I bought a new shirt today.

It’s a plaid shirt, a personal favorite of mine ever since the fashion mags started pumping the pattern early last year. It’s red, blue, black, and white, vintage, from one of my favorite stores, and perfectly compliments my Tom’s shoes and wayfarer sunglasses. I bought the shirt at the store, changed into it (wanting to saunter in style immediately), and headed out down the street with my companions.

But along the way, I noticed my reflection in the dark glass of a closed storefront, khaki shorts, shirt, sunglasses, and flip-flops concealing my less publicly acceptable bits from the public, and I couldn’t help but consider what I was “saying” with my fashion choice.

Traditionally speaking (at least by contemporary cultural standards), I was a demonstrable hipster. The vintage flare, unconventional hairstyle, and aloof demeanor screamed, by casual observation, of an individual who’s music tastes tended toward the indie, food tastes tended toward the fusion, book choices tended toward the subversive, and cultural preferences tended toward the esoteric.

Wrought as always by the burden of a limiting social label (not entirely self-inflicted, it’s a characterization I’ve received on several occasions), I began to justify to myself why, despite my strict adherence to the label, I made such choices in culture and taste. I like indie music because it generally props itself up more on talent than marketing, I like fusion food because I love a new experience, I like these clothes because they look good on me, etc.

And yet, as a part-time music blogger, one thing that’s become overwhelmingly obvious to me is the undeniable subjectivity of our existence; the objective defense of culture eliciting laughter often more than research grants. Because, you see, at the same time that I enjoy Jeremy Messersmith, I also (to a casual degree) love Lady Gaga. While I love my Tom’s, I also love my big wool socks. Ad infinitum.

I could ramble for hours, painting the epic battle between our objective conscious and our subjective tastes, but what it boils down to is this: pop culture, indie culture, and everything in between, the battle of subjective experiences is a silly one indeed. Each experience shapes us into unique individuals, but I personality in some ways exclusive from our character, who cares? We see, hear, feel what we do and form personal connections based on those shared experiences. Ultimately, the superficial elitism and belief in an objective “better”, is what cripples the hipster mentality in the first place.

At the end of the day, I really love my new shirt.

Whenever my brother comes back from college, I notice something in his demeanor. He’s tense, stressed, usually tired, certainly. But beyond that their’s a certain cultivation about his language and his thought. It’s a cultivation that can be hard to keep up with at times, much like a casual runner attempting to keep up with a college athlete. It’s not that running casually is a bad thing, but there’s something to be said about consistent exercise (physical or mental).

Unfortunately, it’s a lesson I’ve learned since graduation: exercise doesn’t just happen. We were lucky enough as children to have a playground and boundless energy at our disposal in the same way that we were lucky enough to have endless, obligatory, mental workouts planned for us every day we begrudgingly hauled ourselves to school. It was arduous, certainly, much like the kick in the home stretch of a mile or the last set before a shower. However, the one thing most of us could say while traipsing through the quagmire of our studies is this: we were moving forward.

But as I’ve stated several times already, work is work. After 18 years of study, I grew tired of the constant toil. I paid my dues and I decided to move into the adult world, bereft of homework and obligation and full-to-bursting with indulgence, dumb TV shows, slow days, and mindless living-earning. As my brother continued to cultivate his mind, I knew that the one advantage I possessed came in the form of rest. While he was carrying books in his bag, I was carrying comics of my choice. In the ensuing months, post-May 2010, I was sure that I had found the answer.

But had either of us really found the solution?

On the one hand, school, work, personal projects, etc. afford the opportunity to grow personally, stretch the boundaries of the mind, and ultimately find reward in the worldly efforts we all shoulder. On the other hand, playing video games, watching indulgent TV shows, and eating candy bars is almost, well, good for the soul. Both are forms of therapy, but which one “wins”, if you will?

Sitting here with a beer in hand and an earnestly thought-out piece of writing in front of me, I can once again confirm that in life, given choices A or B, the correct answer is C. The truth is that neither the lost effort of my hours at the mental gym nor Kelby’s stomach ulcers are badges of victory, but instead both scars of defeat. Regardless of your situation, balance is the answer. To clarify, this post isn’t so much an advice column as it is a meditation; a long-overdue mental workout. I just hope you put down the ice cream and did a few reps with me.

At least this mental workout was free.

It’s ironic isn’t it?

The generation of self-help, self-esteem, and, consequently, overt and brash narcissism has become the custodian for a new paradigm in American politics. The Cold War is over ladies and gentlemen. Our reign as the world police, the hegemonic peace-keepers of insurmountable power, has come to an end. My generation, whatever our moniker may be, is now charged with swallowing our platefuls of pride and walking forward with this country in hand.

For those that don’t believe me, here are some statistics. In social mobility, the United States is now showing a demonstrably lower capability for intergenerational mobility, causing income gaps widened during the 1980’s to persist for longer. In 2000, the United States healthcare system ranked below Costa Rica, Dominica, Chile, and Colombia according to WHO rankings. Environmentally, the United States ranked 23rd greenest in 2008. In education for 2009, 33rd in reading behind Mexico, 27th in math behind Russia, and 22nd in science behind Hungary. 27th in gender gap, 9th in freedom of the press, etc.

