement. Back when we could enjoy something honestly, not ironically. (Which, by the way, is a whole ‘nother word that we’re just not going to get into today, alrighty?). But when we have time capsules shoved in our face every day, when we are made to think “what is the next generation’s Meshach Taylor going to say on national TV about this?” with every action, we lose the ability to really be a part of something and become spectators of our own culture. Which, by the way, sucks.

And now, sadly, VH1 has gone a step further. Reflecting fondly on previous decades is not enough, oh no! We now sit around reflecting fondly on the past week. Last friggin’ week! I won’t even insult your intelligence by explaining why this is problematic. I’ll just meander toward a conclusion by saying that we’ve reached a point where we surpass having a sense of nostalgia about the past, and instead step out of ourselves to look critically at the present. The result of this is a generation that can’t loosen up and just have fun, at least not until enough cocktails are ingested to shut off the interior monologue narrated by Mo Rocca. (Not to say anything bad about the cocktails. Old friends have got to stick up for each other, after all.) So go wear trendy clothes with conviction, enjoy reality TV without guilty pleasure, listen to glam metal for the joy of the rock alone, and if you see me at a bar, buy me a drink (I figured while I was at it, I might as well).

Oh, and in case you still need your dose of indie info, here: the Walkmen are fucking amazing and I want to marry Hamilton Leithauser (the curse of the female music writer), the Darkness’ tour is going to be sweet, the Pixies first show in Davis, CA predictably sold out in an hour, Kanye West does indeed rule, and the positive message of the new Modest Mouse single is getting mixed reactions from the kids who really, honestly love Bad News. Good? Are we done? Great. Because really, you shouldn’t need someone else to comment on what you love, and I definitely don’t want to be that someone today.

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[Lesley has spoken. Send your complaints, rants, and hate/fan mail to online editor Chris Martins.. He’ll make sure she gets the message.]