(Or: “ Running as a metaphor for metaphors, and the prime example of the type of thing you hate to do, but do because you know you’ll love it/feel good in its wake (see: writing/eating salad/wearing most kinds of pants) and the realization that doing such things makes you mature and sensible in very recognizable ways, but at the same time, insane in a much subtler way that’s maybe even harder to explain than my theory that there’s no such thing as a decade.”)
OR:
“A delayed semi-internal dialogue/semi-explanation of a semi-long delay, that touches upon – among other things – visual art, serendipity, May Day crowns, analog promotion, approachability-envy, the area where assholes and agents overlap, the definition of “retirement” in the post-Jordan/Jay-z faux exit era, and the maddening little sabotages that transform labors of love into chores if you don’t watch your ass and/or get your head out of it.”
Or:
“an over-analysis of not wanting to overanalyze things followed closely by a baseless decision to give up things that keep you alive with the hopes that they might paradoxically keep you alive longer, despite the half-fact that you’re not sure they’ll work or if you even want them to…”
Or:
“Walking cultural fences that: a) cordon off corners of a farm of which you assumed you assumed sole ownership, b) use wit to reassure you of the accuracy of your world-view and c) connect you with like-minded strangers who also recognizes the absurdity of life but try to enjoy it anyhow, only to lead you eventually (the fence and strangers) to holes in the welded mesh where commonalities starts to have the opposite effect, making you 1) question your individuality, 2) lament the fact that you can’t comment on your corner of the farm as well as only recently recognized pasturemates and 3) recognize i) true cultural other-side-of-the-fence-ness, ii) the perpetual futility of pointing projectors at cultural mirrors and iii) the possibility that your only salvation as a ‘cultural pundit’ lies in recognizing your failures to recognize society’s, and blogging about it all as self-defense”
OR
“Continental Breakfast in the Era of Globalization: A look at what to expect when you’re expecting donuts and get all-you-can-eat eggs/muffins/biscuits/“hand fruit,” and a broad analysis of the age-old question, “If every waffle Rob eats in excess of three makes him both increasingly happy and increasingly sleepy, how many waffles should he eat if he hopes to stay both positive and conscious while driving through bleak stretches of I-90 Wisconsin that remind him of George Washington?”
OR
“the answer to the question “And if so, when?” and 25+ other questions worth posing when you find yourself standing in front of a small German-made hatchback and wondering 1) how many big, rectangular things can be jammed into a container meant to move people and not their As-Seen-on-TV kitchen appliances, 2) how long one can postpone so-called adulthood and all the snazzy doodads that come bundled with it, and 3) how to know if you’re making the right decisions… at the right times… for the right reasons.”
OR
“why I loved my grandmother, but hated her wake – and reserve a weird hope (a death wish?) that when I die, I’m outlived by at least one friend who will have the balls to notify everyone of my demise by altering the voicemail prompt on my phone to say, “If you want to pay your last respects to Rob, please come to the White Sands dunes of New Mexico where I plan to burn his skinny, pale carcass, drink Hendrick’s gin and read some of the more difficult passages from ‘Infinite Jest. Rain or Shine. BYOB. RSVP by the evening of…’ and on and on like that.”
OR:
{“I don’t remember why Sophia (Miranda July) and Jason (Hamish Linklater) begin to question their relationship, why they think adopting a sick cat will help, or why I thought it would be a good idea to drink high-gravity beer from 2-10 p.m. and pay $13 to see “The Future” at IFC.”}