The demonstrable bottom line is this: there is a wholly false perception in this country that we have been, always will be, and currently remain the greatest country in the world. The question then becomes: why? Why do we persistently believe despite overwhelming statistical evidence that we aren’t number 1? We fly flags, sing country songs, wax rhapsodic about our military might, and get terrifically upset when France isn’t eternally grateful for our benevolence. We tout the myth proudly on T-shirts, bumper stickers, and in political rallies across the country with all the lunacy of a man who unwaveringly declares that his urine soaked shoes are wet with rain water.

But why?

In anthropology, a myth is commonly defined as follows: “A traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people explaining some natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events,” or “a traditional story accepted as history, serving to explain the world view of a people.” Myths are typically perpetuated in a culture through lore and legend in order to justify the treatment and/or circumstances of a people.

This definition, when applied to American politics, may be the most powerful tool we have when attempting to question why American narcissism persists. Glenn Beck’s “supernatural being” is Ayn Rand. Tea Partier’s latch onto the myth of the Founding Fathers as beings-who-embody-whatever-we-want-them-to. In a country bereft of social mobility, economic opportunity, or scientific discovery (or, at least, a far cry from what we once were), we cling desperately to the America of yester-year and the laughable notion that, by no effort of our own, our beloved country will remain what it once was forever and ever, amen.

But truly, the explanation for our larger-than-life ego is cursory to a much larger truth offered by my good friend Tyler Dahlberg. He noted that Egypt, fully knowing of its statistical inferiority on a global scale, overthrew their government because they wanted to make things better. In the United States, individuals tend to roll over if we are no longer winning; in other nations, they rise up. Regardless of our standing in the world we never lose the wherewithal to make ourselves better.

As long as we find the humility to admit that an improvement is needed.

A man jumps in a car and heads to Baja in order to intercept the kidnappers of two little girls. Kidnappers whose wrongdoings in the drug trade he had helped perpetuate years before.

Impetus is the core of our intentions that causes men like James Spring to drop everything for someone in need. Someone he’d never even met before. Our own impetus speaks to our very existence; it is the motivation for our being. For some, it’s compassion. For others, bravery. In James case, perhaps it was both.

Regardless of its manifestation, impetus lies within us, sometimes so far down that we cannot discern its identity, and it bubbles to the surface in our actions every day in a glorious display of human capability. Take James for example:

Despite the protestations of his wife, the 40 year-old, self-deprecating man from California jumps in a car, intercepts the kidnappers and returns the missing children to their mother.

James is living proof: what we can and do accomplish because of our own impetus is what defines us as human beings. The help we provide to those in need, the compassion to friends that need someone to listen, the causes we champion in the name of freedom and equality.

The height of human achievement is a thing to behold. A monument to our kind and an enduring demonstration of our worth on this planet. But regardless of our motivation, sometimes the result is less than what we expected.

Only when he meets their mother, something is off. The children seem shocked, upset, distant, and dismayed at being returned to their old reality.

They seem… upended.

James is an example of one of life’s harshest truths: even positive actions can result in unexpected consequences.

While we know what our intentions are, that acting upon them makes us feel good and can in fact make others feel good for a time, the long-term consequences of those actions are often beyond our comprehension.

In each of our lives, sometimes our impetus clashes with reality, and one of them has to win.

During the trial of the kidnappers, the mother of the two children comes into question. James receives a phone call during which he realizes that he is being asked to be a character witness for a woman whose kids he’d helped rescue.

A woman whose addiction to meth perhaps makes her unfit to be a parent.

The brave 40 year-old has unintentionally removed two little girls from the frying pan and placed them carefully and gently into the fire.

“The road to perdition is lined with good intentions.” A common axiom signifying that despite the fact that our hearts may be in the right place, the effects of those actions can still ultimately be deleterious. James never meant to affect the lives of those girls the way he did. He felt great love and compassion in his actions. His aim was pure, his actions were noble, how could the outcome not be just as wonderful?

Because at our core, we are beautiful: both breathtaking and flawed. James story may be tragic, but it is no less noble, he is no less brave. Think back to a time in your life when you’ve had nothing but the best of intentions, but people got hurt. It happens, there’s no guilt in it. We all make mistakes. Unfortunately, the consequences of those mistakes remain the only things beyond our control.

Frankly, there is a little bit of James in all of us: a being groping in the dark for even a semblance of light so that we, and others, may see.

Luckily, life loves a comeback story.

Information from NPR’s “This American Life” was used in this post.

“I think you listen to Pitchfork too much,” a fellow blogger and personal friend of mine told me yesterday.

It was roughly 3 AM and she and I had been talking music. She threw a couple of bands my way, and between the fatigue, the time, and the fact that I had listened to almost 7 entire new albums that day, I was hardly receptive to the new sound. My apologies to her.

