Allow me to stroke my diction.
Children of the South Bay, like most children of the suburbs, breathe that sedative air, experiencing a numb acceptance that dreams are only boasts with no backing, and goals are only destinations with no directions. By the time I graduated high school, I became obsessed about leaving San Jose and its opiate lifestyle, sleeping and waking up to Groundhog routines that deviate only in the shit we talk to each other.
Shit, one of my friends even had 17 different mixes of the same song. Still Tippin’ by Mike Jones. The same beat, the same chopped and screwed sample seeping from the speakers.
Still tippin’ on fo fos. Wrapped in fo vogues. Tippin…fo fos….wrapped in….fo vogues.
But in my rush to “grow up”, I now realize how blessed they were in taking their time into adulthood.
Our tragedy wasn’t the shock of the sudden awakening from the cholera of our sleepy suburban dailies. It wasn’t when life began imposing heavier challenges than scraping together enough backseat change for another 40 oz bottle of malt.
It was the moment we bought into the cult of ambition and thinking true capital lies in impeccable bodies, spacious interiors, attractive spouses, meaningful careers, robust paychecks, well-oiled sex lives, and branded goods.
We’ve been gifted with the curse of prosperity. We take for granted the pillars of life: human connection, sustenance, purpose. We direct ourselves towards sharpening “taste” and heightening “experience” because we have no survival to fight for, only a life to enhance. It’s become a social crime to express ignorance at Mad Men. But it’s all short game. In thirty years, when we’re cursing our rusted joints and persistent fatigue, who’s gonna give a fuck about Mad Men?
So who is in the true Radio Daze? Is it my childish self that was abandoned ten exits ago, with ideals and dreams that collect dust in my attic? Or is it my current adulthood, replacing childish things with standards, ideals, and conformities that seem just as hollow?
<via satellite/Radio Realness>