/reader

…taste can be a practice—a result, even, of living authentically.

Complement to yesterday’s quote about taste requiring vulnerability: style is following trends instead of self-knowledge, which is needed to define personal taste.

Here, Kyle Chayka’s talking about the same lack of meaning in style trends today that Nahman points to:

Decades ago, friction was what made a subculture. You had to figure out what punk or goth was about, learn its codes, seek out compatriots, and then maybe go to Hot Topic or a hardcore show. Friction is lower online and visibility is higher.

“You May Also Like” highlights that we like things better when we actively choose them; algorithmic recommendations feed ideas to us, sublimating trends through repeated exposure (something else that influences what we like) rather than meaning or selection.

Question then: can one’s taste change along with cultural trends? I think it must since taste is social — the socially constructed meanings of things and aesthetics change or become culturally irrelevant, and with that, how we feel about them shifts too. Likewise, our identities change over time, so even taste closely linked with identity is not necessarily fixed. I’m not sure there’s such a thing as timeless taste, the same way I don’t think any book can be universally said to be “good.”

Taste is vibes, style is set dressing? Or could style be our socially mediated expression of taste — true but not Platonically so?

 

Yes, a Rant. It’s been a while. And in my current condition, it seems to be rolling from Mind to fingers to keys to page. If you are highly sensitive, skip this post, whack me with a comment, or toughen up. While I lean Liberal, I do believe that those that borrow, should pay it back, like the rest of us who passed on vacations, lived within our means, and don’t expect the Government to clean up our bad decisions.

But I digress..

This all started a few days back. The event was a harbinger of things to come, a dark cloud hanging low and tracking. Ouspensky says: “The strangest and most fantastic fact about negative emotions is that people actually worship them.” And in the Negative, lies this Agnostic’s God.

I digress. Back to the story.

I shared a comment on a photo series on Instagram. Oh, Sorry, it’s “Insta” as the younger generations call it. More evidence of doing anything to cut corners, do less work, get Govt handouts and make my Generation look like Pterodactyls. And I don’t want to hear this crap (kernels of truth that may exist), that our Generation ran up the debt, polluted the Oceans, dumped forever chemicals in our drinking water, and cut with abandon the carbon producing forests. Always some stupid shortcut — it’s Instagram you lazy scoundrels.

And again, my apologies, I digress.

After sharing some constructive feedback in an INSTA comment, the reply was, “WTH do you know you old Coot.”

I mean really, that escalated quickly.

I had to look up Coot, figuring for sure this was some form of discrimination that I can litigate on. Old-white-Man-Coot. Sounds offensive to me. “Coot” – simple and harmless.

The glancing scud didn’t hit me directly but I did wonder which cut was deeper, that I was an idiot, simple, or harmless, or that I was just Old.

And the conclusion was “Old” cut much deeper. I ruminated as to why. It’s been 1,443 (almost) consecutive days on my Daybreak walks at Cove Island Park, and I don’t see any of the 150,000 residents of this town catching up to the sure-to-be Guinness World Record achievement.

But there it was. “OLD.’ Was it factually incorrect? No. Was it a slight that I couldn’t keep up? Perhaps. But OLD, was flat out nothing that I could correct. And another shortcoming of the younger generations, get constructive feedback, reply with a punch to the solar plexus, not nice. Ooooooof.

Then it was Sunday. Wally threw up 4x on his play date and must have contracted some contagious canine flu. It was slow moving. It first anchored itself on the Weak, my Son, and then Susan. I made sure to remind them that you don’t see me lying around in bed, complaining about projectile vomit and diarrhea. No Sir. I get my COVID and flu shots, I wash my hands frequently, and I try to avoid crowds. And the result, look at me, not sick 1x since before the onset of COVID. No colds. No flu. Man-Up People. These viruses look at this specimen and mumble, there’s no point, He’s impenetrable.

