Get off my plane

There is something very fatalistic, reactionarily nihilistic even, about the jaded dismissal of seemingly everything around this "alternative" culture we hipsters have created for ourselves.  It's so self-devouring that when it really comes down to it, everything you care about can be pruned and chipped away to a very embarrassing set of human emotions and actions that we like to pretend we don't possess.  Things like a need for social acceptance, jealousy, and self-interested motives.

The past few years have left me fairly confused on how to combat something like this. I've been pretty deprecating about my own life and about this heterogeneous subculture I somehow fell into when punk rock became more appealing than Kid Rock.  I do things with ironic intentions.  Listen to Lil' Wayne. Watch the movie Air Force One. Revisit old professional wrestling matches.  Somehow, these things, mixed with the drive to consistently be above caring, become important to me.  I think the Carter II is one of the best hip hop albums ever made.  Air Force One is an immaculately perfected American movie (Harrison Ford has to choose what wires to cut to hotwire a fuel dump and chooses the green and yellow wires because the other three are red, white, and blue.  I mean, Jesus Christ, that's too fucking perfect for what they were doing. But what that movie is doing could be written about for years). I also follow wrestling again with a serious critical passion.  I argue over plot devices and postmodern narrative techniques, capitalist consumerism's role in the televised product, and character development among pseudo-realistic, 4th-wall-breaking, REAL human beings constantly acting for years on end.

These are things I've come to deeply care about.  The fate of CM Punk's career with the WWE and Weezy's promethazine addiction are important to me.  They are rooted in a flippant holier-than-thou attitude I've taken toward things (and still maintain), but they've grown to become something much more.  And then I thought that I needed a good closing line and an inner-dialogue began that said, "Why? So you can tie this high-brow essay up nicely? Good one Hemingway, you're a real writer now."