It had been a long day. Spending another day unemployed was full of opportunities and I tend to fill my days to the brim with new experiences when given the opportunity. In that day alone, I had listened to Beach House’s “Teen Dream”, Chiodos’ “Illuminaudio”, The Neptunes’ “The Neptunes Present: Clones”, James Blake’s “CMYK EP” and “Klavierwerke EP”, Odd Future’s “Odd Future Tape”,Titus Andronicus’ “Monitor”, and LCD Soundsystem’s “This is Happening”.

“I think you’re missing out on a lot by being so elitist,” she offered. But I couldn’t help but disagree. I argued that if being elitist meant hearing Beach House instead of the new B.o.B. joint, then I was comfortable making the sacrifice. Needless to say, after spending the entire day listening to myriad new bands and albums, it was just hard for me to comprehend that I was really “missing out” on anything.

Truly, that’s what the argument comes down to sometimes. By writing off an entire genre like pop, there’s a real danger that you’re pigeonholing yourself; backing yourself into a corner, at which point you bark at anything that threatens that position. Elitism, in the music world especially, is seen as taking a particular identity, making snap judgments and withholding the benefit of the doubt from something that may truly be good.

And yet the sounds I heard that day covered everything from retro-pop to gangsta rap. How could I be missing anything?

At the risk of turning this into an expulsion of inwardly held resentment at a minimizing personal comment from a good friend, I’d like to think that my take on music is different from most. Yesterday, I heard “Sergent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” and the symphonic barely-not-emo screamings of Chiodos metal musings. To me, it’s not about the genre, it’s about trends. So much of music has something genuine to offer, it’s just that that which speaks to me tends toward certain genres or places.

Like Pitchfork.

Even so, my reliance on trends has holes. Buddhism proffers that it is important to see things for what they truly are; an idea which I sometimes fail to embody in my music habits. The bottom line is this: so much of our world has so much to offer, is it fair to write anything off without honest consideration? To prevent it from being what it could truly become: itself?

Her concerns were well placed. Obviously she saw the potential for pigeonholing (though I don’t just listen to Pitchfork, I split my opinion up among about 5 different prominent sources that have rarely steered me wrong) and wanted to prevent it. This tendency to say “I like rap” or “I like pop” keeps us from a more poignant perception: “I like music”. A legitimate concern to be sure.

But I hope that it’s obvious by now that I’m not just writing about music. The world is full of diverse and unclassifiable experiences that give us the opportunity to grow. We all form tastes, but to ignore that which lies outside those tastes entirely is to really cut yourself off from some expanding ideas. Do yourself a favor and don’t write anyone or anything off.

More importantly, don’t let Pitchfork do it for you.

Ice Cream (Featuring Matias Aguayo) by BATTLES

I loves me some eclectic music. Enjoy the new track by Battles: “Ice Cream”.

Did you watch the video? Good.

What you just witnessed is the video for the song “Yonkers” by the rapper Tyler, The Creator. It’s raw, it’s unsettling (even borderline disturbing). It’s unabashed and hard to swallow (much like the cockroach). At the same time, however, it’s so abrasive, it’s hard to imagine anyone viewing it without being completely turned off to whatever message he’s trying to convey.

Yet, you can’t help but watch. Even as his feet swing above the knocked over stool, you’re enrapt. The reason for this is simple: “Yonkers” truly is art in the modern definition.

You see, in a world dominated by distraction (the hum of electronics, the noise of cars, the voices of several different “experts”, and the cry of all of our priorities) the only works that truly rise above the din are those so abrasive, so unconventional, so grab-you-by-the-collar that they practically force us to take them in. This is the impetus of modern art, the clarion call for all true artists in our day: to rise above the miasma and wake us from our sleepless comas.

But the term “artist” almost puts the feat of creating art out of reach of the common man. “Certainly,” we think, “I could never create something like that.” Well I’m hear, begging you to understand that you can.

You see, we deal with one another every day; to an even greater extent thanks to the advent of social networking. But unfortunately, many choose to take the opportunity to slap a shiny coat of veneer on their social exterior in order to impress as many as they can. Yet, in such a world, how can one tell the genuine social interaction from the pleasantries of grocery store concurrence?

What modern art can teach us is this: honesty is always penetrating. Tyler himself strips down the English language to a few poignant, yet well written phrases that shake us nearly out of our chairs. He pulls no punches, he takes no prisoners, and regardless of how angry he is, he’s completely honest with us. His beats, lyrics, and even videos are self-made and clearly the end product is nothing more than the man making it: Tyler, The Creator. In a way, he comes closer to us than our neighbor or our grocery store cashier.

It’s scary, there’s no denying that. But without being honest, without creating the opportunity to make a real human connection with others, what have we really created? What do we really feel? In a society so focused on putting the right food forward, why can’t we just put our feet forward?

Or, in Tyler’s case, hang them 3 feet off the ground.