I Finally Understand Post-Modern Irony

Such potential

I also discovered that Kokanee Mountain Size cans taste better when poured into a glass.  And that was only by accident when mom had somehow managed to puncture one on her way over to babysit.  Only now, having sent Grandmama home, do I have the opportunity to reflect upon my revelations concerning Post-Modern Irony and king-sized beer, best served in a glass...

I don't get it

My lovely wife, Lyndsay, and I had embarked upon a date, which is a privileged luxury seldom afforded to those who find themselves with child.  Our date, conveniently enough, was at the behest of Brad, with whom we were both acquainted, having spent several years in each others company whilst attending Ambrose Seminary in the service of Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen.  It was, while in the attendance of said institute of higher learning, that I first learned of Post-Modernism, and, perhaps of more import, the fact that discussions of the era are taken quite seriously in some circles, in all sincerity, and without a trace of irony.

Having dumped our progeny off upon her unwitting ancestor, Lyndsay and I found ourselves in the company of two fetching older women, well-manicured, and suspiciously without escort.  The establishment was dubbed Cafe Koi, and perhaps it was due to my coyness that I failed to confirm if our neighbour was, none other than, Catherine Ford. Lyndsay insists that I was right to shy away.  Perhaps, though perhaps I’ll never know for sure.

Ugh, I'm actually thinking Arby's

It was while Lyndsay was in the washroom that Catherine Ford and I griped about having been sat at the bar, despite having made reservations two days in advance.  After all, if dignitaries such as ourselves were denied our appropriate seats of honour (Ford, having been featured in editorial pages across the land, and myself, having been photographed with Joe Clark, but never with Batman) then surely we must be in the presence of royalty.

After what seemed like half-an-hour, Brad’s band finally took the stage.  The singer’s velvety-smooth voice swept me away into an introspective dream-scape wherein I could contemplate such lovely things like love, art, and the Post-Modern flavour of irony.  It was, perhaps, when torn between this dreamland and the skeletal ugliness of its source that I finally got the point.

How ironic!

But why rush to the point?  It was, after all, long after what three years of seminary could never drive home, that I actually shook the strangely insubstantial hand of the man who first drove me to contemplate such things.  He, whose voice couldn’t help but to inspire, was a mere specter.  Fleshy, but skeletal, like he had no bones at all.  A Crunchie Bar... firm upon your initial grasp, but something that soon melts away when confronted with the menacing heat of your hand.  Stranger still, he had a haunted look, as though he’d lost his soul to antidepressants, LSD, or the Irish Potato Famine. 

It was, in fact, long before I shook the hand of this incorporeal being that I came to terms with what the most ridiculous amongst us term Post-Modern Irony.  Three years!  Three years of being immersed in such pretense!  Mine is a church so fearful of something so prone to self-destruction.  Something possessed by a ridiculous, thoughtless spirit, whose final defensive recourse is, and always will be, Well, that’s just your opinion!  As though the thought, that observation, having originated from my brain and being dispensed through my lips, needed clarification.  Thank you, very much... Not.  Idiot.

But there I was, gripped by the spirit of something for which I held nothing but contempt... I finally understood how I had been corrupted by the spirit of the times.  How my own Aspergers-like retardation was not the consequence of genetic chance, but by the fact that I was never allowed to empathize with those around me, let alone those who came long before me.

Let me say plainly what no one did, or could, say to me before: satire ruins some things.  I actually realized this long ago, having had the privilege of watching the Grapes of Wrath, only to know the ending in advance because of my beloved, The Simpsons.

Stellaaaaaaa!

Ohhhhhhhh! Bemoan me, bretheren!  Is this what Ray Bradbury was bitching about?  Has television become the only medium through which us intellectually impoverished proles can become acquainted with that which once was considered refined?  Don’t be stupid.  Yes, obviously... stop pretending that’s a bad thing, jackass.

I know only that which was delivered through a lens for purposes far flung from the author’s original intent.  And here I sit, poured beer in hand, confronted with a lifetime of explanations... Explaining why something so obvious is true.  Explaining that yes, the author actually meant what he said.  Explaining how things are exactly as they seem.  And finally, contending with a retardation most profound, just trusting that everyone can at least accept that some opinions are better than others.