co(c on) spirat (ors)

Oh wow, that Lana del Rey video… that song. A$AP Rocky. Just all of it.  

And all I can think about the whole thing is this: What would Baudrillard think of Instagram?

It would be a bit disappointing to find out that LdR’s manager had never read Simulacra and Simulations and was not using the ideas therein to build her particular brand.

Though that’s probably the case, right? And the world is just kind of imploding on itself as expected; years and years of cultural identity are just one photofilter away from being rebranded, resold, or reappropriated for a younger generation that thinks the past was that much better than the now.

It leaves me wondering: What does LdR even have to do with JFK or Jackie O?  Why take that story out of the past? What is the point of examining race in the context of the JFK assassination? My gut says that there is no point; whoever is running the Lana del Rey show is just pointing the guns all willy-nilly and hoping to hit something.

I could sit here and extend this to 1,000 words or more even, trying to answer all of these questions, calling out LdR (or her management, as is really the case) for the fraud that I think she is, explain the problems with a simulated coquette like her, but I won’t.  I don’t want to be another guy that wrote a think piece about Lana del Rey on the internet.

New Beach House records, upon first listen, sounds predictably awesome.

Dear God, I am Poor and Restless

And I will beat him with my fists like a dog;

Dig with my fingernails at his eyeballs.

This will be sweet relief.

This will be the end of me.

We men, we are sickening.

I will maintain my birthright;

Sleep soundly with pleasant dreams—

I do not question my motives.

The grass grows tall like a child.

The hills roll like hills.

Even I remember Eden,

Thought I know my father’s sins.

Speech Given at the Battle of Bunker Hill

Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.

And if they are not white enough,

Do not shoot at all.

We will not kill those who are

Yellowed like jaundice;

Weak livers leaking.

Guns shaking with the cowardice

of the unwell.

We will take them in,

Belittle them with shouted malice.

Call ourselves honorable.

We will ride our horses west—

Gather us tracts of land.

Gather us native women.

Retire imperially.

Sit in our rocking chairs,

Staring out into the land and say,

“You are forgiven.”