I haven't been able to write much lately. I do a drive-by of my blog every day, consider posting, then find something else to do. I'm not really sure how to write about what's going on with me; I'm not really sure what is going on with me. I'm definitely not sure how I feel about it.

I paid a helpful visit to my parents this past weekend. I left their house with a much cheerier outlook on life, my life in particular. But I still don't know how to write about it.

I've been wondering where my taste for trashy sentimentality comes from. I have always prided myself on at least knowing what real art, real culture, good film, etc is even if I don't choose to patronize it. More and more, I am forced to admit that the line is blurring for me. This becomes apparent when I recommend books, music, and movies to others. I am increasingly unable to predict who might like what and which media are really good/worthwhile/intelligent. I like what I like, and damn the torpedoes. This is all part of the middle-Americanization of my soul, I suspect. I am one of those people who grew up with pretensions to intellectualism, valuing culture over commerce, complexity over sentimentality. Strip away the fancy schooling and vocabulary, however, and I am just as low-to-middle brow as everyone else. Am I thisclose to becoming a Libertarian? Will I serve my kids Chef Boyardee? Will I continue to notice cultural distinctions? Does it really matter?