(Mr. President) Have Pity On The Working McMegan
I was sad because I had no job until I met a dilettante who was forced to sit on a couch and stare at a laptop while typing continually wrong stuff about everything for A WHOLE WEEKEND.
This is worse than working in the Himalayan pink salt mines.
Much much worse…
(Added) In comments, MBouffant mentions a gasbagfest appearance by McMegan hosted by James Poulos, which immediately reminded me of the biggest honking musical wankjob ever written on the internets which Poluos penned while at AFF Doublethink.
The decade since 1997 has been filled with strangeness, foreboding, and qualified disappointment. Something that seems inexpressible intertwines contemporary IMAX-scale anxieties — war, politics, terror, globalization, the environment, the economy — with the individual uncertainties of our personal stories. For the generations that came of age as Radiohead got huge, patterns of life seem to have emerged that mutually reinforce and confirm a downward revision of expectations. The band’s catalog tracks the increasing acceptance of a newly fundamental degree of contingency, incompleteness, and transience. It extends across careers and love lives, shaping attitudes reaching from domestic politics to cosmic fate. Many now seem happy just to find or help create the passages of experience that permit momentary and communal escapes. Immanent and transcendent, such fugitive moments of therapeutic authenticity ameliorate the painful costs of being comprehensively compromised.