Latest news with #DearJames'
Yahoo
7 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Dear James: I'm Not Very Punk Rock
Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers' questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at dearjames@ Don't want to miss a single column? Sign up to get 'Dear James' in your inbox. Dear James, I'm not very punk rock. Not even a little. I'm well into middle age and experiencing my first taste of the many small indignities sure to come. I wear sensible shoes with gel insoles scientifically designed to relieve the pain and discomfort of plantar fasciitis. I have long and detailed conversations about insurance. And yet, in my heart, I believe that all is mendacity. That virtue is impossible. That the system crushes us all beneath its relentless wheel. I tell hilarious jokes about the cruel pointlessness of existence and receive only blank stares in return. If the world were to perish in flames, I'm pretty sure it would be no more than it deserved. So my question to you is simple: Is this any way to live? Also: Can you recommend any good bands? Dear Reader, You are punk rock to the tips of your gel-cushioned toes, my friend. Don't worry about that. I'm sorry that nobody's digging your nihilistic humor. Maybe work on your material a bit, soften the edges, angle it a touch toward the mainstream? Day-to-day discourse, in my experience, can absorb a remarkable amount of savage absurdism, gags about doom, and so on (this stuff is highly relatable!)—as long as you don't come off as aggressive or out of your mind. As long as you don't come off too punk rock. To your larger point: How are we to live, make our way, proceed in the world when so much of said world is clearly an evil farce? (Huge pause while advice columnist slurps his coffee, stares out the window, and considers the question.) The punk rockers were not the first to have this insight, of course: The poets and the prophets have always known it. No one is more punk rock than the unknown author of Ecclesiastes. Or John Donne. Or Sylvia Plath. Or the author(s) of the Psalms, in certain moods. The trick, I think, is to use this world-withering vision as a stimulant rather than as a philosophical end point. Don't let it shut you down; let it wake you up. Use it to sharpen your senses and file your encounters to a keen edge. As in: It's all bollocks and everyone dies, but wow, this bag of Dunkin' Donuts Snackin' Bacon tastes amazing. Or: It's all bollocks and everyone dies, so why don't I help this elderly person with her shopping? Use it, this flame of disgust, to refine your language! Regarding bands, I have one word for you: Godflesh. (Cue sound of Godflesh fans across America falling to their knees in grateful assent.) It's all there. The beauty, the horror, the low end that purges your bowels, the guitar tone that scrapes the plaque from your heart. Start with Hymns. Wanting to be sedated, James Dear James, What are some great movies that have come out this year? Dear Reader, The last great movie I saw was Friendship. Profoundly awkward person (Tim Robinson) is absorbed at dizzying speed into charmed friend circle of smooth bro (Paul Rudd) and then—even more abruptly—rejected. At which point he shouts, in despair, 'You made me feel too free! You accepted me too quickly!' Genius. Feet up in the back row, James By submitting a letter, you are agreeing to let The Atlantic use it in part or in full, and we may edit it for length and/or clarity. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
03-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Atlantic
Dear James: I'm Not Very Punk Rock
Editor's Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers' questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at dearjames@ Don't want to miss a single column? Sign up to get 'Dear James' in your inbox. Dear James, I'm not very punk rock. Not even a little. I'm well into middle age and experiencing my first taste of the many small indignities sure to come. I wear sensible shoes with gel insoles scientifically designed to relieve the pain and discomfort of plantar fasciitis. I have long and detailed conversations about insurance. And yet, in my heart, I believe that all is mendacity. That virtue is impossible. That the system crushes us all beneath its relentless wheel. I tell hilarious jokes about the cruel pointlessness of existence and receive only blank stares in return. If the world were to perish in flames, I'm pretty sure it would be no more than it deserved. So my question to you is simple: Is this any way to live? Dear Reader, You are punk rock to the tips of your gel-cushioned toes, my friend. Don't worry about that. I'm sorry that nobody's digging your nihilistic humor. Maybe work on your material a bit, soften the edges, angle it a touch toward the mainstream? Day-to-day discourse, in my experience, can absorb a remarkable amount of savage absurdism, gags about doom, and so on (this stuff is highly relatable!)