There are some places in the musical landscape that are unforgivable, that showcase a wretchedness beyond the thoughtless, market-driven lyrics and forever-grinding standard tempos of pop-music machinery. I’m talking about knock-off pop music.
The drone war, wherein our military and intelligence services team up to send unmanned planes to kill suspected terrorists and whoever is standing next to them, if you’re wondering, is the “growth industry” General Petraeus was talking about.
Karen Berger’s resignation marks both the end of an era and solidifies some important, disappointing truths about the mainstream U.S. comics industry.
The thinking to date has been that publishers ought to keep their print business comfortable in order to branch out into ebook production, but this model is becoming increasingly strained amid market pressures and economic downturn.
Disco was western expansionism gone way wrong, a great globalizing force wiping out local culture and voices of dissent. This is what the culture industry does. It locks us in an endless, navel-gazing, polyester-suit-wearing disco beat.
The guy who wrote Moby-Dick was dead for thirty years before anyone realized he’d written the first Great American Novel. Gene Wolfe is still around, but he’s 81. Get a jump on posterity and read him now.
It is artistic transference, better than anything else that explains the reverence people have towards Wallace’s books. Yet when it comes to my own connection to Wallace, the story is less about his books, and more about my own life and languid drift across America.