Where’s My Soma?

Freud, that old cokehead, was really onto something with that “death instinct” business – at least when it comes to Our Betters, the Liberals.

Via Vox Day comes word that Richard Florida, urban planning guru extraordinaire, kinda sorta admits he was wrong about… well, just about his whole thing.  Florida claimed that the key to revitalizing cities was to Bohemianize them by attracting the “creative class:”

To make his case for the creative class, Florida subjected it to strange quantifications. Combining census data on occupation, education, “coolness factor” (based on the number of young people and the quality of “nightlife and culture”) and, bizarrely, the number of gay male residents, he developed a “Bohemia Index” to calculate this group’s magical effect on urban economic growth.

Anyone who has spent time in a college town could’ve predicted the result.  College-town downtowns are “vital,” all right, if you vitally need a hemp candle or to get accosted by platoons of hippie burnout bums (or both, of course, since there’s a lot of overlap in those membership rosters).  There’s “art” galore, all repeating the same trite message that Hate Is Bad, mmmmkay, which is why college towns all look the same — from Berkeley to Cambridge, the only real diversity is the weather.

Which, I’m increasingly coming to believe, is the point.

The university is a Liberal’s natural habitat.  Give them complete administrative control, an unlimited budget, and the ability to impose admission requirements, and you get a place where you can’t find a non-foodie restaurant and none of the milk comes from cows.  There are twelve coffee shops per bookstore, and the bookstores outnumber the auto mechanics by about 15:1.  And, of course, everything of consequence is run by white people, but the nice Diverse ladies who are such fun at cocktail parties make $300K per year chairing make-work departments that do nothing but issue unread Diversity memos.  Everyone’s gay, or wishes he was, and the days are spent squawking about outrages that happen far, far over the horizon.

It’s static — by design.  If you want a real challenge (and are current on your blood pressure meds), head to the nearest college town and try finding something to do that doesn’t involve sitting and staring at a glowing screen.  All the ballyhooed urban boho “nightlife and culture” is really just the Brownian movement of shallow people drifting from bar to coffee shop to bookstore to fusion restaurant to experimental theater performance, all the while twittering and facebooking about how wonderful and uplifting and educational it all is.  The only emotion they experience is the dopamine hit that comes from being outraged about stuff, which confirms their smug superiority to the unwashed masses out in Flyover Country.

You could accomplish the same thing propped up in a hospital bed with one of those IV pez dispensers full of morphine, and again, that’s by design.

All of this stuff is elaborately useless.  They’ve finally hit bottom in their worship of trannies, who are so elaborately useless they can’t even decide which sex they are today, to say nothing of the 57 genders and however-many “orientations” we’re up to.  The more useless, the better, because any actual accomplishment — hell, any actual decision — would foreclose an outrage opportunity.  If I am this, but not that, I can’t get all worked up when this is the outrage du jour and that is the new hotness.

Freud nailed it.  Their goal is to extinguish their personalities, along with anything that might remind them that life has a meaning that can only be found by living it — that is, by making choices and living with the consequences.  They’d be much happier living in the Brave New World, hooked to a feeding tube and with on-demand Soma shots.  Why aren’t the eeeeevil capitalists at Big Pharma all over this?

12 thoughts on “Where’s My Soma?

    • It hasn’t yet stopped them from meddling in my business, though. These broads take psych meds that enable them to “function,” such as it is, out in the real world. I want them fully tranquilized — like, flip ’em once a week to keep the bedsores from getting too bad. That’s the only way they’ll leave us the fuck alone.

  1. Welcome back, hope you’re feeling better. My teeth are ground to nubs and the trackmarks on my eyes were starting to heal due to not getting my Sev fix.

  2. “All of this stuff is elaborately useless.”

    Elaborately useless” nails the current state of the University about as well as anything I’ve seen…

    • One of my gigs is in academia. “Elaborately useless” is actually understating the case — it’s a labyrinthine, baroque uselessness, a whole MC Escher drawing of what’s-the-fucking-point? Every minute of every hour, university people put more effort into avoiding the real world than I’ve ever put into anything in my entire life. If it weren’t dragging civilization itself into the gutter, I’d actually kinda admire their doggedness.

  3. This feeds into my theory that a lot of modern actions are explained by an effort to avoid guilt.

    Nothing to do in town? Because if you go do something, you might end up discriminating or be hateful. Likewise, everybody’s afraid of growing up and accomplishing something because children can’t be “-ist”, only adults can.

    People nowadays seem to believe it is better to do nothing than to ever risk committing evil.

  4. I have to point out something I noticed in Ann Arbor while visiting my daughter. Downtown, in many ways, kinda reminded me of a theme park. But of course! The student population is subsidized by their families. Imagine the amount of cash flowing into any University town apart from the tuition — rent, dining out, partying, etc. They live in a very large comfortable bubble. And I would expect the university faculty have no idea how that magical downtown vibe is paid for.

    • None whatsoever. In my fairly extensive experience, a typical academic goes from (usually private) high school to wannabe-Ivy college and straight into grad school, followed by several postdocs and, finally, a tenure-track job. They’re the kind of dorks who actually show up to all those obscure clubs whose flyers are tacked to the notice board at the back of the Student Union and may well have been there sine 1986, judging by the crappy printing and bizarre subject matter. They’ve never had to punch a time clock in their lives, much less produce a real product on deadline. It takes a LOT of effort to be that clueless, but they’re up for the challenge!

  5. Pingback: The Lumpenproletariat of the Labyrinth - American Digest

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