They laughed at me when I called him “the Flow Rider”.
I pitied them a little.
I sat down earlier today to write a couple of sample articles for an LA-based fashion and culture (Ha!) magazine. I was instructed to, “write an article under three paragraphs about a subject relevant to current trends”. I sat down at the computer and stared at Google for a minute. I tried to think of something ‘current’ that wasn’t a football scoreline or an emotion I’d felt. I’d been in this position before, staring at my own reflection in the white pool of Google’s infinite relevance, inspecting the wrinkles forming around my eyes. I typed in ‘Vice’, because it was the only thing I could think of that was ‘current’ and ‘relevant’. I sighed at myself. I felt the same feeling of dejected frustration a middle-aged man must get when he tries to buy a drink for a girl half his age.
Since coming to Los Angeles I have been known amongst my circle of friends to be someone that wallows in the dust swept from things forgotten. Every band I listen to has at least one dead member. Tarantino has made two movies since I was last in a theatre. I still think Malcolm Gladwell needs to ‘prove himself’ before I’ll read him. They make fun of me because I haven’t heard of things they’ve heard of. I don’t know who punched Rhiannah, and I don’t know if I spelled Rhiannah properly. I’m just not up-to-date and I seem to be suffering because of it. Every single magazine aimed at young people makes reporting and sharing ‘new stuff’ their priority, and in doing that they often relinquish control on the quality of their output. And completely alienate old souls like me.
Like someone going through their midlife crisis I worry about my dwindling relevance to a youth obsessed with their own youth. When I left Asia it was like a divorce. I had learned a lot about myself and a few things about the world, but I realized in coming to Los Angeles that I had missed out on so many aspects of modern youth culture, and the things that I’d learned were completely irrelevant in the West. People didn’t care about the things that I’d seen because their relevance hadn’t been verified by Fader magazine.
“I was in this house in Pushkar, Rajasthan a while back with an Indian tribal drummer jamming with a young Danish sitar player, it was really cool man,” I said.
“meh. LOLLOLOLO. BRB. jst gonna chck out dis rad new band wot is playin in a convrtd sewer systm calld PenisFacePenisFaceCuntFace!?!?!?!@!>!&*!>!??!?! ROFLOL me thinks” he replied.
I’m not sure exactly what the problem is. I don’t know whether I can’t find work writing for magazines, or whether I’m unwilling to write about the things that they want me to write about. On one hand I want more people to read my writing, to know who I am and to follow my work. But on the other hand I don’t want to write shit. Be it here-today-gone-tomorrow fluff, or that sludge that’s constantly being added to the bulging canon of dreadful music journalism by writers that confuse convoluted writing for complex writing:
“PenisFacePenisFaceCuntFace whack and smack and jack out their newnique melanthropic (heart)beat that click clacks along a yellowished brick-a-brack road of scuzzed out, moon bleached dumbfudgery, all the way to a wilted crispy parish of orgasmic melodiousness.”
“Haha, ask him which Kardashian this is! It’ll be funny.”
It won’t be funny. And if it is funny then I’m glad that I listened to my parents when they told me that this generation was fucked.