Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

I never live up to what I expect from myself. I have Imposter Syndrome and Generalized Anxiety. I achieve most of my goals, but I am still unhappy since I do not know when to quit.   I cannot stop comparing myself to others despite different career paths.  I compete with myself as much as others.  I have been teaching five courses per semester at the highest level for years. I have a vigorous publishing schedule that often gets in the way of my personal goals.  I enjoy writing most of the time.  I'm not getting any younger, so I think I might just have to give up. I should settle for what comes and finally write that book.  I will remain tired.   I am angry most of the time. 

Recently, my friend Joe and I were continuing our age-old battle concerning the merits of Ween, a band that is often labeled a joke band, who recently broke up after years of creating musically proficient, genre-bending "joke" songs. A quick search on the internet shows that Ween has battled this label for years, and they probably tend to even welcome it, given such song titles as "Poop Ship Destroyer" and "Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)." Yet in later years, the boys in Ween proved excellent songwriters, who could assemble a killer band. Their various pastiches of different genres helped define the "Ween Sound," a far-reaching enterprise, indeed. Whether creating twisted country records with actual country session musicians on 1996's 12 Golden Country Greats , giving into their psychedelic tendencies completely on 1997's The Mollusk , or perfecting the pop song throughout their catalog, Ween always surprised. The Zappa comparisons wer...

Even though I am from northern Wisconsin and should be used to the cold, there is something insidious about this Illinois winter that cuts to the bone. Maybe it's the cold, gray days, the skies that seem to always be ready to dump more snow, or the insistent biting chill of the wind as it whips across the barren corn fields. The wind seems stronger here, sharper and more insistent, telling a different story than the wind of home. There is little shelter. There are less trees to protect your sensitive skin. "Grow a damn beard already. Wrap another scarf around your tender throat. I will get through. I will freeze your ass and numb your toes. Just give me a chance, any chance." Up north you can hide behind a tree or at least find a hill to block the growing transgressions of the wind. Here there are large trees, just less of them. A large corn crop assures that you will freeze. Yet I suggest we hold our heads up as the white fields and streets turn to a ...