Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

"They call it youthful idealism / And even I would have to agree with them / Some of us grow up, and it's still there"-Operation Ivy, "Junkie's Running Dry." When I think of coming of age in the late 1990s and early 2000s, I often find myself attempting to recapture those moments of silence or solitude that still existed in an era before social media and 24 hour news cycles took over. While we had cellphones, they were not the pocket computers of today, social media did not exist as it does now, and people could still use the excuse that they were not at home to answer the phone. No one expected us to be on call at all hours of the day, nor did they battle over political talking points in the stratified way they do now. Instead, we could "turn on, tune in, and drop out" like the previous generation, albeit with different drugs and drama, in ways that are often not available to younger generations. I was a master at "dropping out" in those...

I'm trying to write longer, languorous lines, you know, as I have not been writing like I should. These lines might form a rib, a bit, an attempt at honest expression, or an artistic endeavor to keep me from my dotage. To shake off the brain fog, post-Covid before I fix my shaky, sore carpal tunnel hands and get back to work. I wake up numb in brain, fingertips straining and hurting, finding it hard to talk, momentary, mental lapses, and an inability to move, work, or think. The cabin helps as the bright sun shakes off the long upper Midwest winter, which felt like it lasted eight months this year. The mosquitoes materialize from seemingly nothing to work like tiny Draculas on all available creatures. A bald eagle screeches in its deceptively tiny bird voice, and the chipmunks chase each other with much commentary. A toad hops through the gray dirt of the campfire pit in search of a cool escape from the torturous sun's red rays. I defog as I watch every other creature move thro...