—as long as you don't come off as aggressive or out of your mind. As long as you don't come off too punk rock. To your larger point: How are we to live, make our way, proceed in the world when so much of said world is clearly an evil farce? (Huge pause while advice columnist slurps his coffee, stares out the window, and considers the question.) The punk rockers were not the first to have this insight, of course: The poets and the prophets have always known it. No one is more punk rock than the unknown author of Ecclesiastes. Or John Donne. Or Sylvia Plath. Or the author(s) of the Psalms, in certain moods. The trick, I think, is to use this world-withering vision as a stimulant rather than as a philosophical end point. Don't let it shut you down; let it wake you up. Use it to sharpen your senses and file your encounters to a keen edge. As in: It's all bollocks and everyone dies, but wow, this bag of Dunkin' Donuts Snackin' Bacon tastes amazing. Or: It's all bollocks and everyone dies, so why don't I help this elderly person with her shopping? Use it, this flame of disgust, to refine your language! Regarding bands, I have one word for you: Godflesh. (Cue sound of Godflesh fans across America falling to their knees in grateful assent.) It's all there. The beauty, the horror, the low end that purges your bowels, the guitar tone that scrapes the plaque from your heart. Start with Hymns. James Dear James, Dear Reader, The last great movie I saw was Friendship. Profoundly awkward person (Tim Robinson) is absorbed at dizzying speed into charmed friend circle of smooth bro (Paul Rudd) and then—even more abruptly—rejected. At which point he shouts, in despair, 'You made me feel too free! You accepted me too quickly!' Genius. Feet up in the back row, James
Atlantic
27-05-2025
- General
- Atlantic
Dear James: I Miss Playing the Banjo
Editor's Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers' questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at dearjames@ Don't want to miss a single column? Sign up to get 'Dear James' in your inbox. Dear James, I have one of those eternal questions, the kind that is difficult to answer no matter how much you ruminate on it: How exactly is one supposed to work hard enough to put food on the table and also not work so hard as to abhor your day-to-day existence? What I'm getting at is, I used to play the banjo. I used to be pretty good, too: I'd go down to the local bar every month or so, sit around with the others, and make some real music for hours at a time. The average passerby might not have paid to hear it (the tip jar, labeled TIPS in huge block letters, was always conspicuously empty). But we always had a good crowd in the place— sometimes they'd even sing along—and I have only fond memories of the whole thing. But alas, I'm a student, and I have a couple of licensing exams coming up that I can't afford to fail. Of course, if I had my ducks in a row I could contrive to both study for my licensing exams and play my banjo. People do harder things. But I don't have my ducks in a row, so it's one or the other. Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? Does careerism require the soul in exchange for success? Maybe I just need to get those ducks in a row. Dear Reader, Dude (if I may), play your banjo. Nothing is more important than playing your banjo. There are plenty of hours in the day. Get your ducks in a row and then behead the ducks. Play your banjo! James Dear James, I recently got into a university, but it's not the one I had hoped for. I qualified for a program in one of its departments, but it's not the one I had hoped for. I was rejected by every other university I applied to—which I also hadn't hoped for. In the past, I've failed countless times, and not only was I able to jump back up, but I was also able to tell myself, This failure was necessary. But I can't seem to do it this time—maybe because this is my life and future we're talking about, and one wrong move feels like it will affect all the rest. (It seems different from failing in a relationship, where one wrong man won't necessarily spoil my experience with the rest.) Perhaps it's easier to accept anticipated failure. Who anticipates failure? Well, I do, when I know I haven't planned well enough. But in this case I did plan: I worked hard, or so I thought. I don't understand where it all went wrong. Making things worse: I don't have a backup. I haven't been flexible; I haven't been open to other ideas. Throughout high school, I felt the need to talk about one plan and one plan only. I worried that if I talked about anything else, it might convey that I lacked confidence in myself, and might give others the privilege of belittling me. Now I'm stuck in uncharted territory. And it's my fault. Do you see a way out? Dear Reader, Well, it's definitely your fault, insofar as we are all responsible for the way we think, and you have thought yourself into a real brain trap here—a real spiked chamber of mental confinement. I feel for you. How do you know you're in a brain trap? There's no room. You go in tiny circles, bumping the walls. Language begins to perish: The same words recur, deadeningly. You have to get out! So let's go, Houdini. Let's spring ourselves from this airless box. This concept of 'failure' with which you are belaboring yourself—you might want to start by having a good look at that. From somewhere you have inherited a punishing set of standards, and they are not working for you. I'm trying to restrain myself from typing 'Failure is a part of life,' but it really is. It's built in. Since we were lumps of protein quaking, Jell-O-like, on the primeval shore, we've been failing steadily, over and over. I failed yesterday, and a couple of times in the night. No Plan B? Welcome to the human race. An exercise for you: Visualize failure. Visualize it maybe as a hovering black tumor or a bearded, bloodsucking marsupial—or as somebody's face, telling you that you've failed. And then visualize zapping this face/tumor/marsupial with golden phasers, thought torpedoes, celestial disintegrators, the full arsenal of your mega-mind. Zap it until it's gone. Destroy failure! I don't want to discount external pressure here. Jobs are real; college degrees are real; money is real. But they're not that real. And I'll tell you what isn't real at all: the expectations of the people around you. Don't let 'em drive you crazy.