Eric, #1 Son, groomed by yours truly, way way higher SAT scores than his Dad (not that anyone is counting or cares) counters with “Dad, that may be the case. Another more likely Hypothesis is that you never leave the house, your only Google Map route is from Home to Cove Island Park, and the likelihood of catching anything is remote if you don’t leave a 20 miles radius from home with zero human interaction.” I was stunned by this insubordination; separating the Truths from it all. First it’s some random wanna-be-Insta-Influencer bombing me on my Age on a public site and now my #1 Son trashing me. Hmmmpf.

Set that all aside for a moment. This morning was another amazing morning at Cove Island Park. I completed my daybreak walk. I’m moving around that park like an Olympic Race Walker. Nothing OLD about this Man. And as I walk, I’m stacking up the retorts that will fly on my INSTA comments, because unprovoked missile attacks must be responded with heat for deterrence — and, I certainly don’t fear a public escalation at my age, OLD — let’s have at it, and see if you can top my ability to humiliate myself in public. We’ll see who is a old, simple, harmless sh*t.

And then, there’s the rest of the story.

10 a.m.

Stomach pains. No! Can’t be this stomach bug. And had to be my Breakfast. Healthy Yogurt, sprinkled with granola, raspberries, blueberries, and wait, a handful of Ghirardelli dark chocolate chips to finish it off. This was followed by a handful and a half of Costco Chocolate covered almonds. And, this was chased with Caffeine Free Diet Coke. Full 12 oz bottle. After each layer of this ‘breakfast‘, I knew that this all would bite, but the addict needs his fix, and it’s not the first time this dish was served on the menu, with a mere stomach grumble to show for it.

So, it was Breakfast. Had to be. This will pass.

Then, came the chills.

Then came the body aches.

And then, Vesuvius showed up.

DK: “Can someone tell me why it is so bloody cold in here, I’m shivering?”

SK: “Excuse me?

DK: “It’s cold.”

SK: “It didn’t seem cold when you were haranguing us about burning oil in April. What did you say – it’s a waste! Put on a sweater.”

DK: Hmmmmmm.

DK: “Why is nobody responding to my banging on the wall, or my texts — for help. I mean, given my age, OLD, doesn’t anyone give a sh*t, I could be dead in here while Eric is on Playstation and you are watching the 43rd re-run of HDTV.”

SK: “Like you did for us?”

DK: “Are you kidding? I checked in.”

DK: “And, seriously, my strain of flu is like 6x more severe than your strain. I have a serious issue here.”

SK: Out comes the thermometer. 97.2 reading. “See, your temperature is same as mine.”

DK: “You can’t be serious. The trend line here is horrible. Based on the temperature in the room, my temperature could fall to 70 and then we’ll have a real problem.”

Susan walks out laughing, like less than zero sympathy..

Eric walks in. He tosses me an Imodium pill and a Tuque. “Take the pill, it will block you up, and if you’re cold, put this on.”

Really — that’s the care I get from co-producing him?

I’m lying here, in this sad soup. Every single body part hurts. I’m chilled. And here comes Wally to give me some love.

“God Bless you Wally.”

Wally sniffs me up and down, turns up his noise, and runs to Mom. Wow.

I’m a Coot and I smell.

I’m in big trouble.

“OLD.”

# Kev wrote about anonymous blogging and the notion stuck with me for a while considering the current circumstances.

I could have easily taken Carousel to a new domain and started afresh. Instead, it's on my main domain, I wrote about and link to it so no chance of anonymity there.

I ask myself why. What makes me always write under my real name?

As a lifelong introvert (whose introversion has only grown with age) I've never seriously entertained anything else. I think the introversion leads me to want to connect as my real self, not as a pseudonym who could be anyone. There's a whole bunch of insecurities and issues that have always made me seek approval and I don't think I would have the same reaction to comments or connection it if I wasn't presenting myself as me.

Maybe there's something performative about the whole thing — I am very bad at being the centre of attention IRL (except for certain scenarios where I am in total control) so perhaps compensate online with a "here I am, this is me" approach in lieu of that.

It's obvious that I have no issues (any longer) opening up about my mental health issues. Some might feel the need to avoid connecting the details to their identity but I, however, see it as a step in dealing with it.

PS – see this Instagram post for additional pics