Proust calls me out
Has anyone else had that sinking feeling when they read an unflattering portrait in a magazine or novel--starting to laugh but stopping short? Sometimes I wince because I feel reflections of me stabbing back in the unfortunate remarks or odious traits ascribed to a character.
This has happened twice this week.
While I can't claim many of the traits of an indie-yuppie, a new subspecies of hipster laid out first in a vice magazine article, but viciously flushed out by stereogum's army in a you might be an indy-yuppie if comment competition, there was enough in there that hit home. I don't have a TV so I don't secretly watch the O.C., I have never seen Garden State, and I have never bought anything at Urban Outfitters. I try to listen to as many new things as I can get my hands on.
But I have always worried that I trusted the opinions of others too much. That I, through the privilege of my honey-eared friends, have received things I may not have deserved and would not have purchased on a first listen. And I come to trust these people- some friends, some reviewers, some bloggers- more than I trust myself. So you see, this one hurt:
You might be an indie yuppy if, while listening to a new CD, you secretly pray you'll like it.
Does anyone do this when I send them cds in the mail?
The second instance was a passage in Proust. I will write about that another time, but let's just say that Marcel has my number.
posted by jaw @ 9:29 PM
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