Sitting in my basement over the March Break in my smoking jacket, I stared at one of Lichtenstein’s artworks and pondered a single thought, “Vacua est anima mea.”
At that moment I came to a sudden realization about God, about truth, about justice and most importantly about my love of fine fabrics. I wrote my brilliant insight down in Haiku form, which caught the attention of my father. He suggested, in his words, I might be a “pretentious asshole.” Crying in my room to my favourite Joy Division record, I compared him on my Tumblr to a “dictatorial regime that probably doesn’t even understand the difference between post-metal and post-depressive shoegaze metal.”
Take that unfair world.
The sad thing is, not everything in the scene above is imaginary. But yes, all my thoughts are in Latin. Pretentiousness is a strange, self-satisfying type of energy, isn’t it? Personally, I think Canada should abandon investing in wind power and just plug a cord into Gwyneth and Chris. They’re so full of themselves it should be considered cannibalism. (Yes, I call the Martins by their first names.) Still, determining the exact nature of pretentiousness can be difficult. What’s pretentious and what’s simply good taste?
It’s not pretentious to think music matters or is a valuable tool in understanding your neighbour. It is pretentious to do, as Chuck Klosterman does, and judge people solely on their choice of album cover to snort cocaine off of (my choice is Cyndi Lauper).
It’s not pretentious to enjoy wine, gin, cognac or whatever other fruity-ass drink you have in your hand when listening to your favourite Animal Collective album. It is pretentious to think later that night that the way your puked splashed against your copy of Catcher in the Rye is a beautiful existential statement or a defining artistic moment. Besides, we all know throwing up on Charles Bukowski poetry is way cooler.
You are not pretentious if you put a few selfies on your Instagram. Everybody does it. You are full of yourself if you shamelessly promote your Instagram in a public place (josephtunney).
It’s the subtle differences.
So…
Jean-Paul Sartre is sitting at a French Café and revising his draft of Being and Nothingness. He says to the waitress, “I’d like a cup of coffee, please, with no cream.” The waitress replies, “I’m sorry, Monsieur, but we’re out of cream. How about with no milk?”
I’m sorry you had to read that. My mom sent me a list of jokes “Only Intellectuals Will Understand” which, of course, didn’t go straight to my head. I felt I should humour her.
Sorry if it was lacking in substance.
The nature of pretentiousness goes beyond rational thought; it’s a feeling; a certain je ne c’est quoi; and too many semi-colons. Of course, there is an air of elitism in it. It’s the idea, for whatever reason, that your taste, your intellect or your body (in my case all three) gives you more authority over a certain topic than everybody else. It’s as if you’ve written 500 words on a subject when 300 would have sufficed. Now you’re just going on and on in your ending and watering it down. People keep thinking you’re going to stop but you won’t until they punch you in the face. There is something enjoyable about making people read more than they need to. You gain dominance with every word you type. You’re a sick bastard and everybody knows it.
Or, to give it that air of artistic absurdism, you could end your rant abruptly, as if-
