I’m wondering the word for the process by which one stops knowing anything about bands as they emerge, and coincidentally begins critiquing trends so terribly similar to his (it’s me) own from a time not too I don’t think long ago. Pull up your pants!, one thinks, as they walk in front of me on my way to the train. But one’s own pants! How they once did sag! How many were given glimpse of my ass thanks to my keen fashion sense!
I know the word, okay yes thank you. The word is aging. The word for everything is aging.
Yesterday Serengeti‘s little brother told me he never reads, ever reads ever, but that he read The Slide twice. Once when depressed and once when happy, so he got a good handle on it from two perspectives. I can’t tell you how happy this made me.