Time turns danger to nostalgia.

by maddrunkgenius

We think secrets are like air in a balloon, and if we hide them away long enough, they’ll deflate on their own. But they’re like money. They come out with compound interest.

 

Somewhere there’s a coal mine of cool. Someone, usually black or gay, will dig out something and push it all the way to the top. Then, usually, someone else comes along at the end and steals it. That person is invariably white, and pretends that taking it the last hundred feet was the same as the earlier thousand.

 

There’s a non-alcoholic Bitburger, apparently. Which is amazing because about the only reason I can drink the regular one when I have to is that I know if I drink enough, eventually they’ll get me fucked up.

 

I wonder what it’s like to put on a great show, and know it’s amazing, but also know no one in the room is actually listening, or cares beyond passive acknowledgment. But this is basically what living your life is like, without the guarantee of your show being that good.

Jazz was supposed to be the end of music. Now it’s just old folk & classiness.

It was new once. It had no culture, no history. Jazz was the thing that made the kids go crazy, get addicted to drugs, dance like they were fucking, not really music at all. Noise, really. Now it’s culture. And background music.

Jack Kerouac fucking loved that shit. But Jack’s been dead a long time, and the shit he wrote that was so obscene it was indicative of the end of Western civilization gets taught in high school and made into movies.

Time turns danger to nostalgia.

 

Secrets are like money. But even a betrayal is fiat currency: it’s only as much value as everyone says it is.