Yahoo
06-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Dear James: When My Husband Speaks, My Brain Turns to Mush
Editor's Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers' questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at dearjames@ Don't want to miss a single column? Sign up to get 'Dear James' in your inbox. Dear James, I've been married to the best guy for almost 14 years. He is an awesome dad to our wild boys, makes exceptional burgers, and is weirdly fun to watch TV with. I still swoon at his perfect nose and strong arms. The only thing is, I can't seem to make myself pay attention when he talks at length. Brief exchanges are fine. But if he needs to speak in paragraphs rather than bullet points, I lose focus rapidly. He has never been a succinct person, but my new inability to maintain attention is causing problems. For instance, I know he has a work trip coming up, yet I have no idea where he's heading. I'm sure he told me, but I spaced out the last time he brought it up. I don't have this problem with friends. Am I bored? Is he boring? Is this a normal marriage thing? Has social media wrecked my attention span? Am I horrible? Dear Reader, You are not horrible, but my answer to all your other questions is 'yes.' You are, from time to time, bored—bored silly, bored to tears, bored (in this case) to unhearingness. Your husband has his less-than-fierily-compelling moments, as we all do. This is indeed a normal condition of married life. And yup, the internet / the world (same thing, these days) is not helping. Let me ask you this: How often does your husband talk 'at length'? Is he a holding-forth type of guy? And has this tendency increased over the years (the years, the years, the geological years of marriage)? Because this might be his problem, not yours. I think a lot about people who talk too much, people who—as we say in England—go on a bit. They fascinate me even as they drain my life force. I'm pretty sure I'm not one of them. I've got plenty of dead spots and blisters of boredom in my personality, but from the sin of long-windedness I have been largely preserved: A childhood stammer left me with a kind of blurty, splintery, punch-line-oriented way of talking. No leisurely anecdotes, no drawn-out argumentation. (I could be quite deluded about this, of course; ask the people I live with.) Anyway, perhaps your husband could be encouraged, persuaded, gently directed, to trim his rambles—to self-edit. Tell him you've got Donald Trump–induced brain fog and need the salient points up front. Which brings me to you. Are you doing too much, or handling too much, right now? Got too much on the go, needle in the red, etc.? That too would account for some of this wifely tuning-out. Quite a lot of what your husband has to say, inevitably, you've already heard, so your tired and starved-of-oxygen brain simply draws the line: Enough. It cuts him out. I think you can talk to him about this. Medicalize the problem—call it Selective Spousal Oblivion Syndrome. You can manage the symptoms together. Pointy-eared in the springtime, James By submitting a letter, you are agreeing to let The Atlantic use it in part or in full, and we may edit it for length and/or clarity. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
06-05-2025
- General
- Atlantic
Dear James: I Want to Want to Listen
Editor's Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers' questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at dearjames@ Don't want to miss a single column? Sign up to get 'Dear James' in your inbox. Dear James, I've been married to the best guy for almost 14 years. He is an awesome dad to our wild boys, makes exceptional burgers, and is weirdly fun to watch TV with. I still swoon at his perfect nose and strong arms. The only thing is, I can't seem to make myself pay attention when he talks at length. Brief exchanges are fine. But if he needs to speak in paragraphs rather than bullet points, I lose focus rapidly. He has never been a succinct person, but my new inability to maintain attention is causing problems. For instance, I know he has a work trip coming up, yet I have no idea where he's heading. I'm sure he told me, but I spaced out the last time he brought it up. I don't have this problem with friends. Am I bored? Is he boring? Is this a normal marriage thing? Has social media wrecked my attention span? Am I horrible? Dear Reader, You are not horrible, but my answer to all your other questions is 'yes.' You are, from time to time, bored—bored silly, bored to tears, bored (in this case) to unhearingness. Your husband has his less-than-fierily-compelling moments, as we all do. This is indeed a normal condition of married life. And yup, the internet / the world (same thing, these days) is not helping. Let me ask you this: How often does your husband talk 'at length'? Is he a holding-forth type of guy? And has this tendency increased over the years (the years, the years, the geological years of marriage)? Because this might be his problem, not yours. I think a lot about people who talk too much, people who—as we say in England—go on a bit. They fascinate me even as they drain my life force. I'm pretty sure I'm not one of them. I've got plenty of dead spots and blisters of boredom in my personality, but from the sin of long-windedness I have been largely preserved: A childhood stammer left me with a kind of blurty, splintery, punch-line-oriented way of talking. No leisurely anecdotes, no drawn-out argumentation. (I could be quite deluded about this, of course; ask the people I live with.) Anyway, perhaps your husband could be encouraged, persuaded, gently directed, to trim his rambles—to self-edit. Tell him you've got Donald Trump–induced brain fog and need the salient points up front. Which brings me to you. Are you doing too much, or handling too much, right now? Got too much on the go, needle in the red, etc.? That too would account for some of this wifely tuning-out. Quite a lot of what your husband has to say, inevitably, you've already heard, so your tired and starved-of-oxygen brain simply draws the line: Enough. It cuts him out. I think you can talk to him about this. Medicalize the problem—call it Selective Spousal Oblivion Syndrome. You can manage the symptoms together.
