Complaints of an Unashamed Old-Timer
I am compelled to admit that, as we speed onward through the first quarter of the 21st century, I do not find much to enjoy in the current realms of music, films, television, and books. The age of collective stupor in which we are living, with its relentless assault of undisguised greed and its constant outpouring of lowbrow gimmicks, does not suit me at all. As I endeavor, with a great deal of unease, to steer an awkward course through my sixties, warily advancing as the world that I once knew fades away, I am spending much more of my time actively seeking out the sights and sounds of the "old days," and much less time looking ahead.
Over the years, I have watched in frustration and dismay as nearly everything around me has steadily declined in value and meaning, descending into a crude lifestyle of foul shallowness. In particular, most forms of casual entertainment, especially those offerings aimed directly at a mass audience, are now merely cheap products, quite openly intended to be thoroughly mindless, and therefore received by the public as utterly disposable. Few things last, or actually are meant to last, for more than a short period. Everything is done only for the expedient purpose of fleecing brainless consumers and making a sizable pile of quick money, with absolutely no concern for quality.
I understand that I am no longer eligible to be a member of the in crowd. I am regarded as being too old, mainly because I refuse to be taken in by the capitalist trickery that is rampant everywhere nowadays. My own priorities are deeply rooted in the distant days of my youth. I know that marks me as one who is woefully behind the times, but I am not afraid of appearing to be out of touch. The new world is, undoubtedly, much faster, much louder, and much bigger, but I do not believe that it is, necessarily, much better. I choose to step away from the ongoing rush toward total madness and fall back on my own devices. I freely declare my allegiance to the reliable delights and authentic glories of the past.
It appears that, after many years of being agreeably youthful and reasonably hip, I finally have become an unashamed old-timer. If the faceless authorities who strive to control what we see, hear, and think ever declare it to be a serious offense to prefer things the way they used to be (and it is uncomfortably probable that, someday, such a thing will come to pass), then I am ready to plead guilty. What else can an honest person do? I am not inclined to pretend that anything is other than what I know it to be. It is sickeningly easy to imagine what sort of future is coming: an abominable nightmare of shiny wretchedness, overflowing with junk.
Over the years, I have watched in frustration and dismay as nearly everything around me has steadily declined in value and meaning, descending into a crude lifestyle of foul shallowness. In particular, most forms of casual entertainment, especially those offerings aimed directly at a mass audience, are now merely cheap products, quite openly intended to be thoroughly mindless, and therefore received by the public as utterly disposable. Few things last, or actually are meant to last, for more than a short period. Everything is done only for the expedient purpose of fleecing brainless consumers and making a sizable pile of quick money, with absolutely no concern for quality.
I understand that I am no longer eligible to be a member of the in crowd. I am regarded as being too old, mainly because I refuse to be taken in by the capitalist trickery that is rampant everywhere nowadays. My own priorities are deeply rooted in the distant days of my youth. I know that marks me as one who is woefully behind the times, but I am not afraid of appearing to be out of touch. The new world is, undoubtedly, much faster, much louder, and much bigger, but I do not believe that it is, necessarily, much better. I choose to step away from the ongoing rush toward total madness and fall back on my own devices. I freely declare my allegiance to the reliable delights and authentic glories of the past.
It appears that, after many years of being agreeably youthful and reasonably hip, I finally have become an unashamed old-timer. If the faceless authorities who strive to control what we see, hear, and think ever declare it to be a serious offense to prefer things the way they used to be (and it is uncomfortably probable that, someday, such a thing will come to pass), then I am ready to plead guilty. What else can an honest person do? I am not inclined to pretend that anything is other than what I know it to be. It is sickeningly easy to imagine what sort of future is coming: an abominable nightmare of shiny wretchedness, overflowing with junk.