So tonight I brought with me to a bar (because instead of working toward a productive future or toward passing any of my classes successfully, that is what I do on a Tuesday night) the TUFTS PUBLIC JOURNAL.
In all my delusions of grandeur as this fantastic voice-of-our-generation (which I am surely not) columnist, I decided to write a profound column on the Public Journal itself, examining, scrutinizing and perhaps even fellating not only the product but the process.
So I read it. Sitting at a table with a few friends, I scribbled notes on half-stained bar napkins, and yes, I did so in part because I want you to think I'm cool. Well, that obviously proves that I am. Does it matter that my notes were illegible? No. Does it matter that the only words I could read even 15 minutes after I wrote them were "Dragostea din Tei" (which appeared on page 10 and sent this particular Romanian pop music fan into a violent frenzy)? No. What matters was that I read the gosh darn thing, and have opinions on it.
The idea itself is fascinating to me. Reality journalism, I call it. Like "The Real World" in a glossy, bound 66-page format. Except strangely more real. No meathead posers or legs-open sluts trying to make a career out of it. Beauty in anonymity. Gloriousness without glory.
But it is strangely perverted, creative non-fiction, a form of prose adapted and warped by the blogging generation. Voyeuristic. Personalized. I. Me. Mine. Self-imposed. Self indulgent. Breaking the goddamn fourth wall and putting in a gaudy bay window.
Artistically, I do not care for it. Because it is not art. Some of it is beautifully written, but it lacks an important quality: accountability. Context. What is art without both of those things? The answer is: not art. And I will defend that to the death.
Ambivalence is how I feel towards it: not indifference or apathy, but genuine ambivalence. None of it is bad. Scratch that, not all of it is bad.
But that is not important. Where some of it is brilliant, some of it is mediocre, and some of it is crap, all of it just is. And that's where its real value lies. In its existence. IT (not the authors, not the editors) is the voice of our generation, as troubling or promising as that is.
The $10,000 dollar question here is, how do you feel about this being a voice of our generation? It is profound, I believe, in only its self-importance. Its most effective function is as an exercise in therapy, which speaks volumes more than the individual treatises on bulimia, unhealthy relationships or even the 73 whimsical college lessons that try just a little bit too hard to be Mr. College (fabricated excerpt: "Aren't I awesome! Look at all the crazy inane college-guy things I do! Do you like me yet?").
Therapy: a present from God to the privileged. This Journal is about our generation's need to vent (not to whine, not to complain, and not even to unnecessarily use parentheses), to tell everyone our fears, our hopes, our thoughts. Look at me! Read my blog! Check my away message!
But hey, even I am guilty of that sin. Every Thursday I get a 900-word forum to indulge myself and prostrate my thoughts, and I relish it, guarded as it is as by the fact that I do not enjoy the shroud of anonymity.
You know what, screw it. Here, in traditional Public Journal-confession form are some bullet-pointed, raw, hardcore truths about myself. I hope seeing them in print makes me feel better about who I am.
-I have three empty bottles of Poland Spring water on my desk, and when I throw them away I will probably deliberately not recycle.
-My elbows are very ashy, and rather than blame myself for never moisturizing, I blame my parents.
-I would yell, "HEY WATCH OUT!" to a blind guy walking down the street just so I could then say, "Gotcha! Man, you should have seen the look on your face."
-Rosario Dawson is GORGEOUS.
-I truly see nothing wrong with having sex with 16-year-olds. I mean, which is worse: having sex with a 16-year-old that looks 22, or having sex with a 22 year old that looks 16? I pray that some of you are with me on this, because I don't really consider myself a pedophile.
-Look at me! I'm an upper-middle class American college student who resents his parents for no apparent reason and finds this anonymous journal a convenient forum to express my opinion that I am better than you! Look at me!
(EDITOR'S NOTE: this more closely resembles several actual entries in the Public Journal than the author's actual thoughts. But he, in fact, does like little girls. Better than little boys, I always say.)
What silly business this Public Journal is. Official verdict: as valuable to this campus as each of the other publications. Less infuriatingly ignorant and intolerant than the Primary Source, unintentionally funnier than the Zamboni, more volumes published than Radix, prettier than the Daily, and sufficiently in love with itself.
Saj Pothiawala is a senior who is majoring in economics. He can be reached via e-mail at sajid.pothiawala@tufts.edu.
