Those Nee-Chi B******s

An essayist's rant.

One of the things I’ve noticed in observing the world of academia from the view of an outsider is the tendency to move one’s attitude towards what I previously thought of as pompous, but now see more as an inability to suspend one’s disbelief. The joke these days is that the more underground or obscure a topic, the more vibrant and relevant it really is (or, how cool it is). Irony as humor perpetrated by the most mongoloid generation ever to hatch on the face of this earth�"and I include myself in there too. Though, in one’s delving into a piece of art, the critics who hail from a thick and dusty background in dimly lit cubicles of faculty offices tend to steer themselves more in a finger waving pose, instead of simply letting it affect them. I admit, I’m biased here. Some of my favorite films don’t live up to much intellectual probing, persevering only as superficial storytelling. But I still have enough soul left in me as a young adult to still be capable of being captivated by a cheesy flick. The same could be said for a pulp novel, or some such rack-back book that sits on overstock tables two months after coming out. I’ve got a soft spot for the underdogs. After all, I am one myself. And what’s to say there aren’t some gemstone ideas in those faded and forgotten spines? Granted, I’ve been wrong more than I’ve been right about this, but some amazing stories I’ve discovered over the years have been ones written by nobodies and read by nobodies.

It’s important to acknowledge that these days a story can be contained in everything from a novel to a comic to a film to a video game. The mediocre almost always overshadow the really great, but each branch of the art form gives ample room for new exploration. While I admire it, I don’t think the Three Act Structure is how a story should always be framed. I don’t worry so much about whether or not there will be a mutiny against me by my audience, nor bother with the consequences of being “less-than”. Sometimes a story is a quip, an anecdote or a turn of a phrase. Sometimes it’s an epic than needs to be recited aloud for days on end. And sometimes, it’s a virtual world you navigate with buttons and a joystick. If we derive pleasure and are transported by these synapse-stimulators, then who’s to say which form of art is actually art, as opposed to what simply doesn’t belong.

There seems to be a prevalence of snobbish attitude against trashy art�"and this certainly isn’t confined to English departments, it just seems to be so much more amplified by how boorish Lit snobs really f*****g are. All this stems from the teachers, and how they help students interpret these works, who then form their own opinions (sort of) and reinforce and perpetuate these. I swear you’ll never find a person more solidified in their beliefs as a class break smoker at a community college. They know they’re right. At least, until they’ve been there for a couple of years and realize they’ve yet to really pick any field of interest. So many are jaded know-it-alls who are frustrated that they can’t replicate in as true a form the art that inspired them to create… Cough, cough.

Call me naïve, but sometimes I just like a good ride.