And In Forty Years It Will All Be Over
By (Much) Shorter Maureen Dowd: When I like them, they don’t like me. When they like me, I don’t like them.
The thing about solipsistic whining is that while it can be the basis of great comedy sequences, when it comes to interminable NYT Magazine pop-soc thumbsuckers (and, even worse, books! Jeebus, I think I’d rather read Jonah’s the-New Deal-is-just-like-fascism thing, which would at least be funny) that are apparently meant to be taken seriously, not so much.
[UPDATE: Marginally less snarky and more substantive post here.)
BONUS SNARK: Speaking of solipsistic whining, when we were in Vegas Jon Pareles had a great piece called “The Case Against Coldplay,” which I regrettably forgot to link to before it vanished behind the archive wall. Reading an old Voice I still unaccountably had in my backpack while riding the subway yesterday, however, I see that Robert Christgau has provided the concise version:
Tunewise, this is the craftiest of their well-crafted albums. Conceived as a boy group, showing girls who long to believe it that not every guy is a jock, a thug, a lothario, or a male-bonded mook, they might even have their uses. Conceived as a pop alternative to U2 and Radiohead, however, they’re an argument for death metal. Precise, bland, and banal, their sensitivity emotionless and their musicality never surprising, they’re the definition of a pleasant bore–easy to tune out, impossible to care for.
A little generous–Chris Martin is such a wanker I don’t even find them pleasantly dull–but close enough.