Friday, January 1, 2010

The Noughties Are Dead

Doghouse Riley is my muse on a hung-over morning:

Th' fuck are we supposed to remember about a Decade that began with Gary Condit and Terrorist Attacks and ended with Tiger Woods and demands for More Terrorist Attack nostalgia? And in which The Same Goddam Thing filled the space between those bookends? How do you talk about history, even fatuously, when everything that happens is now either discounted immediately or slowly backed away from in hopes nobody will ask questions? It's the Decade in which we pretty much decided officially to quit trying to solve problems, due to Problems' pesky habit of making us look at problems, and just see if the fishin' wasn't a little better once we floated downstream a tad.

The past decade was much less than the sum of its parts; vapidity, narcissism, cowardice, plastic turkeys and bulging codpieces, served on a bed of mixed brown and white war dead, and a complimentary mug of steaming hot spite. It gave us the notion that reality is out to get us and the observation that it's doing a damn good job of it. The only thing left to do at that point was to invent a new, more pliant "Reality Lite" to stand up next to the scarecrow in the field, a target for the slings and arrows of millionaire pundits and politicians who transport their red pick 'em up trucks to the rally on a semi, behind the stretch hummer with the wet bar, hot tub, and IV Fox News feed. This was the decade which gave us Sarah Palin and Joe the Plumber and fucking Nickelback.

Gone, gone, gone. The sooner we can clear the rubble, the sooner we can build again.

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